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Title:      Midwinter (1923)Author:     John Buchan* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *eBook No.:  0301571h.htmlEdition:    1Language:   EnglishCharacter set encoding:     HTML (Latin-1(ISO-8859-1)--8 bit)Date first posted:          December 2003Date most recently updated: December 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.html---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dedication

TO

VERNON WATNEY

Last year my friend, Mr Sebastian Derwent, on becoming seniorpartner of the reputable firm of solicitors which bears his name,instituted a very drastic clearing out of cupboards and shelvesin the old house in Lincoln's Inn Fields. Among a mass ofderelict papers--cancelled deeds, mouldy files of correspondence,copies of pleadings in cases long ago forgotten--there was onelittle bundle which mystified him, since it had no apparentrelation to the practice of the law. He summoned me to dinner,and, with our chairs drawn up to a bright fire and a decanter ofhis famous brown sherry between us, we discussed itsantecedents.

First there was a document of three quarto pages, whichappeared to be a fair copy in a scrivener's hand. It started andfinished abruptly, so we judged it to be a portion of a largerwork. Then came a long ill-written manuscript, partly in a littlevolume of which the clasp and lock had been broken, and partly onloose paper which seemed to have been torn from the beginningsand ends of printed books. The paper had no watermark that wecould discover, but its quality suggested the eighteenth century.Last there was a bundle of letters in various hands, all neatlydocketed and dated. Mr Derwent entrusted me with the papers, forcertain words and phrases in the quarto sheets had stirred myinterest. After considerable study I discovered that the packetcontained a story, obscure in parts, but capable of being toldwith some pretence of continuity.

First for the matter copied by the amanuensis. It was clearlya fragment, intended by the compiler to form part of anintroduction to the work. On first reading it I rubbed my eyesand tasted the joy of the discoverer, for I believed that I hadstumbled upon an unknown manuscript of Mr James Boswell, writtenapparently after the publication of hisLife of Johnson,and designed for a supplementary volume, which, Dr Johnson beingdead, he felt at liberty to compile. On reflection I grew lesscertain. The thing was undoubtedly the work of an intimate friendof the Great Lexicographer, but, though there were mannerisms ofstyle and thought which suggested Mr Boswell, I did not feel ableto claim his authorship with any confidence. It might be theproduction of one or other of the Wartons, or of Sir RobertChambers, or of some Oxford friend of Johnson whose name has notcome down to us. Mr Derwent at my request explored the records ofhis firm, which extended back for the better part of a century,but could find no evidence that it had ever done business for anymember of the family of Auchinleck. Nevertheless I incline toattribute the thing to Mr Boswell, for he alone of Johnson'scircle was likely to have the eager interest in Scotland whichthe manuscript reveals, and the dates do not conflict with whatwe know of his movements. Here, at all events, is the text ofit:

In the last week of June in the year 1763 Johnson was inOxford, and I had the honour to accompany him one afternoon tothe village of Elsfield, some four miles from the city, on avisit to Mr Francis Wise, one of the fellows of Trinity Collegeand Radcliffe's librarian. As I have already mentioned, therewere certain episodes in the past life of my illustrious friendas to which I knew nothing, and certain views, nay, I venture tosay prejudices, in his mind, for the origin of which I was at aloss to account. In particular I could never receive from him anynarrative of his life during the years 1745 and 1746, the yearsof our last civil war, during which his literary career seems tohave been almost totally suspended. When I endeavoured to probethe matter, he answered me with some asperity, so that I fearedto embarrass him with further questions. "Sir, I was very poor,"he once said, "and misery has no chronicles." His reticence onthe point was the more vexatious to me, since, though a loyalsupporter of the present Monarchy and Constitution, he alwaysrevealed a peculiar tenderness towards the unfortunate House ofStuart, and I could not but think that in some episode in hispast lay the key to a sentiment which was at variance with hisphilosophy of government. I was also puzzled to explain to my ownmind the reason for his attitude towards Scotland and the Scotchnation, which afforded him matter for constant sarcasms andfrequent explosions of wrath. As the world knows, he had a livelyinterest in the primitive life of the Highlands, and an apparentaffection for those parts, but towards the rest of Scotland hemaintained a demeanour so critical as to be liable to thereproach of harshness. These prejudices, cherished so habituallythat they could not be attributed to mere fits of spleen,surprised me in a man of such pre-eminent justice and wisdom, andI was driven to think that some early incident in his career musthave given them birth; but my curiosity remained unsatisfied, forwhen I interrogated him, I was met with a sullen silence, if wewere alone, and, if company were present, a tempestuous ridiculewhich covered me with blushes.

On this occasion at Elsfield that happened which whetted mycuriosity, but the riddle remained unread till at this late stageof my life, when my revered Master has long been dead, fortunehas given the key into my hand. Mr Francis Wise dwelt in a smallancient manor of Lord North's, situated on the summit of a hillwith a great prospect over the Cherwell valley and beyond it tothe Cotswold uplands. We walked thither, and spent the hourbefore dinner very pleasantly in a fine library, admiring ourhost's collection of antiquities and turning the pages of a noblefolio wherein he had catalogued the coins in the Bodleiancollection. Johnson was in a cheerful humour, the exercise ofwalking had purified his blood, and at dinner he ate heartily ofveal sweetbreads, and drank three or four glasses of Madeirawine. I remember that he commended especially a great ham. "Sir,"he said, "the flesh of the pig is most suitable for Englishmenand Christians. Foreigners love it little, Jews and infidelsabhor it."

When the meal was over we walked in the garden, which wascuriously beautified with flowering bushes and lawns adorned withstatues and fountains. We assembled for tea in an arbour,constructed after the fashion of a Roman temple, on the edge of aclear pool. Beyond the water there was a sharp declivity, whichhad been utilised to make a cascade from the pool's overflow.This descended to a stone tank like an ancient bath, and on eachside of the small ravine lines of beeches had been planted.Through the avenue of the trees there was a long vista of meadowsin the valley below, extending to the wooded eminence of the Dukeof Marlborough's palace of Blenheim, and beyond to the Cotswoldhills. The sun was declining over these hills, and, since thearbour looked to the west, the pool and the cascade were dappledwith gold, and pleasant beams escaped through the shade to ourrefuge.

Johnson was regaled with tea, while Mr Wise and I discussed afresh bottle of wine. It was now that my eminent friend'sdemeanour, which had been most genial during dinner, suffered asudden change. The servant who waited upon us was an honestOxfordshire rustic with an open countenance and a merry eye. Tomy surprise I observed Johnson regarding him with extremedisfavour. "Who is that fellow?" he asked when the man had leftus. Mr Wise mentioned his name, and that he was of a family inthe village. "His face reminds me of a very evil scoundrel," wasthe reply. "A Scotchman," he added. "But no nation has themonopoly of rogues."

After that my friend's brow remained cloudy, and he stirredrestlessly in his chair, as if eager to be gone. Our host talkedof the antiquities in the neighbourhood, notably of the WhiteHorse in Berkshire and of a similar primitive relic inBuckinghamshire, but he could elicit no response, though thesubject was one to which I knew Johnson's interest to be deeplypledged. He remained with his chin sunk on his breast, and hiseyes moody as if occupied with painful memories. I made anxiousinquiries as to his health, but he waved me aside. Once he raisedhis head, and remained for some time staring across the valley atthe declining sun.

"What are these hills?" he asked.

Mr Wise repeated names--Woodstock, Ditchley, Enstone. "Thetrees on the extreme horizon," he said, "belong to WychwoodForest."

The words seemed to add to Johnson's depression. "Is it so?"he murmured. "Verily a strange coincidence. Sir, among thesehills, which I now regard, were spent some of the bitterestmoments of my life."

He said no more, and I durst not question him, nor did I eversucceed at any later date in drawing him back to the subject. Ihave a strong recollection of the discomfort of that occasion,for Johnson relapsed into glumness and presently we rose toleave. Mr Wise, who loved talking and displayed his treasureswith the zest of the owner of a raree-show, would have us visit,before going, a Roman altar which, he said, had lately beenunearthed on his estate. Johnson viewed it peevishly, and pointedout certain letters in the inscription which seemed fresher thanthe rest. Mr Wise confessed that he had himself re-cut theseletters, in conformity, as he believed, with the purpose of theoriginal. This threw Johnson into a transport of wrath. "Sir," hesaid, "the man who would tamper with an ancient monument, withwhatever intentions, is capable of defiling his father's tomb."There was no word uttered between us on the walk back to Oxford.Johnson strode at such a pace that I could scarcely keep abreastof him, and I would fain have done as he did on an earlieroccasion, and criedSufflamina.¹

¹ See Boswell'sLife of Johnson, anno1754.

The incident which I have recorded has always remained vividin my memory, but I despaired of unravelling the puzzle, andbelieved that the clue was buried for ever in the grave of theillustrious dead. But, by what I prefer to call Providence ratherthan Chance, certain papers have lately come into my possession,which enable me to clear up the mystery of that summer evening,to add a new chapter to the life of one of the greatest ofmankind, and to portray my dear and revered friend in a partwhich cannot fail to heighten our conception of the sterlingworth of his character.

Thus far the quarto pages. Their author--Mr Boswell or someother--no doubt intended to explain how he received the furtherpapers, and to cast them into some publishable form. Neither taskwas performed. The rest of the manuscript, as I have said, wasorderly enough, but no editorial care had been given it. I havediscovered nothing further about Alastair Maclean save what thenarrative records, and my research among the archives ofOxfordshire families has not enabled me to add much to thehistory of the other figures. But I have put such materials as Ihad into the form of a tale, which seems of sufficient interestto present to the world. I could wish that Mr Boswell had livedto perform the task, for I am confident that he would have made abetter job of it.

The road which had begun as a rutted cart-track sank presentlyto a grassy footpath among scrub oaks, and as the boughs whippedhis face the young man cried out impatiently and pulled up hishorse to consider. He was on a journey where secrecy was not lessvital than speed, and he was finding the two incompatible. Thatmorning he had avoided Banbury and the high road which followedthe crown of Cotswold to the young streams of Thames, for thatway lay Beaufort's country, and at such a time there would bejealous tongues to question passengers. For the same reason hehad left the main Oxford road on his right, since the channelbetween Oxford and the North might well be troublesome, even fora respectable traveller who called himself Mr Andrew Watson, andwas ready with a legend of a sea-coal business in Newcastle. Buthis circumspection seemed to have taken him too far on aneasterly course into a land of tangled forests. He pulled out hischart of the journey and studied it with puzzled eyes. My LordCornbury's house could not be twenty miles distant, but what ifthe twenty miles were pathless? An October gale was tossing theboughs and whirling the dead bracken, and a cold rain wasbeginning. Ill weather was nothing to one nourished amongHebridean north-westers, but he cursed a land in which there wereno landmarks. A hill-top, a glimpse of sea or loch, even a stoneon a ridge, were things a man could steer by, but what was he todo in this unfeatured woodland? These soft south-country folkstuck to their roads, and the roads were forbidden him.

A little further and the track died away in a thicket ofhazels. He drove his horse through the scrub and came out on aglade, where the ground sloped steeply to a jungle of willows,beyond which he had a glimpse through the drizzle of a grey-greenfen. Clearly that was not his direction, and he turned sharply tothe right along the edge of the declivity. Once more he was inthe covert, and his ill-temper grew with every briar that whippedhis face. Suddenly he halted, for he heard the sound ofspeech.

It came from just in front of him--a voice speaking loud andangry, and now and then a squeal like a scared animal's. Anaffair between some forester and a poaching hind, he concluded,and would fain have turned aside. But the thicket on each handwas impenetrable, and, moreover, he earnestly desired adviceabout the road. He was hesitating in his mind, when the criesbroke out again, so sharp with pain that instinctively he pushedforward. The undergrowth blocked his horse, so he dismounted and,with a hand fending his eyes, made a halter of the bridle anddragged the animal after him. He came out into a little dell downwhich a path ran, and confronted two human beings.

They did not see him, being intent on their own business. Onewas a burly fellow in a bottle-green coat, a red waistcoat andcorduroy small clothes, from whose gap-toothed mouth issuedvolleys of abuse. In his clutches was a slim boy in his earlyteens, a dark sallow slip of a lad, clad in nothing but a shirtand short leather breeches. The man had laid his gun on theground, and had his knee in the small of the child's back, whilehe was viciously twisting one arm so that his victim cried like arabbit in the grip of a weasel. The barbarity of it undid thetraveller's discretion.

"Hold there," he cried, and took a pace forward.

The man turned his face, saw a figure which he recognised as agentleman, and took his knee from the boy's back, though he stillkept a clutch on his arm.

"Sarvant, sir," he said, touching his hat with his free hand."What might 'ee be wanting o' Tom Heather?" His voice was civil,but his face was ugly.

"Let the lad go."

"Sir Edward's orders, sir--that's Sir Edward Turner, Baronet,of Ambrosden House in this 'ere shire, 'im I 'as the honour toserve. Sir Edward 'e says, 'Tom,' 'e says, 'if 'ee finds apoacher in the New Woods 'ee knows what to do with 'im withouttroubling me'; and I reckon I does know. Them moor-men is theworst varmints in the country, and the youngest is theblack-heartedest, like foxes."

The grip had relaxed and the boy gave a twist which freed him.Instantly he dived into the scrub. The keeper made a bound afterhim, thought better of it and stood sullenly regarding thetraveller.

"I've been a-laying for the misbegotten slip them five weeks,and now I loses him, and all along of 'ee, sir." His tonessuggested that silver might be a reasonable compensation.

But the young man, disliking his looks, was in no mood foralmsgiving, and forgot the need of discretion. Also he came froma land where coin of the realm was scarce.

"If it's your master's orders to torture babes, then you andhe can go to the devil. But show me the way out of this infernalwood and you shall have a shilling for your pains."

At first the keeper seemed disposed to obey, for he turned andmade a sign for the traveller to follow. But he swung roundagain, and, resting the gun which he had picked up in the crookof his arm, he looked the young man over with a dawning insolencein his eyes. He was beginning to see a more profitable turn inthe business. The horseman was soberly but reputably dressed, andhis beast was good, but what did he in this outlandish place?

"Making so bold," said the keeper, "how come 'ee a-wandering'ere, sir? Where might 'ee be a-making for?"

"Charlbury," was the answer.

The man whistled. "Charlbury," he repeated. "Again beggingpardon, sir, it's a place known for a nest of Papishes. I'drather ha' heerd 'ee was going to Hell. And where might 'ee comefrom last, sir?"

The traveller checked his rising temper. "Banbury," he saidshortly.

The keeper whistled again. "'Ee've fetched a mighty roundaboutway, sir, and the good turnpike running straight for anyChristian to see. But I've heard tell of folks that fought shy ofturnpikes."

"Confound you, man," the traveller cried; "show me the road orI will find it myself and you'll forfeit your shilling."

The keeper did not move. "A shilling's no price for a man'shonesty. I reckon 'ee mun come up with me to Sir Edward, sir. Hesays to me only this morning--''Ee watch the Forest, Tom, and if'ee finds any that can't give good account of themselves, 'eefetch them up to me, and it'll maybe mean a golden guinea in yourpocket.' Sir Edward 'e's a Parliament man, and a Justice, and'e's hot for King and country. There's soldiers at Islipbridge-end asking questions of all as is journeying west, andthere's questions Sir Edward is going to ask of a gentleman astravels from Banbury to Charlbury by the edges of Otmoor."

The servility had gone from the man's voice, and in its placewere insolence and greed. A guinea might have placated him, butthe traveller was not accustomed to bribe. A hot flush haddarkened his face, and his eyes were bright.

"Get out of my way, you rogue," he cried.

The keeper stood his ground. "'Ee will come to Sir Edward withme if 'ee be an honest man."

"And if not?"

"It's my duty to constrain 'ee in the name of our Lord theKing."

The man had raised his gun, but before he could bring thebarrel forward he was looking at a pistol held in a very steadyhand. He was no coward, but he had little love for needlessrisks, when he could find a better way. He turned and ran up thesteep path at a surprising pace for one of his build, and as heran he blew shrilly on a whistle.

The traveller left alone in the dell bit his lips withvexation. He had made a pretty mess of a journey which above allthings should have been inconspicuous, and had raised a hue andcry after him on the domain of some arrogant Whig. He heard thekeeper's steps and the note of his whistle grow fainter; heseemed to be crying to others and answers came back faintly. In afew minutes he would be in a brawl with lackeys. . . . In thatjungle there was no way of escape for a mounted man, so he mustneeds stand and fight.

And then suddenly he was aware of a face in the hazels.

It was the slim boy whom his intervention had saved from abeating. The lad darted from his cover and seized the horse'sbridle. Speaking no word, he made signs to the other to follow,and the traveller, glad of any port in a storm, complied. Theyslithered at a great pace down the steep bank to the thicket ofwillows, which proved to be the brink of a deep ditch. A littleway along it they crossed by a ford of hurdles, where the waterwas not over a man's riding boots. They were now in a morass,which they threaded by a track which showed dimly among thereeds, and, as the whistling and cries were still audible behindthem, they did not relax their pace. But after two more deeprunnels had been passed, and a mere thick with water-liliescrossed by a chain of hard tussocks like stepping-stones, theguide seemed to consider the danger gone. He slowed down,laughing, and cocked snooks in the direction of the pursuit. Thenhe signed to the traveller to remount his horse, but when thelatter would have questioned him, he shook his head and put afinger on his lips. He was either dumb, or a miracle ofprudence.

The young man found himself in a great green fenland, but thefalling night and the rain limited his view to a narrow circle.There was a constant crying of snipe and plover around him, andthe noise of wild fowl rose like the croaking of frogs in theCampagna. Acres of rank pasture were threaded with lagoons wherethe brown water winked and bubbled above fathomless mud. Thetraveller sniffed the air with a sense of something foreign andmenacing. The honest bitter smell of peat-bogs he loved, but theodour of this marsh was heavy and sweet and rotten. As hishorse's hooves squelched in the sodden herbage he shivered alittle and glanced suspiciously at his guide. Where was thisgipsy halfling leading him? It looked as if he had found anill-boding sanctuary.

With every yard that he advanced into the dank greenwilderness his oppression increased. The laden air, the mist, theclamour of wild birds, the knowledge that his horse was noadvantage since a step aside would set it wallowing to thegirths, all combined to make the place a prison-house, hateful toone on an urgent mission. . . . Suddenly he was above the fen ona hard causeway, where hooves made a solid echo. His spiritsrecovered, for he recognised Roman work, and a Roman road did notend in sloughs. On one side, below the level of the causeway, wasa jungle of blackthorn and elder, and a whiff of wood-smokereached his nostrils. The guide halted and three times gave acall like that of a nesting redshank. It was answered, and froman alley in the scrub a man appeared.

He was a roughly dressed countryman, wearing huge leathernboots muddied to the knee. Apparently the guide was not whollydumb, for he spoke to him in an odd voice that croaked from theback of his throat, and the man nodded and bent his brows. Thenhe lifted his eyes and solemnly regarded the horseman for thespace of some seconds.

"You be welcome, sir," he said. "If you can make shift withpoor fare there be supper and lodging waiting for you."

The boy made signs for him to dismount, and led off the horse,while the man beckoned him to follow into the tunnel in thescrub. In less than fifty yards he found himself in a clearingwhere a knuckle of gravel made a patch of hard ground. In thecentre stood a small ancient obelisk, like an overgrownmilestone. A big fire of logs and brushwood was burning, andround it sat half a dozen men, engaged in cooking. They turnedslow eyes on the newcomer, and made room for him in theircircle.

"Tom Heather's been giving trouble. He cotched Zerry and wasa-basting him when this gentleman rides up. Then he turns on thegentleman, and, being feared o' him as man to man, goes whistlingfor Red Tosspot and Brother Mark. So Zerry brings the gentlemaninto the Moor, and here he be. I tell him he's kindly welcome,and snug enough with us moor-men, though the King's soldiers wassitting in all the Seven Towns."

"He'd be safe," said one, "though Lord Abingdon and hismoor-drivers was prancing up at Beckley."

There was a laugh at this, and the new-comer, cheered by theblaze and the smell of food, made suitable reply. He had notquite understood their slow burring speech, nor did theyaltogether follow his words, for he spoke English in the formalclipped fashion of one to whom it was an acquired tongue. But thegoodwill on both sides was manifest, and food was pressed onhim--wild duck roasted on stakes, hunks of brown bread, and beerout of leather jacks. The men had been fowling, for great heapsof mallard and teal and widgeon were piled beyond the fire.

The traveller ate heartily, for he had had no meal sincebreakfast, and as he ate, he studied his companions in thefirelight. They were rough-looking fellows, dressed pretty muchalike in frieze and leather, and they had the sallowish skin andyellow-tinged eyes which he remembered to have seen amongdwellers in the Ravenna marshes. But they were no gipsies oroutlaws, but had the assured and forthright air of men with somestake in the land. Excellent were their manners, for the presenceof a stranger in no way incommoded them; they attended to hiswants, and with easy good-breeding talked their own talk.Understanding little of that talk, he occupied himself inobserving their faces and gestures with the interest of atraveller in a new country. These folk were at once slower andspeedier than his own kind--more deliberate in speech andmovement, but quicker to show emotion in their open countenances.He speculated on their merits as soldiers, for against such asthese he and his friends must presently fight.

"'Morrow we'd best take Mercot Fleet," said one. "Mas'rMidwinter reckons as the floods will be down come Sunday."

"Right, neighbour Basson," said another. "He knows times andseasons better'n Parson and near as well as Almighty God."

"What be this tale of bloody wars?" asked a third. "TheSpoonbills be out, and that means that the land is troubled. Theywas saying down at Noke that Long Giles was seen last week atBanbury fair and the Spayniard was travelling the Lunnon road.All dressed up he were like a fine gentleman, and at WheatleyGreen Man he was snuffing out o' Squire Norreys' box."

"Who speaks of the Spoonbills?" said the man who had firstwelcomed the traveller. "We bain't no ale-house prattlers. WhatMas'r Midwinter wants us to know I reckon he'll tell us open andneighbourly. Think you he'll make music the night?"

"He's had his supper the best part of an hour, and then he'lltake tobacco. After that happen he'll gie us a tune."

The speaker had looked over his shoulder, and the traveller,following his glance, became aware that close on the edge of thethicket a small tent was pitched. The night had fallen thick andmoonless, but the firelight, wavering in the wind, showed it as agrey patch against the gloom of the covert. As the conversationdroned on, that patch held his eyes like a magnet. There was aman there, someone with the strange name of Midwinter, someonewhom these moor-men held in reverence. The young man had theappetite of his race for mysteries, and his errand had keyed himto a mood of eager inquiry. He looked at the blur which was thetent as a terrier watches a badger's earth.

The talk round the fire had grown boisterous, for someone hadtold a tale which woke deep rumbling laughter. Suddenly it washushed, for the thin high note of a violin cleft the air like anarrow.

The sound was muffled by the tent-cloth, but none the less itdominated and filled that lonely place. The traveller had areceptive ear for music and had heard many varieties in hisrecent wanderings, from the operas of Rome and Paris to gypsydances in wild glens of Apennine and Pyrenees. But this fiddlingwas a new experience, for it obeyed no law, but jigged and wailedand chuckled like a gale in an old house. It seemed to be asymphony of the noises of the moor, where unearthly birds sangduets with winds from the back of beyond. It stirred himstrangely. His own bagpipes could bring tears to his eyes withmemory of things dear and familiar; but this quickened his blood,like a voice from a far world.

The group by the fire listened stolidly with their heads sunk,but the young man kept his eyes on the tent. Presently the musicceased, and from the flap a figure emerged with the fiddle in itshand. The others rose to their feet, and remained standing tillthe musician had taken a seat at the other side of the fire fromthe traveller. "Welcome, Mas'r Midwinter," was the generalgreeting, and one of them told him the story of Tom Heather andtheir guest.

The young man by craning his neck could see the new figureclear in the glow of the embers. He made out a short man of animmense breadth of shoulder, whose long arms must have reachedwell below his knees. He had a large square face, tanned to thecolour of bark, and of a most surprising ugliness, for his nosewas broken in the middle, and one cheek and the corner of one eyewere puckered with an old scar. Chin and lips were shaven, andthe wide mouth showed white regular teeth. His garments seemed tobe of leather like the others, but he wore a cravat, and hishair, though unpowdered, was neatly tied.

He was looking at the traveller and, catching his eye, hebowed and smiled pleasantly.

"You have found but a rough lodging, Mr--" he said, with thelift of interrogation in his voice.

"Andrew Watson they call me. A merchant of Newcastle, sir,journeying Bristol-wards on a matter of business." The formula,which had sounded well enough hitherto, now seemed inept, and hespoke it with less assurance.

The fiddler laughed. "That is for change-houses. Among friendsyou will doubtless tell another tale. For how comes a merchant ofthe North country to be so far from a high road? Shall I read theriddle, sir?"

He took up his violin and played very low and sweetly a Borderlilt called "The Waukin' o' the Fauld." The young man listenedwith interest, but his face did not reveal what the musiciansought. The latter tried again, this time the tune called"Colin's Cattle," which was made by the fairies and was hummedeverywhere north of Forth. Bright eyes read the young man's face."I touch you," the fiddler said, "but not closely."

For a moment he seemed to consider, and then drew from hisinstrument a slow dirge, with the rain in it and the west windand the surge of forlorn seas. It was that lament which in allthe country from Mull to Moidart is the begetter of longthoughts. He played it like a master, making his fiddle weep andbrood and exult in turn, and he ended with a fantastic variationso bitter with pain that the young man, hearing his ancestralmelody in this foreign land, cried out in amazement.

The musician lowered his violin, smiling. "This time," hesaid, "I touch you at the heart. Now I know you. You have nothingto fear among the moor-men of the Seven Towns. Take your ease,Alastair Maclean, among friends."

The traveller, thus unexpectedly unveiled, could find no wordsfor his astonishment.

"Are you of the honest party?" he stammered, more in awe thanin anxiety.

"I am of no party. Ask the moor-men if the Spoonbills troubletheir heads with Governments?"

The answer from the circle was a laugh.

"Who are you, then, that watches thus the comings and goingsof travellers?"

"I am nothing--a will-o'-the-wisp at your service--a clod ofvivified dust whom its progenitors christened Amos Midwinter. Ihave no possession but my name, and no calling but that ofphilosopher. Naked I came from the earth, and naked I will returnto it."

He plucked with a finger at the fiddle-strings, and evoked anodd lilt. Then he crooned:

"Three naked men I saw,
One to hang and one to draw,
One to feed the corbie's maw."

The men by the fire shivered, and one spoke. "Let be, Mas'rMidwinter. Them words makes my innards cold."

"I will try others," and he sang:

"Three naked men we be,
Stark aneath the blackthorn tree.
Christ ha' mercy on such as we!"

The young man found his apprehensions yielding place to alively curiosity. From this madman, whoever he might be, he ranno risk of betrayal. The thought flashed over his mind that herewas one who might further the cause he served.

"I take it you are not alone in your calling?" he said.

"There are others--few but choice. There are no secrets amongus who camp by Jacob's Stone." He pointed to the rude obeliskwhich was just within the glow of the fire. "Once that was analtar where the Romans sacrificed to fierce gods and prettygoddesses. It is a thousand years and more since it felt theirflame, but it has always been a trysting place. We Christian menhave forsworn Apollo, but maybe he still lingers, and the savourof our little cooking fires may please him. I am one that takesno chances with the old gods. . . . Here there is safety for thehonest law-breaker, and confidence for the friend, for we arereverent souls. How does it go?--Fides et Pax et HonosPudorque priscus."

"Then tell me of your brotherhood?"

The man laughed. "That no man can know unless he be sealed ofit. From the Channel to the Tyne they call us the Spoonbills, andon Cumbrian moors they know us as the Bog-blitters. But ourtitles are as many as the by-names of Jupiter. Up in your countryI have heard that men talk of us as the Left-Handed."

He spoke the last word in Gaelic--ciotach--and theyoung man at the sound of his own tongue almost leapt to hisfeet,

"Have you the speech?" he cried in the same language.

The man shook his head. "I have nothing. For our true name isthat I have sung to you. We are the Naked Men." And he croonedagain the strange catch.

For an instant Alastair felt his soul clouded by an eerinesswhich his bustling life had not known since as a little boy hehad wandered alone into the corries of Sgurr Dubh. The moonlessnight was black about him, and it had fallen silent except forthe sputter of logs. He seemed cut off from all things familiarby infinite miles of midnight, and in the heart of the darknesswas this madman who knew all things and made a mock of knowledge.The situation so far transcended his experience that his orderlyworld seemed to melt into shadows. The tangible bounds of lifedislimned and he looked into outer space. But the fiddlerdispelled the atmosphere of awe, for he pulled out a pipe andfilled and lit it.

"I can offer you better hospitality, sir, than a bed by thefire. A share of my tent is at your service. These moor-men arehardened to it, but if you press the ground this October nightyou will most surely get a touch of the moor-evil, and that isill to cure save by a week's drinking of Oddington Well. So byyour grace we will leave our honest friends to their talk oflatimer and autumn markets."

Accompanied by deep-voiced "Good-nights" Alistair followed thefiddler to the tent, which proved to be larger and morepretentious than it had appeared from the fire. Midwinter lit asmall lamp which he fastened to the pole, and closed the flap.The traveller's mails had been laid on the floor, and two coucheshad been made up of skins of fox and deer and badger heaped ondry rushes.

"You do not use tobacco?" Midwinter asked. "Then I willadminister a cordial against the marsh fever." From a leatherncase he took a silver-mounted bottle, and poured a draught into ahorn cup. It was a kind of spiced brandy which Alastair had drunkin Southern France, and it ran through his blood like a mild andkindly fire, driving out the fatigue of the day but disposing toa pleasant drowsiness. He removed his boots and coat and cravat,loosened the points of his breeches, replaced his wig with akerchief, and flung himself gratefully on the couch.

Meantime the other had stripped almost to the buff, revealinga mighty chest furred like a pelt. Alastair noted that theunderclothes which remained were of silk; he noticed, too, thatthe man had long fine hands at the end of his brawny arms, andthat his skin, where the weather had not burned it, was asdelicately white as a lady's. Midwinter finished his pipe,sitting hunched among the furs, with his eyes fixed steadily onthe young man. There was a mesmerism in those eyes whichpostponed sleep, and drove Alastair to speak. Besides, the liltsung by the fire still hummed in his ears.

"Who told you my name?" he asked.

"That were too long a tale. Suffice it to say that I knew ofyour coming, and that long before Banbury you entered the orbitof my knowledge. Nay, sir, I can tell you also your errand, and Iwarn you that you will fail. You are about to beat at a barredand bolted door."

"I must think you mistaken."

"For your youth's sake, I would that I were. Consider, sir.You come from the North to bid a great man risk his all on a wildhazard. What can you, who have all your days been an adventurer,know of the dragging weight of an ordered life and broad landsand a noble house? The rich man of old turned away sorrowful fromChrist because he had great possessions! Think you that the richman nowadays will be inclined to follow your boyish piping?"

Alastair, eager to hear more but mindful of caution,finessed.

"I had heard better reports of his Grace of Beaufort," hesaid.

The brown eyes regarded him quizzically. "I did not speak ofthe Duke, but of Lord Cornbury."

The young man exclaimed. "But I summon him in the name ofloyalty and religion."

"Gallant words. But I would remind you that loyalty andreligion have many meanings, and self-interest is a skilledinterpreter."

"Our Prince has already done enough to convince evenself-interest."

"Not so. You have for a moment conquered Scotland, but youwill not hold it, for it is written in nature that Highlands willnever for long control Lowlands. England you have not touched andwill never move. The great men have too much to lose and theplain folk are careless about the whole quarrel. They knownothing of your young Prince except that he is half foreigner andwhole Papist, and has for his army a mob of breechlessmountainers. You can win only by enlisting Old England, and OldEngland has forgotten you."

"Let her but remain neutral, and we will beat the Hanoverian'ssoldiers."

"Maybe. But to clinch victory you must persuade the grandeesof this realm, and in that I think you will fail. You are JohnnieArmstrong and the King. 'To seek het water beneath cauld ice,surely it is a great follie.' And, like Johnnie, the time willcome for you to say good-night."

"What manner of man are you, who speak like an oracle? You aregentle born?"

"I am gentle born, but I have long since forfeited myheritage. Call me Ulysses, who has seen all the world's citiesand men, and has at length returned to Ithaca. I am a dweller inOld England."

"That explains little."

"Nay, it explains all. There is an Old England which hasoutlived Roman and Saxon and Dane and Norman and will outlast theHanoverian. It has seen priest turn to presbyter and presbyter toparson and has only smiled. It is the land of the edge ofmoorlands and the rims of forests and the twilight before dawn,and strange knowledge still dwells in it. Lords andParliament-men bustle about, but the dust of their coaches stopsat the roadside hedges, and they do not see the quiet eyeswatching them at the fords. Those eyes are their masters, youngsir. I am gentle born, as you guess, and have been in my dayscholar and soldier, but now my companions are the moor-men andthe purley-men and the hill-shepherds and the raggle-tagglegypsies. And I am wholly content, for my calling is philosophy. Istand aside in life, and strike no blows and make no bargain, butI learn that which is hid from others."

Alastair stirred impatiently.

"You are not above forty," he said. "You have health and witsand spirit. Great God, man, have you no cause or leader to fightfor? Have you no honest ambition to fulfil before you vanish intothe dark?"

"None. You and I are at opposite poles of mind. You aredrunken with youth and ardent to strike a blow for a dozen loves.You value life, but you will surrender it joyfully for a whimsyof honour. You travel with a huge baggage of ambitions andloyalties. For me, I make it my business to travel light, caringnothing for King or party or church. As I told you, I and my likeare the Naked Men."

Alastair's eyes were drooping.

"Have you no loyalties?" he asked sleepily.

The answer wove itself into his first dream. "I have theloyalties of Old England."

When Alastair awoke he found his boots cleaned from the mud ofyesterday, and his coat well brushed and folded. The moor-men hadgone off to their fowling, and the two were alone in theclearing, on which had closed down a dense October fog. Theybreakfasted off a flagon of beer and a broiled wild-duck, whichMidwinter cooked on a little fire. He had resumed his coarseleather garments, and looked like some giant gnome as he squattedat his task. But daytime had taken from him the odd glamour ofthe past night. He now seemed only a thick-set countryman--ahorse-doctor or a small yeoman.

The boy Zerry appeared with the horse, which had beenskilfully groomed, and Midwinter led the young man to the Romancauseway.

"It is a clear road to Oddington," he told him, "where you cancross the river by the hurdle bridge. Keep the bells of Woodeatonthat we call the Flageolets on your left hand--they will beringing for St Luke's morn. Presently you will come to theStratford road, which will bring you to Enstone and the fringe ofWychwood forest. You will be at Cornbury long before thedinner-hour."

When Alastair was in the saddle, the other held out hishand.

"I have a liking for you, and would fain serve you. You willnot be advised by me but will go your own proud road. God prosperyou, young sir. But if it so be that you should lose your finebaggage and need a helper, then I have this word for you. Find anale-house which, whatever its sign, has an open eye paintedbeneath it, or a cross-roads with a tuft of broom tied to thesignpost. Whistle there the catch I taught you last night, andmaybe the Naked Men will come to your aid."

By midday Alastair, riding at leisure, had crossed the firstdowns of Cotswold and dropped upon the little town of Charlbury,drowsing by Evenlode in a warm October noon. He had left the fogof morning behind in the Cherwell valley, the gale of theprevious day had died, and the second summer of St Luke lay softon the country-side. In the benign weather the events of thenight before seemed a fantastic dream. No mystery could lurk inthis land of hedgerows and fat pastures; and the figure ofMidwinter grew as absurd in his recollection as the trolls thattrouble an indifferent sleeper. But a vague irritation remained.The fellow had preached a cowardly apathy towards all that agentleman held dear. In the rebound the young man's ardour flamedhigh; he would carve with his sword and his wits a road to power,and make a surly world acknowledge him. Unselfish aims likewisefilled his mind--a throne for his Prince, power for Clan Gillian,pride for his land, and for his friends riches and love.

In Charlbury he selected his inn, the Wheatsheaf, had hishorse fed and rubbed down, drank a tankard of ale, rid himself ofthe dust of the roads, and deposited his baggage. A decorous andinconspicuous figure, in his chocolate coat and green velvetwaistcoat with a plain dark hat of three cocks, the servants ofthe inn were at once civil and incurious. He questioned thelandlord about the Forest of Wychwood, as if his errand lay withone of the rangers, and was given a medley of information in aspeech which had the slurred "s's" and the burred "r's" ofGloucestershire. There was the Honourable Mr BaptistLeveson-Gower, at the Rangers' Lodge, and Robert Lee at theBurford Lawn Lodge, and Jack Blackstone, him they called ChuffleJack, at the Thatched Lodge, and likewise the Verderers, Peg Leeand Bob Jenkinson. He assumed that his guest's business lay withMr Leveson-Gower, and Alastair did not undeceive him, but askedcasually where lay Cornbury. The landlord took him by the arm,and pointed beyond the stream to the tree-clad hills. "Over theriver, sir, by the road that turns right-handed at the foot ofthe street. You passes the gate on your way to Rangers' Lodge.His Lordship be in residence, and entertains high quality. Hislady sister, the Scotch Duchess, arrived two days back, andthere's been post-chaises and coaches going to and fro allweek."

Alastair remounted his horse in some disquiet, for a housefulof great folks seemed to make but a poor setting for urgent andsecret conclaves. By a stone bridge he crossed the Evenlode whichfoamed in spate, the first free-running stream he had seen sincehe left the North, and passed through massive iron gates betweenwhite lodges built in Charles the Second's day. He found himselfin an avenue of chestnuts and young limes, flanked by the bolesof great beeches, which stretched magnificently up the slopes ofa hill. In the centre was a gravelled road for coaches, but oneither side lay broad belts of turf strewn with nuts and fallenleaves. . . . His assurance began to fail, for he rememberedMidwinter's words on the Moor. The place was a vast embattledfortress of ease, and how would a messenger fare here who broughta summons to hazard all? In his own country a gentleman's housewas a bare stone tower, looking out on moor or sea, with a huddleof hovels round the door. To such dwellings men sat loose, as toa tent in a campaign. But the ordered amenities of such a mansionas this--the decent town at the gates richer than a city ofScotland, the acres of policies that warded the house from thevulgar eye, the secular trees, the air of long-descendedpeace--struck a chill to his hopes. What did a kestrel in thehome of peacocks?

At the summit of the hill the road passed beneath an archwayinto a courtyard; but here masons were at work and Alastairturned to the left, in doubt about the proper entrance. Fiftyyards brought him in sight of a corner of the house and into apleasance bright with late flowers, from which a park fell awayinto a shallow vale. There in front of him was a group of peoplewalking on the stone of the terrace.

He was observed, and from the party a gentleman came forward,while the others turned their backs and continued their stroll.The gentleman was in the thirties, a slim figure a little bent inthe shoulders, wearing his own hair, which was of a rich brown,and dressed very plainly in a country suit of green. He advancedwith friendly peering eyes, and Alastair, who had dismounted,recognised the master of the house from a miniature he had seenin M. de Tremouille's hands.

"Have I the honour to address Lord Cornbury?" he asked.

The other bowed, smiling, and his short-sighted eyes lookedpast the young man, and appraised his horse.

"My lord, I have a letter from M. de Tremouille."

Lord Cornbury took the letter, and, walking a few paces to aclump of trees, read it carefully twice. He turned to Alastairwith a face in which embarrassment strove with his naturalkindliness.

"Any friend of M. de Tremouille's is friend of mine, CaptainMaclean. Show me how I can serve you. Your baggage is at the inn?It shall be brought here at once, for I would not forgive myselfif one recommended to me by so old a friend slept at a publichostelry."

The young man bowed. "I will not refuse your hospitality, mylord, for I am here to beg an hour of most private conversation.I come not from France, but from the North."

A curious embarrassment twisted the other's face.

"You have the word?" he asked in a low voice.

"I amAlcinous, of whom I think you have beennotified."

Lord Cornbury strode off a few steps and then came back."Yes," he said simply, "I have been notified. I expected you amonth back. But let me tell you, sir, you have arrived in a curstinconvenient hour. This house is full of Whiggish company. Thereis my sister Queensberry, and there is Mr Murray, His Majesty'sSolicitor. . . . Nay, perhaps the company is the better cloak foryou. I will give you your private hour after supper. Meantime youare Captain Maclean--of Lee's Regiment. I think, in King Louis'service--and you have come from Paris from Paul de Tremouille ona matter of certain gems in my collection that he would purchasefor the Duc de Bouillon. You are satisfied you can play thatpart, sir? Not a word of politics. You do not happen to beinterested in statecraft, and you have been long an exile fromyour native country, though you have a natural sentiment for theold line of Kings. Is that clear, sir? Have you sufficient of thearts to pose as a virtuoso?"

Alastair hoped that he had.

"Then let us get the first plunge over. Suffer me to introduceyou to the company."

The sound of their steps on the terrace halted the strollers.A lady turned, and at the sight of the young man her eyebrowslifted. She was a slight figure about the middle size, whosewalking clothes followed the newbergère fashion.Save for her huge hooped petticoats, she was the dainty milkmaid,in her flowered chintz, her sleeveless coat, her flat straw hattied with ribbons of cherry velvet, her cambric apron. A longstaff, with ribbons at the crook, proclaimed the shepherdess. Shecame toward them with a tripping walk, and Alastair marked thedelicate bloom of her cheeks, unspoiled by rouge, the flash ofwhite teeth as she smiled, the limpid depth of her greatchildlike eyes. His memory told him that the Duchess had passedher fortieth year, but his eyes saw a girl in her teens, a Floraof spring whose summer had not begun.

"Kitty, I present to you Captain Maclean, a gentleman in theservice of His Majesty of France. He has come to me on a missionfrom Paul de Tremouille--a mission of the arts."

The lady held out a hand. "Are you by any happy chance a poet,sir?"

"I have made verses, madam, as young men do, but I halt farshort of poetry."

"The inspiration may come. I had hoped that Harry wouldprovide me with a new poet. For you must know, sir, that I havelost all my poets. Mr Prior, Mr Gay, Mr Pope--they have all beengathered to the shades. I have no one now to make me verses."

"If your Grace will pardon me, your charms can never lack asinger."

"La, la! The singers are as dry as a ditch in midsummer. Theysigh and gloom and write doleful letters in prose. I have to flyto Paris to find a well-turned sonnet. . . . Here we are so sageand dutiful and civically minded. Mary thinks only of her lovers,and Mr Murray of his law-suits, and Mr Kyd of his mortgage deeds,and Kit Lacy of fat cattle--nay, I do not think that Kit's mindsoars even to that height."

"I protest, madam," began a handsome sheepish young gentlemanbehind her, but the Duchess cut him short.

"Harry!" she cried, "we are all Scotch here--all but you andKit, and to be Scotch nowadays is to be suspect. Let us plottreason. The King's Solicitor cannot pursue us, for he will becriminis particeps."

Mr Murray, a small man with a noble head and features soexquisitely moulded that at first sight most men distrusted him,pointed to an inscription cut on the entablature of thehouse.

"Deus haec nobis otia fecit," he read, in a voice whoseevery tone was clear as the note of a bell. "We dare not offendthegenius loci, and outrage that plain commandment."

"But treason is not business."

"It is apt to be the most troublous kind of business,madam."

"Then Kit shall show me the grottos." She put an arm in theyoung man's, the other in the young girl's, and forced them to apace which was ill suited to his high new hunting boots. Alastairwas formally introduced to the two men remaining, and had thechance of observing the one whom the Duchess had called Mr Kyd.He had the look of a country squire, tall, heavily built anddeeply tanned by the sun. He had brown eyes, which regarded theworld with a curious steadiness, and a mouth the corners of whichwere lifted in a perpetual readiness for laughter. Rarely hadAlastair seen a more jovial and kindly face, which was yetredeemed from the commonplace by the straight thoughtful browsand the square cleft jaw. When the man spoke it was in the broadaccents of the Scotch lowlands, though his words and phrases werethose of the South. Lord Cornbury walked with Mr Murray, and theother ranged himself beside Alastair.

"A pleasant habitation, you will doubtless be observing, sir.Since you're from France you may have seen houses as grand, butthere's not the like of it in our poor kingdom of Scotland. Inthe Merse, which is my country-side, they stick thekitchen-midden up against the dining-room window, and theirnotion of a pleasance is a wheen grosart bushes and gillyflowerssore scarted by hens."

Alastair looked round the flowery quincunx and the trimborders where a peacock was strutting amid late roses.

"I think I would tire of it. Give me a sea loch and theheather and a burn among birchwoods."

"True, true, a man's heart is in his calf-country. We Scotsare like Ulysses, and not truly at home in Phaeacia." He spokethe last word with the slightest lift of his eyebrows, as ifsignalling to the other that he was aware of his position. "Formyself," he continued, "I'm aye remembering sweet Argos, which inmy case is the inconsiderable dwelling of Greyhouses in aLammermoor glen. My business takes me up and down this land ofEngland, and I tell you, sir, I wouldn't change my crow-stepgables for all the mansions ever biggit. It's a queer quirk in usmercantile folk."

"You travel much?"

"I needs must, when I'm the principal doer of the Duke ofQueensberry. My father was man of business to auld Duke James,and I heired the job with Duke Charles. If you serve a mightyprince, who is a duke and marquis in two kingdoms and has landsand messuages to conform, you're not much off the road. Horses'iron and shoe-leather are cheap in that service. But my pleasureis at home, where I can read my Horace and crack with my friendsand catch trout in the Whitader."

Mr Kyd's honest countenance and frank geniality might have ledto confidences on Alastair's part, but at the moment LordCornbury rejoined them with word that dinner would be served inhalf an hour. As they entered the house, Alastair found himselfbeside his host and well behind the others.

"Who is this Mr Kyd?" he whispered. "He mentioned Phaeacia, asif he knew my character."

Lord Cornbury's face wore an anxious look. "He is my brotherQueensberry's agent. But he is also one of you. You must know ofhim. He isMenelaus."

Alastair shook his head. "I landed from France only threeweeks back, and know little of Mr Secretary Murray's plans."

"Well, you will hear more of him. He is now on his way toBadminton, for he is said to have Beaufort's ear. His connectionwith my brother is a good shield. Lord! how I hate all thisbusiness of go-betweens and midnight conclaves!" He looked at hiscompanion with a face so full of a quaint perplexity thatAlastair could not forbear to laugh.

"We must creep before we can fly, my lord, in the most honestcause. But our wings are fledging well."

A footman led him to his room, which was in the old part ofthe house called the Leicester Wing, allotted to him, he guessed,because of its remoteness. His baggage had been brought from theinn, and a porcelain bath filled with hot water stood on thefloor. He shaved, but otherwise made no more than a traveller'stoilet, changing his boots for silk stockings and buckled shoes,and his bob for an ample tie-wig. The mirror showed a man not yetthirty, with small sharp features, high cheek bones, and areddish tinge in skin and eyebrows. The eyes were of a clear,choleric blue, and the face, which was almost feminine in itscontours, was made manly by a certain ruggedness and fire in itsregard. His hands and feet were curiously small for one with sodeep a chest and sinewy limbs. He was neat and precise in personand movement, a little finical at first sight, till the observercaught his quick ardent gaze. A passionate friend, that observerwould have pronounced him, and a most mischievous and restlessenemy.

His Highland boyhood and foreign journeyings had not preparedhim for the suave perfection of an English house. The hall, pavedwith squares of black and white marble, was hung with full-lengthpictures of the Hyde and Danvers families, and the great figuresof the Civil War. The party assembled beneath them was a motleyof gay colours--the Duchess in a gown of sky-blue above rose-pinkpetticoats; the young girl, whose name was Lady Mary Capell, allin green like a dryad; Mr Murray wore black velvet with a fullerwig than was the fashion of the moment; while Sir ChristopherLacy had donned the blue velvet and ermine collar of the Duke ofBeaufort's Hunt, a garb in which its members were popularlybelieved to sleep. Mr Kyd had contented himself with a floweredwaistcoat, a plum-coloured coat and saffron stockings. Only thehost was in sad colours, and, as he alone wore his natural hair,he presented a meagre and dejected figure in the flamboyantcompany.

The Duchess talked like a brook.

"Harry must show you the Vandykes," she told Mr Murray. "Heknows the age and tale of everyone as I know my boys' birthdays.I wish he would sell them, for they make me feel small and dingy.Look at them! We are no better than valets-de-chambre in theirpresence."

The major-domo conducted them to dinner, which was served inthe new Indian Room. On the walls was a Chinese paper of birdsand flowers and flower-hung pagodas; no pictures adorned them,but a number of delicately carved mirrors; and at intervals talllacquer cabinets glowed on their gilt pedestals. The servantswore purple ("like bishops," Mr. Kyd whispered), and, since theroom looked west, the declining October sun brought out thecolours of wall and fabric and set the glasses and decantersshimmering on the polished table. Through the open windows thegreen slopes of the park lay bathed in light, and a pool of watersparkled in the hollow.

To Alastair, absorbed in his errand, the scene was purelyphantasmal. He looked on as at a pretty pageant, heard theladies' tinkling laughter, discussed themanège inFrance at long range with Lord Cornbury, who was a notedhorsemaster, answered Lady Mary's inquiries about French modes asbest he could, took wine with the men, had the honour to toastthe Duchess Kitty--but did it all in a kind of waking dream. Thisdaintiness and ease were not of that grim world from which he hadcome, or of that grimmer world which was soon to be. . . . Henoticed that no word of politics was breathed; even the Duchess'schatter was discreet on that point. The ice was clearly too thin,and the most heedless felt the need of wary walking. Here sat theKing's Solicitor, and the wife of a Whig Duke cheek by jowl withtwo secret messengers bearing names out of Homer, and at the headof the table was one for whom both parties angled. The lastseemed to feel the irony, for behind his hospitable gaiety was asharp edge of care. He would sigh now and then, and pass a thinhand over his forehead. But the others--Mr Solicitor wasdiscussing Mr Pope's "Characters of Women" and quotingunpublished variants. No hint of embarrassment was to be detectedin that mellow voice. Was he perhaps, thought Alastair, cognisantof the strange mixture at table, and not disapproving? He was anofficer of the Government, but he came of Jacobite stock. Was henot Stormont's brother? . . . And Mr Kyd was deep in a discussionabout horses with the gentleman in the Beaufort uniform. Withevery glass of claret the even rosiness of his face deepened,till he bloomed like the God of Wine himself--a Bacchus strictlysober, with very wide-awake eyes.

Then to complete the comedy the catch he had heard on Otmoorbegan to run in Alastair's head.Three naked men we be--afar cry from this bedecked and cosseted assemblage. He had amoment of suffocation, until he regained his humour. They wereall naked under their fine clothes, and for one of them it washis business to do the stripping. He caught Lord Cornbury's eyeand marked its gentle sadness. Was such a man content? Had he theassurance in his soul to listen to one who brought to him notpeace but swords?

The late autumn afternoon was bright and mild, with a thinmist rising from the distant stream. The company movedout-of-doors, where on a gravelled walk stood a low carriagedrawn by a pair of cream-coloured ponies. A maid brought theDuchess a wide straw hat and driving gloves, and, while theothers loitered at the garden door, the lady chose her companion."Sa singularité," Mr Murray whispered. "It is youngMr Walpole's name for her. But how prettily she plays therustic!"

"Who takes the air with me?" she cried. "I choose CaptainMaclean. He is the newest of you, and can tell me the latestscandal of Versailles."

It was like an equipage fashioned out of Chelsea porcelain,and as Alastair took his place beside her, with his knees under adriving cloth of embroidered silk, he felt more than ever thesense of taking part in a play. She whipped up the ponies andthey trotted out of the wrought-iron gates, which bounded thepleasance, into the wide spaces of the park. Her talk, which atfirst had been the agreeable prattle of dinner, to which heresponded with sufficient ease, changed gradually tointerrogatories. With some disquiet he realised that she wasdrifting towards politics.

"What do they think in France of the young man's taste inwomankind?" she asked.

He raised his eyebrows.

"The Prince--Charles Stuart--the Chevalier. What of JennyCameron?"

"We heard nothing of her in Paris, madam. You should be thebetter informed, for he has been some months on Britishsoil."

"Tush, we hear no truth from the North. But they say that shenever leaves him, that she shares his travelling carriage. Is shepretty, I wonder? Dark or fair?"

"That I cannot tell, but, whatever they be, her charms must bemature. I have heard on good authority that she is over fortyyears old."

It did not need the Duchess's merry laughter to tell him thathe had been guilty of abêtise. He blushedfuriously.

"La, sir," she cried, "you are ungallant. That is very much myown age, and the world does not call me matronly. I had thoughtyou a courtier, but I fear--I gravely fear--you are an honestman."

They were now on the west side of the park, where a road leddownhill past what had once been a quarry, but was now carvedinto a modish wilderness. The scarps of stone had been fashionedinto grottos and towers and fantastic pinnacles; shrubs had beenplanted to make shapely thickets; springs had been turned tocascades or caught in miniature lakes. The path wound throughmidget Alps, which were of the same scale and quality as thechaise and the cream ponies and the shepherdess Duchess.

"We call this spot Eden," she said. "There are many things Iwould fain ask you, sir, but I remember the consequence of Eve'sinquisitiveness and forbear. The old Eden had a door and beyondthat door lay the desert. It is so here."

They turned a corner by the edge of a small lake and came on astout palisade which separated the park from Wychwood Forest.Through the high deer-gate Alastair looked on a country theextreme opposite of the enclosed paradise. The stream, which inthe park was regulated like a canal, now flowed in rough shallowsor spread into morasses. Scrub clothed the slopes, scrub of thornand hazel and holly, with now and then an ancient oak flinginggnarled arms against the sky. In the bottom were bracken and thewithered blooms of heather, where bees still hummed. The eyelooked up little glens towards distant ridges to which the blueOctober haze gave the air of high hills.

As Alastair gazed at the scene he saw again his owncountry-side. These were like the wild woods that cloaked LochSunart side, the wind brought him the same fragrance of heath andfern, he heard the croak of a raven, a knot of hinds pushed fromthe coppice and plashed through a marshy shallow. For a secondhis eyes filled with tears.

He found the Duchess's hand on his. It was a new Duchess, withgrave kind face and no hint of petulance at her lips or artificein her voice.

"I brought you here for a purpose, sir," she said. "You havebefore you two worlds--the enclosed garden and the wild beyond.The wild is yours, by birthright and training and choice. Beyondthe pale is Robin Hood's land, where men adventure. Inside is aquiet domain where they make verses and read books and cherishpossessions--my brother's land. Does my parable touch you?"

"The two worlds are one, madam--one in God's sight."

"In God's sight, maybe, but not in man's. I will be plainerstill with you. I do not know your business, nor do I ask it, foryou are my brother's friend. But he is my darling and I fear athreat to his peace as a mother-partridge fears the coming of ahawk. Somehow--I ask no questions--you would persuade him tobreak bounds and leave his sanctuary for the wilds. It may be themanlier choice, but oh, sir, it is not for him. He is meant forthe garden. His health is weak, his spirit is most noble but toofine for the clash of the rough world. In a year he would be inhis grave."

Alastair, deeply perplexed, made no answer. He could not lieto this woman, nor could he make a confidante of the wife ofQueensberry.

"Pardon me if I embarrass you," she went on. "I do not ask areply. Your secrets would be safe with me, but if you told methem I should stop my ears. For politics I care nothing, I knownothing. I speak on a brother's behalf, and my love for him makesme importunate. I tell you that he is made for the pleasance, notfor the wilderness. Will you weigh my words?"

"I will weigh them most scrupulously. Lord Cornbury is blessedin his sister."

"I am all he has, for he never could find a wife to histaste." She whipped up the ponies and her voice changed to itsold lightness. "La, sir, we must hasten. The gentlemen will beclamouring for tea."

In the great gallery, among more Vandykes and Knellers andLelys and panels of Mortlake tapestry, the company sipped tea andchocolate. The Duchess made tea with her own hands, and thebright clothes and jewels gleaming in the dusk against dimpictures had once more the airy unreality of a dream. ButAlastair's mood had changed. He no longer felt imprisoned amongpotent shadows, for the glimpse he had had of his own familiarcountry had steadied his balance. He saw the life he had chosenin fairer colours, the life of toil and hazard and enterprise, incontrast with this airless ease. The blood ran quicker in hisveins for the sight of a drugged and sleeping world. Ancientpossessions, the beauty of women, the joy of the senses werethings to be forsworn before they could be truly admired. Now helooked graciously upon what an hour ago had irked him.

When the candles were lit and the curtains drawn the scenegrew livelier. The pretty Lady Mary, sitting under the Knellerportrait of her mother, was a proof of the changelessness ofbeauty. A pool was made at commerce, in which all joined, and theDuchess's childlike laughter rippled through the talk like atrout-stream. She was in her wildest mood, the incomparable Kittywhom for thirty years every poet had sung. The thing became anursery party, where discretion was meaningless, and herirreverent tongue did not refrain from politics. She talked ofthe Stuarts.

"They intermarried with us," she cried, "so I can speak as akinswoman. A grave dutiful race--they were, tragicallymisunderstood. If their passions were fierce, they neverpermitted them to bias their statecraft."

A portrait of Mary of Scots hung above her as she spoke. MrMurray cast a quizzical eye upon it.

"Does your summary embrace that ill-fated lady?" he asked.

"She above all. Her frailties were not Stuart but Tudor.Consider Harry the Eighth. He had passions like other monarchs,but instead of keeping mistresses he must marry each successivelove, and as a consequence cut off the head of the last one. Hiscraze was not for amours but for matrimony. So, too, with hissister Margaret. So, too, with his great-niece Mary. She mighthave had a hundred lovers and none would have gainsaid her, butthe mischief came when she insisted on wedding them. No! No! Whatruined the fortunes of my kinsfolk was not the Stuart blood butthe Tudor--the itch for lawful wedlock which came in with theWelsh bourgeoisie."

"Your Grace must rewrite the histories," said Mr Murray,laughing.

"I have a mind to. But my Harry will bear me witness. TheStuart stock is sad and dutiful. Is not that the character of himwho now calls himself the rightful King of England?"

"So I have heard it said," Lord Cornbury answered, but theeyes which looked at his sister were disapproving.

The ladies went early to bed, after nibbling a sweet biscuitand sipping a glass of negus. Supper was laid for the gentlemenin the dining-room, and presently Mr Murray, Mr Kyd and SirChristopher Lacy were seated at a board which they seemed to haveno intention of leaving. Alastair excused himself on the plea offatigue, and lit a bedroom candle. "I will come to your room,"his host whispered as they crossed the hall. "Do not undress. Wewill talk in my little cabinet."

The young man flung himself into a chair, and collected histhoughts. He had been chosen for this mission, partly because ofhis address and education, but mainly because of the fierceardour which he had hitherto shown in the Prince's cause. He knewthat much hung on his success, for Cornbury, though nothing of asoldier and in politics no more than Member of Parliament for theUniversity of Oxford, was so beloved that his adherence would beworth a regiment. He knew his repute. Such a man could notquibble in matters of principle; the task was rather to transformapathy into action. He remembered the Duchess's words--honestwords, doubtless, but not weighty. Surely in so great a test ofhonour a man could not hesitate because his health was weak orhis home dear to him.

There was a knock at the door and Lord Cornbury entered with asilk dressing-gown worn over his clothes. He looked round theroom with his sad restless eyes.

"Here Lord Leicester died--Elizabeth's favourite. They saythat when the day of his death comes round his spirit may beheard tapping at the walls. It is a commentary on mortalambition, Captain Maclean. Come with me to my cabinet. MrSolicitor is gone to bed, for he is ready enough for an all-nightsitting at St. James's among the wits, but has no notion ofspoiling his sleep by potations among bumpkins. Kit Lacy and MrKyd will keep it up till morning, but happily they are at theother end of the house."

He led the way down a narrow staircase to a little room on theground floor, which had for its other entrance a door giving on atiny paved garden. It was lined with books and a small fire hadbeen lit on the hearth.

"Here we shall be secure, for I alone have the keys," LordCornbury said, taking a seat by a bureau where the single lampwas behind his head. "You have something private for my ear? Imust tell you, sir, I have been plagued for many months byportentous secret emissaries. There was my lord Clancarty, aCyclops with one eye and a shocking perruque, who seemed to menot wholly in possession of his wits. There was a Scotchgentleman--Bahaldy--Bohaldy--whom I suspected of being a liar.There was Traquair, whose speech rang false in every stutter.They and their kind were full of swelling words, but they weremost indisputably fools. You are not of their breed, sir. Fromyou I look for candour and good sense. What have you to say tome?"

"One thing only, my lord. From me you will get no boasts orpromises. I bring you a summons."

Alastair took from his breast a letter. Lord Cornbury brokethe seal and revealed a page of sprawling irregular handwriting,signed at the foot with the words "Charles P." He read it withattention, read it again, and then looked at the messenger.

"His Royal Highness informs me that I will be 'inexcusablebefore God and men' if I fail him. For him that is a naturalopinion. Now, sir, before answering this appeal, I have certainquestions to ask you. You come from the Prince's army, and youare in the secrets of his Cabinet. You are also a soldier. Iwould hear from you the Prince's strength."

"He can cross the Border with not less than five thousandhorse and foot."

"Highlanders?"

"In the main, which means the best natural fighting stock inthis land. They have already shown their prowess against Cope'sregulars. There are bodies of Lowland horse with Elcho andPitsligo."

"And your hopes of increment?"

"More than half the clans are still to raise. Of them we arecertain. There are accessions to be looked for from the Lowlands.In England we have promises from every quarter--from Barrymore,Molyneux, Grosvenor, Fenwick, Petre, Cholmondeley, Leigh, Curzonin the North; from the Duke of Beaufort and Sir Watkin Wynn inthe West. Likewise large sums of money are warranted from thecity of London."

"You speak not of sympathy only, but of troops? Many are nodoubt willing to drink His Royal Highness's health."

"I speak of troops. There is also the certain aid from France.In this paper, my lord, you will find set down the numbers anddates of troops to be dispatched before Christmas. Some arealready on the way--Lord John Drummond with his regiment of RoyalEcossais and certain Irish companies from the Frenchservice."

"And you have against you?"

"In Scotland--nothing. In England at present not ten thousandmen. Doubtless they will make haste to bring back troops fromabroad, but before that we hope to conquer. His Royal Highness'splan is clear. He seeks as soon as possible to win a victory inEngland. In his view the land is for the first comer. The nationis indifferent and will yield to boldness. I will be honest withyou, my lord. He hopes also to confirm the loyalty of France forit is certain that if his arms triumph but once on English soil,the troops of King Louis will take the sea."

The other mused. "It is a bold policy, but it may be a wiseone. I would raise one difficulty. You have omitted from yourcalculation the British Fleet."

Alastair shrugged his shoulders. "It is our prime danger, butwe hope with speed and secrecy to outwit it."

"I have another objection. You are proposing to conquerEngland with a foreign army. I say not a word against the valourof your Highland countrymen, but to English eyes they arebarbarous strangers. And France is the ancient enemy."

"Then, my lord, it is a strife of foreigner against foreigner.Are King George's Dutch and Danes and Hessians better Englishmenthan the Prince's men? Let England abide the issue, and join thevictor."

"You speak reasonably, I do not deny it. Let me ask further.Has any man of note joined your standard?"

"Many Scots nobles, though not the greatest. But Hamiltonfavours us, and there are grounds for thinking that even the Whigdukes, Argyll and Montrose and Queensberry, are soured with theGovernment. It is so in England, my lord. Bedford . . ."

"I know, I know. All are waiting on the tide. But meantime HisRoyal Highness's Cabinet is a rabble of Irishmen. Is it not so? Ido not like to have Teague in the business, sir, and England doesnot like it."

"Then come yourself, my lord."

Lord Cornbury smiled. "I have not finished my questions. Whatof his Royal Highness's religion? I take it that it is the sameas your own."

"He has already given solemn pledges for liberty andtoleration. Many Presbyterians of the straitest sect are in hiscamp. Be sure, my lord, that he will not be guilty of hisgrandfather's blunder."

Lord Cornbury rose and stood with his back to the fire.

"You are still in the military stage, where your first duty isa victory in the field. What does His Royal Highness wish me todo? I am no soldier, I could not raise a dozen grooms andforesters. I do not live in Sir Watkin's county, where you canblow a horn and summon a hundred rascals. Here in Oxfordshire weare peaceable folk."

"He wants you in his Council. I am no lover of the Irish, andthere is sore need of statesmanship among us."

"Say you want me for an example."

"That is the truth, my lord."

"And, you would add, for statecraft. Then let us look at thematter with a statesman's eye. You say truly that England doesnot love her Government. She is weary of foreign wars, and analien Royal house, and gross taxes, and corruption in highplaces. She is weary, I say, but she will not stir to shift theburden. You are right; she is for the first comer. You bring aforeign army and it will fight what in the main is a foreignarmy, so patriotic feeling is engaged on neither side. If youwin, the malcontents, who are the great majority, will join you,and His Royal Highness will sit on the throne of his fathers. Ifyou fail, there is no loss except to yourselves, for the othersare not pledged. Statesmanship, sir, is an inglorious thing, forit must consider first the fortunes of the common people. Nostatesman has a right to risk these fortunes unless he bereasonably assured of success. Therefore I say to you thatEngland must wait, and statesmen must wait with England, till theissue is decided. That issue still lies with the soldiers. Icannot join His Royal Highness at this juncture, for I couldbring no aid to his cause and I might bring needless ruin tothose who depend on me. My answer might have been otherwise had Ibeen a soldier."

A certain quiet obstinacy had entered the face which wasrevealed in profile by the lamp on the bureau. The voice had lostits gentle indeterminateness and rang crisp and clear. Alastairhad knowledge enough of men to recognise finality. He made hislast effort.

"Are considerations of policy the only ones? You and I sharethe same creeds, my lord. Our loyalty is owed to the House whichhas the rightful succession, and we cannot in our obedience toGod serve what He has not ordained. Is it not your duty to flingprudence to the winds and make your election before the world,for right is right whether we win or lose."

"For some men maybe," said the other sadly, "but not for me. Iam in that position that many eyes are turned on me and in mydecision I must consider them. If your venture fails, I desirethat as few Englishmen as possible suffer for it, it beingpremised that for the moment only armed men can help it tosuccess. Therefore I wait, and will counsel waiting to all inlike position. Beaufort can bring troops, and in God's name Iwould urge him on, and from the bottom of my heart I pray for thePrince's welfare."

"What will decide you, then?"

"A victory on English soil. Nay, I will go farther. So soon asHis Royal Highness is in the way of that victory, I will fly tohis side."

"What proof will you require?"

"Ten thousand men south of Derby on the road to London, andthe first French contingent landed."

"That is your answer, my lord?"

"That is the answer which I would have you convey with my mosthumble and affectionate duty to His Royal Highness. . . . Andnow, sir, will you join me in a turn on the terrace, as the nightis fine. It is my habit before retiring."

The night was mild and very dark, and from the lake rose thehonk of wild fowl and from the woods the fitful hooting of owls.To Alastair his failure was scarcely a disappointment, for herealised that all day he had lived in expectation of it. Nay,inasmuch as it placed so solemn a duty upon the soldiers of theCause, it strung his nerves like a challenge. Lord Cornbury putan arm in his, and the sign of friendship moved the young man'saffection. It was for youth and ardour such as his to make clearthe path for gentler souls.

They left the stones of the terrace and passed the lit windowof the dining-room, where it appeared that merriment hadadvanced, for Sir Christopher Lacy was attempting ahunting-song.

"Such are the squires of England," whispered Cornbury. "Theywill drink and dice and wench for the Prince, but not fight forhim."

"Not yet," Alastair corrected. "But when your lordship joinsus he will not be unattended."

They reached the corner of the house from which in daylightthe great avenue could be seen, the spot where that morningAlastair had delivered his credentials.

"I hear hooves," said Cornbury, with a hand to his ear. "Nay,it is only the night wind."

"It is a horse," said the other. "I have heard it for the lastminute. Now it is entering the courtyard. See, there is a stablelantern."

A light swayed, and there was the sound of human speech.

"That is Kyd's Scotch servant," Cornbury said. "Let us inquireinto the errand of this night-rider."

As they moved towards the lantern a commotion began, and thelight wavered like a ship's lamp in a heavy sea.

"Haud up, sir," cried a voice. "Losh, the beast's foundered,and the man's in a dwam."

In the circle of the lantern's light the horseman, a bigshambling fellow, stood swaying as if in extreme fatigue, nowsteadying himself by a hand on the animal's neck, now using thesupport of the groom's shoulder. His weak eyes peered andblinked, and at the sight of the gentlemen he made an attempt ata bow.

"My lord!" he gasped with a dry mouth. "Do I address my lordCornbury?"

He did not wait for an answer. "I am from Chastlecote, mylord. I beg--I supplicate--a word with your lordship."

"Now?"

"Now, if it please you. My business is most urgent. It is lifeor death, my lord, the happiness or despair of an immortalsoul."

"You are the tutor from Chastlecote, I think. You appear tohave been trying your beast high."

"I have ridden to Weston and to Heythrop since midday."

"Have you eaten?"

"Not since breakfast, my lord." The man's eyes were wolfishwith hunger and weariness.

"Then you shall eat, for there can be no business between afull man and a fasting. The groom will see to your horse. Followme."

Lord Cornbury led the way past the angle of the house to wherethe lit windows of the dining-room made a glow in the dark.

"'Tis a night of queer doings," he whispered to Alastair, asthey heard the heavy feet of the stranger stumbling behind them."We will surprise Kit Lacy in his cups, but there will be someremnants of supper for this fellow. 'Pon my soul, I am curious toknow what has shifted such a gravity out of bed."

He unlocked the garden-door and led the way through the greathall to the dining-room. Sir Christopher, mellow but still sober,was interrupted in a song, and, with admirable presence of mind,cut it short in a view holloa. Mr Kyd, rosy as the dawn, hastenedto place chairs.

"Your pardon, gentlemen, but I bring you a famished traveller.Sit down, sir, and have at that pie. There is claret at yourelbow."

The newcomer muttered thanks and dropped heavily into a chair.Under the bright candelabrum, among crystal and silver andshining fruit and the gay clothes of the others, he cut anoutrageous figure. He might have been in years about the age ofLord Cornbury, but disease and rough usage had wiped every signof youth from his face. That face was large, heavily-featured andpitted deep with the scars of scrofula. The skin was puffy andgrey, the eyes beneath the prominent forehead were pale and weak,the mouth was cast in hard lines as if from suffering. Hisimmense frame was incredibly lean and bony, and yet from hisslouch seemed unwholesomely weighted with flesh. He wore his ownhair, straight and lank and tied with a dusty ribbon. His clotheswere of some coarse grey stuff and much worn, and, though on ajourney, he had no boots, but instead clumsy unbuckled shoes andblack worsted stockings. His cuffs and neckband were soiled, andovercrowded pockets made his coat hang on him like a sack. Suchan apparition could not but affect the best-bred gentleman. KitLacy's mouth was drawn into a whistle, Mr Kyd sat in smilingcontemplation. Alastair thought of Simon Lovat as he had lastseen that vast wallowing chieftain, and then reflected that Simoncarried off his oddity by his air of arrogant command. Thisfellow looked as harassed as a mongrel that boys have chivviedinto a corner. He cut himself a wedge of pie and ate gobblingly.He poured out a tankard of claret and swallowed most of it at agulp. Then he grew nervous, choked on a crumb, gulped more claretand coughed till his pale face grew crimson.

The worst pangs of hunger allayed, he seemed to recollect hiserrand. His lips began to mutter as if he were preparing aspeech. His tired eyes rested in turn on each member of thecompany, on Lacy and Kyd lounging at the other side of the table,on Cornbury's decorous figure at the head, on Alastair wrapped inhis own thoughts at the foot. This was not the private conferencehe had asked for, but it would appear that the urgency of hisneed must override discretion. A spasm of pain distorted the hugeface, and he brought his left hand down violently on the table,so that the glasses shivered.

"My lord," he said, "she is gone."

The company stared, and Sir Christopher tittered.

"Who is your 'she,' sir?" he asked as he helped himself towine.

"Miss Grevel . . . Miss Claudia."

The young baronet's face changed.

"The devil! Gone! Explain yourself, sir."

The man had swung round so that he faced Lord Cornbury, withhis head screwed oddly over his right shoulder. As he spoke itbobbed in a kind of palsied eagerness.

"You know her, my lord. Miss Claudia Grevel; the cousin andhousemate of the young heir of Chastlecote, who has beencommitted to my charge. Three days ago she was of age and thecontroller of her fortune. This morning the maids found her bedunslept in, and the lady flown."

Lord Cornbury exclaimed. "Did she leave no word?" heasked.

"Only a letter to her cousin, bidding him farewell."

"Nothing to you?"

"To me nothing. She was a high lady and to her I was only theboy's instructor. But I had marked for some weeks a restlessnessin her deportment and, fearing some rash step, I had kept an eyeon her doings."

"You spied on her?" said Kyd sweetly. "Is that part of anusher's duties?"

The man was too earnest to feel the rudeness of thequestion.

"She was but a child, sir," he said. "She had neither fathernor mother, and she was about to be sole mistress of a richestate. I pitied her, and, though she in no way condescended tome, I loved her youth and beauty."

"You did right," Lord Cornbury said. "Have your observationsgiven you no clue to the secret of her flight?"

"In some measure, my lord. You must know that Miss Grevel isardent in politics, and, like many gentlewomen, has a strongsentiment for the young Prince now in Scotland. She has oftendeclared that if she had been a man she would long ago havehastened to his standard, and she was wont to rage against theapathy of the Oxfordshire squires. A scrap of news from the Northwould put her into a fury or an exaltation. There was onegentleman of the neighbourhood who was not apathetic and who wasaccordingly most welcome at Chastlecote. From him she had hernews of the Prince, and it was clear by his manner towards herthat he valued her person as well as shared her opinions. I havebeen this day to that gentleman's house and found that at anearly hour he started on a journey. I was ill received there andtold little, but I ascertained that he had departed with a coachand led horses. My lord, I am convinced that the unhappy girl ishis companion."

"The man's name?" Lord Cornbury asked sharply.

"Sir John Norreys of Weston."

The name told nothing to two of the company, but it had asurprising effect on Sir Christopher Lacy. He sprang to his feet,and began to stride up and down the room, his chin on hisbreast.

"I knew his father," said Lord Cornbury, "but the young man Ihave rarely seen. 'Tis a runaway match doubtless; but suchmarriages are not always tragical. Miss Grevel is too highlyplaced and well dowered for misadventure. Let us hope for thebest, sir. She will return presently a sober bride."

"I am of your lordship's opinion," Mr Kyd observed with ajolly laugh. "Let a romantic maid indulge her fancy and chooseher own way of wedlock, for if she get not romance at the startshe will not find it in the dreich business of matrimony. But youand me, my lord, are bachelors and speak only from hearsay."

The tutor from Chastlecote seemed to be astounded at thereception of his news.

"You do not know the man," he cried. "It is no case of ayouthful escapade. I have made inquiries, and learned that he isno better than a knave. If he is a Jacobite it is for gain, if heweds Miss Grevel it is for her estate."

"Now what the devil should a dominie like you know about thecharacter of a gentleman of family?"

The words were harsh, but, as delivered by Mr Kyd with a merryvoice and a twinkle of the eye, they might have passed as arobust pleasantry. But the tutor was not in the mood for them.Anger flushed his face, and he blew out his breath like a bullabout to charge. Before he could reply, however, he found an allyin Sir Christopher. The baronet flung himself again into hischair and stuck both elbows on the table.

"The fellow is right all the same," he said. "Jack Norreys isa low hound, and I'll take my oath on it. No scamp is Jack, forhis head is always cool and he has a heart like a codfish. He hasa mighty good gift for liquor--I say that for him--but thedamnable fellow profits by the generous frailties of his betters.He is mad for play, but he loves the cards like an attorney, notlike a gentleman, and he makes a fat thing out of them. No,damme! Jack's no true man. If he wants the girl 'tis for herfortune, and if he sings Jacobite, 'tis because he sees somescoundrelly profit for himself. I hate the long nose and the meaneyes of him."

"You hear?" cried the tutor who had half risen from his seatin his excitement. "You hear the verdict of an honest man!"

"You seem to know him well, Kit," said Lord Cornbury,smiling.

"Know him! Gad, I have had some chances. We were birchedtogether at Eton, and dwelt in the same stairway at ChristChurch. I once rode a match with him on the Port Meadow and bledhim for a hundred guineas, but he has avenged himself athousandfold since then at the Bibury meetings. He may be LordHigh Chancellor when I am in the Fleet, but the Devil will gethim safe enough at the end."

Lord Cornbury looked grave, Mr Kyd wagged a moralisinghead.

"The thing has gone too far to stop," said the former. Then tothe tutor: "What would you have me do?"

The visitor's uncouth hands were twisting themselves in afrenzy of appeal.

"My mistress at Chastlecote is old and bedridden, my charge isbut a boy, and Miss Grevel has no relatives nearer than Dorset. Icome to you as the leading gentleman in this shire and an uprightand public-spirited nobleman, and I implore you to save that poorpretty child from her folly. They have gone north, so let usfollow. It may not be too late to prevent the marriage."

"Ah, but it will be," said Mr Kyd. "They can find ahedge-parson any hour of the day to do the job for a guinea and apot of ale."

"There is a chance, a hope, and, oh sir, I beseech you topursue it."

"Would you have me mount and ride on the track of thefugitives?" Lord Cornbury asked.

"Yes, my lord, and without delay. Grant me a chair to sleep anhour in, and I am ready for any labour. We can take the roadbefore daybreak. It would facilitate our task if your lordshipwould lend me a horse better fitted for my weight."

The naiveness of the request made a momentary silence. Then inspite of himself Alastair laughed. This importunate usher was onthe same mission as himself, that mission which an hour earlierhad conclusively failed. To force their host into activity wasthe aim of both, but one whom a summons from a Prince had notmoved was not likely to yield to an invitation to pursue a braceof green lovers. Yet he respected the man's ardour, though he hadset him down from his looks as a boor and an oddity; andregretted his laugh, when a distraught face was turned towardshim, solemn and reproachful like a persecuted dog's.

Lord Cornbury's eyes were troubled and his hands fidgeted witha dish of filberts. He seemed divided between irritation at apreposterous demand and his natural kindliness.

"You are a faithful if importunate friend, sir. By the way, Ihave not your name."

"Johnson, my lord---Samuel Johnson. But my name mattersnothing."

"I have heard it before. . . . Nay, I remember. . . . Was itMr Murray who spoke of it? Tell me, sir, have you not publishedcertain writings?"

"Sir, I have made a living by scribbling."

"Poetry, I think. Was there not a piece on the morals ofTown¹--in the manner of Juvenal?"

¹The Vanityof Human Wishes, 1749--Samuel Johnson.

"Bawdy, I'll be bound," put in Mr Kyd. He seemed suddenly tohave grown rather drunk and spoke with a hiccough.

The tutor looked so uncouth a figure for a poet that Alastairlaughed again. But the poor man's mind was far from humour, forhis earnestness increased with his hearers' cynicism.

"Oh, my lord," he cried, "what does it matter what I am orwhat wretched books I have fathered? I urge you to a most instantduty--to save a noble young lady from a degrading marriage. Ipress for your decision, for the need is desperate."

"But what can I do, Mr Johnson? She is of age, and they havebroken no law. I cannot issue a warrant and hale them back toOxfordshire. If they are not yet wed I have no authority todissuade, for I am not a kinsman, not even a friend. I cannotforbid the banns, for I have no certain knowledge of any misdeedsof this Sir John. I have nolocus, as the lawyers say, formy meddling. But in any case the errand must be futile, for ifyou are right and she has fled with him, they will be marriedlong ere we can overtake them. What you ask from me isfolly."

The tutor's face changed from lumpish eagerness to a lumpishgloom.

"There is a chance," he muttered. "And in the matter of savingsouls a chance is enough for a Christian."

"Then my Christianity falls short of yours, sir," replied LordCornbury sharply.

The tutor let his dismal eyes dwell on the others. They soonleft Mr Kyd's face, stayed longer on Alastair's and came to reston Sir Christopher's, which was little less gloomy than hisown.

"You, sir," he said, "you know the would-be bridegroom. Willyou assist me to rescue the bride?"

The baronet for a moment did not reply and hope flickered inthe other's eyes. Then it died, for the young man brought downhis fist on the table with an oath.

"No, by God. If my lord thinks the business not for him, 'tisa million times too delicate for me. You're an honest man, Mrusher, and shall hear my reason. I loved Miss Grevel, and for twoyears I dared to hope. Last April she dismissed me and I had thewit to see that 'twas final. What kind of figure would I cutgalloping the shires after a scornful mistress who has chosenanother? I'd ride a hundred miles to see Jack Norreys' neckwrung, but you will not catch me fluttering near the honeypot ofhis lady."

"You think only of your pride, sir, and not of the poorgirl."

The tutor, realising the futility of his mission, rose to hisfeet, upsetting a decanter with an awkward elbow. Themisadventure, which at an earlier stage would have acutelyembarrassed him, now passed unnoticed. He seemed absorbed in hisown reflections, and had suddenly won a kind of rude dignity. Ashe stood among them Alastair was amazed alike at his shabbinessand his self-possession.

"You will stay the night here, sir? The hour is late and a bedis at your disposal."

"I thank you, my lord, but my duties do not permit of sleep. Ireturn to Chastlecote, and if I can get no helpers I must e'enseek for the lady alone. I am debtor to your lordship for ahospitality upon which I will not further encroach. May I beg thefavour of a light to the stable?"

Alastair picked up a branched candlestick and preceded thetutor into the windless night. The latter stumbled often, for heseemed purblind, but the other had no impulse to laugh, fortoward this grotesque he had conceived a curious respect. Theman, like himself, was struggling against fatted ease, strivingto break a fence of prudence on behalf of an honourablehazard.

Kyd's servant brought the horse, refreshed by a supper ofoats, and it was Alastair's arm which helped the unwieldyhorseman to the saddle.

"God prosper you!" Alastair said, as he fitted a clumsy footinto a stirrup.

The man woke to the consciousness of the other's presence.

"You wish me well, sir? Will you come with me? I desire acolleague, for I am a sedentary man with no skill in travel."

"I only rest here for a night. I am a soldier on a missionwhich does not permit of delay."

"Then God speed us both!" The strange fellow pulled off hishat like a parson pronouncing benediction, before he lumberedinto the dark of the avenue.

Alastair turned to find Kyd behind him. He was exchangingjocularities with his servant.

"Saw ye ever such a physiog, Edom?" he cried. "Dominies aregetting crouse, for the body was wanting my lord to up and ridewith him like a postboy after some quean that's ta'en the jee.He's about as blate as a Cameronian preacher. My lord wasuncommon patient with him. D'you not think so, CaptainMaclean?"

"The man may be uncouth, but he has a stout heart and a verynoble spirit. I take off my hat to his fidelity."

The reply changed Mr Kyd's mood from scorn to a meltingsentiment.

"Ay, but you're right. I hadn't thought of that. It's anoble-hearted creature, and we would all be better if we wereliker him. Courage, did you say? The man with that habit of body,that jogs all day on a horse for the sake of a woman that hasdone nothing but clout his lugs, is a hero. I wish I had drunkhis health."

Next morning Alastair rode west, and for the better part of afortnight was beyond Severn. He met Sir Watkin at Wynnstay and MrSavage in Lanthony vale, and then penetrated to the Pembrokecoast where he conferred with fisherfolk and shy cloaked men whogave appointments by the tide at nightfall. His task was nolonger diplomacy, but the ordinary intelligence service of war,and he was the happier inasmuch as he the better understood it.If fortune favoured elsewhere, he had made plans for a Frenchlanding in a friendly country-side to kindle the West and take inflank the defences of London. Now, that errand done, his duty waswith all speed to get him back to the North.

On a sharp noon in the first week of November he recrossedSevern and came into Worcestershire, having slept at Ludlow thenight before. His plan was to return as he had come, by themidlands and Northumberland, for he knew the road and which innswere safe to lie at. Of the doings of his Prince he had heardnothing, and he fretted every hour at the lack of news. As atrained soldier with some experience of war, he distrustedprofoundly the military wisdom of Charles's advisers, and feareddaily to hear of some blunder which would cancel all that hadalready been won.

He rode hard, hoping to sleep in Staffordshire and next dayjoin the road which he had travelled south three weeks before. Anunobtrusive passenger known to none, knowing none, he took littlepains to scan the visages of those he met. It was therefore withsome surprise that, as he sat in the tap-room of an ale-house atChifney, he saw a face which woke some recollection.

It was that of a tall, thin and very swarthy man who wasengaged in grating a nutmeg into a pot of mulled ale. His clotheshad the shabby finery of a broken-down gentleman, but the air ofa minor stage-player which they suggested was sharplycontradicted by his face. That was grave, strong almost tohardness, and with eyes that would have dictated if they had notbrooded. He gave Alastair good-day as he entered, and thencontinued his occupation in such a way that the light from thewindow fell very clearly upon his features. The purpose, whichinvolved a change of position, was so evident that Alastair'sattention was engaged, and he regarded him over the edge of histankard.

The memory was baffling. France, London, Rome--he fittednowhere. It seemed a far-back recollection, and not a coincidenceof his present journey. Then the man raised his head, and his sadeyes looked for a moment at the window. The gesture Alastair hadseen before--very long before--in Morvern. Into the picture swamother details: a ketch anchored, a sea-loch, a seafarer who sangso that the heart broke, a cluster of boys huddled on hot sandlistening to a stranger's tales.

"The Spainneach!" he exclaimed.

The man looked up with a smile on his dark face and spoke inGaelic. "Welcome, heart's darling," he said--the endearment usedlong ago to the child who swam out to the foreign ship for aprize of raisins. "I have followed you for three days, and thismorning was told of your inquiries, divined your route, and tooka short cut to meet you here."

The picture had filled out. Alastair remembered the swarthyforeigner who came yearly at the tail of the harvest to enlistyoung men for the armies of Spain or France or the Emperor--whodid not brag or bribe or unduly gild the prospect, but who, lessby his tongue than by his eyes, drew the Morvern youth to warsfrom which few returned. An honest man, his father had named thisSpainneach, but as secret in his ways as the woodcock blownshoreward by the October gales.

"You have a message for me?" he asked, thinking ofCornbury.

"A message--but from a quarter no weightier than my own head.You have been over long in the South, Sir Sandy." The name hadbeen the title given by his boyish comrades to their leader, andits use by this grave man brought to the chance meeting somethingof the intimacy of home.

"That's my own notion," he replied. "But I am now by way ofcuring the fault."

"Then ride fast, and ride by the shortest road. There's soreneed of you up beyond."

"You have news," Alastair cried eagerly. "Has his Highnessmarched yet?"

"This very day he has passed the Border."

"How--by what route--in what strength?"

"No great increase. He looks for that on the road."

"Then he goes by Carlisle?"

The Spaniard nodded. "And Wade lies at Newcastle," hesaid.

Alastair brought down his fist on the board so hard that theale lipped from the other's tankard.

"The Devil take such blundering! Now he has the enemy on hisunprotected flank, when he might have destroyed him and won thatvictory on English soil which is the key to all things. Wade isold and doited, but he will soon have Cumberland behind him. Whocounselled this foolishness? Not his Highness, I'll warrant."

The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders. "No. His Highness wouldhave made a bee-line for Newcastle. But his captains put theirfaith in Lancashire, and would have the honest men of NorthEngland in their ranks before they risked a battle. They picturethem as waiting, each with a thousand armed followers, till thefirst tartans are south of Shap, and then rushing to thestandard."

Alastair, his brows dark with irritation, strode up and downthe floor.

"The fools have it the wrong way round. England will not riseto fight a battle, but only when a battle has been won. Wade atNewcastle was a sovran chance--and we have missed it. Blind!Blind! You are right, my friend. Not a second must I lose inpushing north to join my Prince. There are no trained soldierswith him save Lord George, and he had no more than a boyish yearin the Royals. . . . You say he travels by Shap?"

The Spaniard nodded. "And your course, Sir Sandy, must bethrough West England. Ride for Preston, which all Scots invasionsmust pass. Whitchurch--Tarporley--Warrington are your stages.See, I will make you a plan."

On the dust of a barrel he traced the route, while Alastairdid up the straps of his coat and drew on his riding gloves. Hishorse was brought, the lawing paid, and as the young man mountedthe other stood by his stirrup.

"Where do you go?" Alastair asked.

"Northward, like swallows in spring. But not yet awhile. Ihave still errands in these parts."

An ostler inspected the horse's shoes, and Alastair satwhistling impatiently through his teeth. The tune which came tohim was Midwinter's catch of "The Naked Men." The Spaniardstarted at the sound, and long after Alastair had moved off stoodstaring after him down the road. Then he turned to the house, hisown lips shaping the same air, and cast a glance at thesignboard. It showed a red dragon marvellously rampant on a fieldof green, and beneath was painted a rude device of an openeye.

The chill misty noontide changed presently to a chillierdrizzle, and then to a persistent downfall. Alastair's eagernesswas perforce checked by the weather, for he had much ado to gropehis way in the maze of grassy lanes and woodland paths. Scarcelya soul was about--only a dripping labourer at a gate, and acadger with pack-horses struggling towards the next change-house.He felt the solitude and languor of the rainy world, and at thesame time his bones were on fire to make better speed, forsuddenly the space between him and the North seemed to havelengthened intolerably. The flat meadows were hideously foreign;he longed for a sight of hill or heath to tell him that he wasnearing the North and the army of his Prince. He cursed theerrand that had brought him to this friendless land, far from hisproper trade of war.

The November dusk fell soon, and wet greyness gave place towet mirk. There was no moon, and to continue was to risk a lostroad and a foundered horse. So, curbing his impatience, heresolved to lie the night at the first hostelry, and be on themove next day before the dawn.

The mist thickened, and it seemed an interminable time beforehe found a halting-place. The patch of road appeared to beuninhabited, without the shabbiest beerhouse to cheer it.Alastair's patience was wearing very thin, and his appetite hadwaxed to hunger, before the sound of hooves and the speech of mentold him that he was not left solitary on the globe. A tinytwinkle of light shone ahead, rayed by the falling rain, and,shrouded and deadened by the fog, came human voices.

He appeared to be at a cross-roads, where the lane he had beenfollowing intersected a more considerable highway, for heblundered against a tall signpost. Then, steering for the light,he all but collided with a traveller on horseback, who wasengaged in talk with someone on foot. The horseman was on thepoint of starting, and the light, which was a lantern in the handof a man on foot, gave Alastair a faint hurried impression of atall young man muffled in a fawn-coloured riding-coat, with asharp nose and a harsh drawling voice. The colloquy wasinterrupted by his advent, the horseman moved into the rain, andthe man with the lantern swung it up in some confusion. Alastairsaw what he took for an ostler--a short fellow with a comicallyugly face and teeth that projected like the eaves of a house.

"Is this an inn, friend?" he asked.

The voice which replied was familiar.

"It's a kind of a public, but the yill's sma' and wersh, andthere's mair mice than aits in the mangers. Still and on, it'sbetter than outbye this nicht. Is your honour to lie here?"

The man took two steps back and pushed open the inn door, sothat a flood of light emerged, and made a half-moon on thecobbles. Now Alastair recognised the lantern-bearer.

"You are Mr Kyd's servant?" he said.

"E'en so. And my maister's in bye, waitin' on his supper.He'll be blithe to see ye, sir. See and I'll tak your horse andbed him weel. Awa in wi' ye and get warm, and I'll bring yourmails."

Alastair pushed open the first door he saw and found a roomsmoky with a new-lit fire, and by a table, which had been spreadwith the rudiments of a meal, the massive figure of Mr NicholasKyd.

Mr Kyd's first look was one of suspicion and his second ofresentment; then, as the sun clears away storm clouds,benevolence and good fellowship beamed from his face.

"God, but I'm in luck the day. Here's an old friend arrived intime to share my supper. Come in by the fire, sir, and no a wordtill you're warmed and fed. You behold me labouring to make upfor the defeeciencies of this hostler wife with some contrivancesof my own. An old campaigner like Nicol Kyd doesna travel theroads without sundry small delicacies in his saddle-bags, for insome of these English hedge-inns a merciful man wouldna kennelhis dog."

He was enjoying himself hugely. A gallon measure full of alewas before him, and this he was assiduously doctoring withvarious packets taken from a travelling-case that stood on achair. "Small and sour," he muttered as he tasted it with aladle. "But here's a pinch of soda to correct its acidity, and anieve-full of powdered ginger-root to prevent colic. Drunk hotwith a toast and that yill will no ken itself."

He poured the stuff into a mulling pot, and turned hisattention to the edibles. "Here's a wersh cheese," he cried, "buta spice of anchovy will give it kitchen. I never travel withoutthese tasty wee fishes, Captain Maclean. I've set the wife tomake kail, for she had no meat in the house but a shank-end ofbeef. But I've the better part of a ham here, and a string ofpig's sausages, which I take it is the English equivalent of ahaggis. Faith, you and me will no fare that ill. Sit you down,sir, if your legs are dry, for I hear the kail coming. There's nowine in the place, but I'll contrive a brew of punch to make upfor it."

The hostess, her round face afire from her labours in thekitchen, flung open the door, and a slatternly wench brought in asteaming tureen of broth. More candles were lit, logs were laidon the fire, and the mean room took on an air of rough comfort.After the sombre afternoon Alastair surrendered himself gladly tohis good fortune, and filled a tankard of the doctored ale, whichhe found very palatable. The soup warmed his blood and, havingeaten nothing since morning, he showed himself a goodtrencherman. Mr Kyd in the intervals of satisfying his ownappetite beamed upon his companion, hospitably happy at beingable to provide such entertainment.

"It's a thing I love," he said, "to pass a night in an innwith a friend and a bottle. Coming out of the darkness to a warmfire and a good meal fair ravishes my heart, and the more if it'sunexpected. That's your case at this moment, Captain Maclean, andyou may thank the Almighty that you're not supping off fat baconand stinking beer. A lucky meeting for you. Now I wonder at whathostelMenelaus andAlcinous could haveforegathered. Maybe, the pair of them went to visit Ulysses inIthaca and shoot his paitricks. But it's no likely."

"How didMenelaus prosper at Badminton?" Alastairasked.

"Wheesht, man! We'll get in the condiments for the punch andsteek the door before we talk."

The landlady brought coarse sugar in a canister and half adozen lemons, and placed a bubbling kettle on the hob. Mr Kydcarefully closed the door behind her and turned the key. Withimmense care and a gusto which now and then revealed itself in averse of song, he poured the sugar into a great blue bowl,squeezed the lemons over it with his strong fingers, and addedboiling water, with the quantities of each most nicelycalculated. Then from a silver-mounted case-bottle he poured theapproved modicum of whisky ("the real thing, Captain Maclean,that you'll no find south of the Highland line") and sniffedaffectionately at the fragrant steam. He tasted the brew, gave ithis benediction, and filled Alastair's rummer. Then he lit one ofthe churchwardens which the landlady had supplied, stretched hislegs to the blaze, and heaved a prodigious sigh.

"If I shut my eyes I could believe I was at Greyhouses. That'smy but-and-ben in the Lammermuirs, sir. It's a queer thing, but Ican never stir from home without the sorest kind of homesickness.I was never meant for this gangrel job. . . . But if I open thatwindow it will no be a burn in the howe and the peesweeps thatI'll hear, but just the weariful soughing of English trees. . . .There's a lot of the bairn in me, Captain Maclean."

The pleasant apathy induced by food and warmth was passingfrom Alastair's mind, and he felt anew the restlessness which theSpaniard's news had kindled. He was not in a mood for Mr Kyd'ssentiment.

"You will soon enough be in the North, I take it," hesaid.

"Not till the New Year, for my sins. I'm the Duke's doer, andI must be back at Amesbury to see to the plantings."

"And the mission ofMenelaus?"

"Over for a time. My report went north a week syne by a surehand."

"Successful?"

Mr Kyd pursed his lips. "So-so." He looked sharply towardsdoor and window. "Beaufort is with us--on conditions. Andyou?"

"I am inclined to be cheerful. We shall not lack the Englishgrandees, provided we in the North play the game right."

"Ay. That's gospel. You mean a victory in England."

Alastair nodded. "ThereforeAlcinous has done withPhaeacia and returns to the Prince as fast as horse will carryhim. But what doesMenelaus in these parts? You are faraway from Badminton and farther from Amesbury."

"I had a kind of bye-errand up this way. Now I'm on my roadsouth again."

"Has the Cause friends hereabouts? I saw a horseman at thedoor in talk with your servant."

Mr Kyd looked up quickly. "I heard tell of none. What was helike?"

"I saw only a face in the mist--a high collar and a very sharpnose."

The other shook his head. "It beats me, unless it was someforwandered traveller that speired the road from Edom. I've seenno kenned face for a week, except"--and he broke into a loudguffaw--"except yon daft dominie we met at Cornbury--the man thatwanted us all to mount and chase a runaway lassie. I passed himon the road yestereen mounted like a cadger and groaning like anauld wife."

Mr Kyd's scornful reference to the tutor of Chastlecoteslightly weakened in Alastair the friendliness which hisgeniality had inspired.

"It will be well for us if we are as eager in our duties asthat poor creature," he said dryly. "I must be off earlyto-morrow and not spare horseflesh till I see the Standard."

"Ay, you maun lose no time. See, and I'll make you a list ofpost-houses, where you can command decent cattle. It is the fruitof an uncommon ripe experience. Keep well to the east, forthere's poor roads and worse beasts this side of the Peak."

"That was the road I came, but now I must take a differentairt. I had news to-day--disquieting news. The Prince is over theBorder."

Mr Kyd was on his feet, his chair scraping hard on the stonefloor, and the glasses rattling on the shaken table.

"I've heard nothing of it. Man, what kind of news reaches youand not me?"

"It is true all the same. I had it from one who came long agoto Morvern and knows my clan. This day His Highness crossedLiddel."

"Liddel!" Mr Kyd almost screamed. "Then he goes by Carlisle.But Wade's at Newcastle."

"That is precisely the damnable folly of it. He is forgoinghis chance of an immediate victory over a dotard--and a victoryin England. God, sir, His Highness has been ill advised. You seenow why I ride north hell-for-leather. I am a soldier of someexperience and few of the Prince's advisers have seen a campaign.My presence may prevent a more fatal error."

Mr Kyd's face was a strange study. Officially it was drawninto lines of tragic melancholy, but there seemed to besatisfaction, even jubilation, behind the despair, and the voicecould not escape a tremor of pleased excitement. Alastair, whoselife at the French court had made him quick to judge thenuances of feeling, noted this apparent contradiction, andset it down to the eagerness of loyalty which hears at last thatthe Rubicon is crossed.

"They will march through Lancashire," said Mr Kyd, "and lookto recruit the gentry. If so, they're a sturdier breed up yonderthan on the Welsh Marches--" He hesitated. "I wonder if you'reright in posting off to the North? Does this news not make adiffer? What about Cornbury and Sir Watkin? Will the casting ofthe die not make up their minds for them? Faith, I think I'lltake another look in at Badminton."

Alastair saw in the other's face only an earnestfriendliness.

"No, no," he cried. "Nothing avails but the English victory.We must make certain of that. But do you, Mr Kyd, press thegrandees of the Marches, while I prevent fools and schoolboysfrom over-riding the natural good sense of our Prince."

Mr Kyd had recovered his composure, and insisted on fillingthe rummer again for a toast to fortune. The lines about his eyeswere grave, but jollity lurked in the corners of his mouth.

"Then you'll take the west side of England and make forWarrington? Ay, that's your quickest road. I'll draw you anitinerarium, for I whiles travel that gait." He scribbleda list on a leaf from a pocket-book and flung it to Alastair."The morn's night you lie at Flambury, and the third night you'llbe in Chester."

"Flambury," Alastair exclaimed. "That takes me too fareastward."

"No, no. In this country the straight road's apt to be thelong road. There's good going to Flambury, and the turnpike on toWhitchurch. You'll lie there at the Dog and Gun, and if you speakmy name to the landlord you'll get the best in his house. . . .Man, I envy you, for you'll be among our own folk in a week. Myheart goes with you, and here's to a quick journey."

Alastair was staring into the fire, and turned more suddenlythan the other anticipated. Mr Kyd's face was in an instant allrosy goodwill, but for just that one second he was taken bysurprise, and something furtive and haggard looked from his eyes.This something Alastair caught, and, as he snuggled between theinn blankets, the memory of it faintly clouded his thoughts, likea breath on a mirror.

In his dreams Alastair was persistently conscious of Mr Kyd'sface, which hung like a great sun in that dim landscape.Fresh-coloured and smiling at one moment, it would changesuddenly to a thing peaked and hunted, with aversion and fearlooking out of narrow eyes. And it mixed itself oddly withanother face, a pale face framed in a high coat collar, andadorned with a very sharp nose. It may have been the supper or itmay have been the exceeding hardness of the bed, but his sleepwas troubled, and he woke with that sense of having toiledfuriously which is the consequence of nightmare. He had forgottenthe details of his dreams, but one legacy remained from them--apicture of that sharp-nosed face, and the memory of Mr Kyd's opencountenance as he had surprised it for one second the nightbefore. As he dressed the recollection paled, and presently helaughed at it, for the Mr Kyd who now presented himself to hismemory was so honest and generous and steadfast that the otherpicture seemed too grotesque even for a caricature.

On descending to breakfast he found, though the day was yetearly, that his companion had been up and gone a good hourbefore. Had he left a message? The landlady said no. What roadhad he taken? The answer was a reference to a dozen unknown placenames, for countryfolk identify a road by the nearest villages itserves. Mr Kyd's energy roused his emulation. He breakfastedhastily, and twenty minutes later was on the road.

The mist had cleared, and a still November morn opened mildand grey over a flat landscape. The road ran through acres ofunkempt woodlands where spindlewood and briars glowed aboverusset bracken, and then over long ridges of lea and fallow,where glimpses were to be had of many miles of smoky-brownforest, with now and then a slender wedge of church steeplecutting the low soft skies. Alastair hoped to get a fresh horseat Flambury which would carry him to Chester, and as his presentbeast had come far, he could not press it for all his impatience.So as he jogged through the morning his thoughts had leisure towander, and to his surprise he found his mind enjoying anunexpected peace. He was very near the brink of the torrent; lethim make the most of these last yards of solid land. The stormyOctober had hastened the coming of winter, and the autumn scentshad in most places yielded to the strong clean fragrance of abare world. It was the smell he loved, whether he met it inMorvern among the December mosses, or on the downs of Picardy, orin English fields. At other times one smelled herbage and flowersand trees; in winter one savoured the essential elements of waterand earth.

In this mood of content he came after midday to a largevillage on the borders of Stafford and Shropshire, where hehalted for a crust and a jug of ale. The place was so crowdedthat he judged it was market day, and the one inn had a pressabout its door like the visiting hours at a debtors' prison. Hedespaired of forcing an entrance, so commissioned an obligingloafer to fetch him a tankard, while he dismounted, hitched hisbridle to the signpost, and seated himself at the end of a benchwhich ran along the inn's frontage.

The ale was long in coming, and Alastair had leisure toobserve his neighbours. They were a remarkable crowd. Notvillagers clearly, for the orthodox inhabitants might be observedgoing about their avocations, with many curious glances at thestrangers. They were all sizes and shapes, and in every varietyof dress from fustian to camlet, but all were youngish andsturdily built, and most a trifle dilapidated. The four men whosat on the bench beside him seemed like gamekeepers out ofemploy, and were obviously a little drunk. In the throng at thedoor there were horse-boys and labourers and better-cladhobbledehoys who might have been the sons of yeomen. A raffishyoung gentleman with a greyhound and with a cock of his hatbroken was engaged in an altercation with an elderly fellow whohad a sheaf of papers and had mounted a pair of horn spectaclesto read them. Through the open window of the tap-room floatedscraps of argument in a dozen varieties of dialect.

Alastair rubbed his eyes. Something in the sight was familiar.He had seen it in Morvern, in the Isles, in a dozen parts ofFrance and Spain, when country fellows were recruited for foreignarmies. But such things could not be in England, where theforeign recruiter was forbidden. Nor could it be enlistment forthe English regiments, for where were the bright uniforms and thetuck of drums? The elderly man with the papers was beyond doubt asoldier, but he had the dress of an attorney's clerk. There wassome queer business afoot here and Alastair set himself to probeit.

His neighbour on the bench did not understand his question.But the raffish young man with the greyhound heard it, and turnedsharply to the speaker. A glance at Alastair made his voicecivil.

"Matter!" he exclaimed. "The matter, sir, is that I and sometwo-score honest men have been grossly deceived. We are ofOglethorpe's, enlisted to fight the Spaniard in the Americas. Andnow there is word that we are to be drafted to General Wade, asif we were not gentleman-venturers but so many ham-handed commonsoldiers. Hark, sir!"

From within the inn came a clatter of falling dishes and highvoices.

"That will be Black Benjamin warming to work," said the youngman, proffering a pewter snuff-box in which there remained a fewgrains of rappee. "He is striving in there with theQuartermaster-Sergeant while I seek to convince Methody Sam hereof the deceitfulness of his ways."

The elderly man, referred to as Methody Sam, put hisspectacles in his pocket, and revealed a mahogany face lit by twobloodshot blue eyes. At the sight of Alastair he held himself atattention, for some instinct in him discerned the soldier.

"I ain't denyin' it's a melancholy business, sir," he said,"and vexatious to them poor fellows. They was recruited byGen'ral Oglethorpe under special permission from His Majesty, Godbless 'im, for the dooty of keeping the Spaniards out of HisMajesty's territory of Georgia in Ameriky, for which purpose they'as signed on for two years, journeys there and back included, atthe pay of one shilling per lawful day, and all vittles andclothing provided 'andsome. But now 'Is Majesty thinks better onit, and is minded to let Georgia slip and send them lads toGeneral Wade to fight the Scotch. It's a 'ard pill to swallow, Iain't denyin' it, but orders is orders, and I 'ave them expressthis morning from Gen'ral Oglethorpe, who is a-breakin' the newsto the Shropshire Companies."

One of the drunkards on the bench broke into a flood of oathswhich caused Methody Sam to box his ears. "Ye was enlisted for apious and honourable dooty, and though that dooty may be changedthe terms of enlistment is the same. No foul mouth is permitted'ere, my lad."

The young gentleman with the greyhound was listening eagerlyto what was going on indoors. "Benjamin's getting his dander up,"he observed. "Soon there will be bloody combs going. Hi! Benjy!"he shouted. "Come out and let's do the job fair and foursquare inthe open. It's a high and holy mutiny."

There was no answer, but presently the throng at the doorbegan to fan outward under pressure from within. A crowd of roughfellows tumbled out, and at their tail a gypsy-looking youth witha green bandana round his head, dragging a small man, who had theair of having once been in authority. Alastair recognised thesecond of the two non-commissioned officers, but while one hadprotested against oaths the other was filling the air with alurid assortment. This other had his hands tied with a kerchief,and a cord fastening the joined palms to his knees, so that hepresented a ridiculous appearance of a man at his prayers.

"Why hain't ye trussed up Methody?" the gypsy shouted to theowner of the greyhound.

The sergeant cast an appealing eye on Alastair. There seemedto be no arms in the crowd, except a cudgel or two and thegypsy's whinger. It was an appeal which the young man's traditioncould not refuse.

"Have patience, gentlemen," he cried. "I cannot have youprejudging the case. Forward with your prisoner, but first untiethese bonds. Quick."

The gypsy opened his mouth in an insolent refusal, when he sawsomething in the horseman's eye which changed his mind. Also henoted his pistols, and his light travelling sword.

"That's maybe fair," he grunted, and with his knife slit hisprisoner's bonds.

"Now, out with your grievances."

The gypsy could talk, and a very damning indictment he made ofit. "We was 'listed for overseas, with good chance of prizemoney, and a nobleman's freedom. And now we're bidden stop athome as if we was lousy lobsters that took the King's money totrick the gallows. Is that fair and English, my sweet prettygentleman? We're to march to-morrow against the naked Highlandersthat cut out a man's bowels with scythes, and feed their dogswith his meat. Is that the kind of fighting you was dreaming of,my precious boys? No, says you, and we'll be damned, says you, ifwe'll be diddled. Back we goes to our pretty homes, but with aluckpenny in our pocket for our wasted time and our saddisappointment. Them sergeants has the money, and we'll hold themupside down by the heels till we shake it out of them."

Methody Sam replied, looking at Alastair. "It's crool 'ard,but orders is orders. Them folks enlisted to do the King'scommands and if 'Is Majesty 'appens to change 'is mind, it's nobusiness o' theirs or mine. The money me and Bill 'as isGovernment money, and if they force it from us they'll beapprehended and 'anged as common robbers. I want to save theirpoor innocent souls from 'anging felony."

The crowd showed no desire for salvation. There was a surgetowards the two men and the gypsy's hand would have been on thethroat of Methody Sam had not Alastair struck it up. The smallerof the two non-commissioned officers was chafing his wrists,which his recent bonds had abraded, and lamenting that he hadleft his pistols at home.

"What made you come here with money and nothing to guard it?"Alastair asked.

"The General's orders, sir. But it was different when we wastemptin' them with Ameriky and the Spaniards' gold. Now we'llneed a file o' loaded muskets to get 'em a step on the road. Ay,sir, we'll be fort'nate if by supper time they've not allscattered like a wisp o' snipes, takin' with 'em 'Is Majesty'sguineas."

"Keep beside me!" Alastair whispered. A sudden rush would haveswept the little man off, had not Methody Sam plucked himback.

"Better yield quiet," said the gypsy. "We don't want noblood-lettin', but we're boys as is not to be played with. Outwith the guineas, tear up the rolls, and the two of ye may go toHell for all we care."

"What are you going to do?" Alastair asked his neighbours.

The little man looked bleakly at the crowd. "There don't seemmuch of a chance, but we're bound to put up a fight, seein' we'rein charge of 'Is Majesty's property. That your notion, Sam?"

The Methody signified his assent by a cheerful groan.

"Then I'm with you," said Alastair. "To the inn wall? We mustget our backs protected."

The suddenness of the movement and the glint of Alastair'ssword opened a way for the three to a re-entrant angle of theinn, where their flanks and rear were safe from attack. Alastairraised his voice.

"Gentlemen," he said, "as a soldier I cannot permit mutiny.You will not touch a penny of His Majesty's money, and you willwait here on General Oglethorpe's orders. If he sees fit todisband you, good and well; if not, you march as hecommands."

Even as he spoke inward laughter consumed him. He, a followerof the Prince, was taking pains that certain troops should reachWade, the Prince's enemy. Yet he could not act otherwise, for thecamaraderie of his profession constrained him.

The power of the armed over the unarmed was in that momentnotably exemplified. There was grumbling, a curse or two, andsullen faces, but no attempt was made to rush that corner wherestood an active young man with an ugly sword. The mob swayed andmuttered, the gypsy went off on an errand behind the inn, one ofthe drunkards lurched forward as if to attack and fell prone. Astone or two was thrown, but Alastair showed his pistols, andthat form of assault was dropped. The crowd became stagnant, butit did not disperse.

"I must get on to Flambury," Alastair told his neighbours. "Icannot wait all day here. There is nothing for it but that you gowith me. My pistols will get us a passage to my horse yonder, andwe can ride and tie."

The plan was never put into action. For at the moment from awindow over their heads descended a shower of red-hot embers. Allthree leaped forward to avoid a scorching and so moved outsidethe protecting side wall. Then, neatly and suddenly, the littleman called Bill was plucked up and hustled into the crowd.Alastair could not fire or draw upon a circle of gaping faces. Helooked furiously to his right, when a cry on his left warned himthat the Methody also had gone.

But him he could follow, for he saw the boots of him beingdragged inside the inn door. Clearing his way with his sword, herushed thither, stumbling over the greyhound and with a kicksending it flying. There were three steps to the door, and as hemounted them he obtained a view over the heads of the mob anddown the village street. He saw his horse still peacefullytethered to the signpost, and beyond it there came into view amounted troop clattering up the cobbles.

The door yielded to his foot and he received in his arms theMethody, who seemed to have made his escape from his captors."They've got Bill in the cellar," he gasped. "It's that GypsyBen." And then he was stricken dumb at something which he sawbelow Alastair's armpits.

The crowd had scattered and its soberer members now clusteredin small knots with a desperate effort at nonchalance. Oppositethe inn door horsemen had halted, and the leader, a tall man withthe black military cockade in his hat, was looking sternly at thegroup, till his eye caught the Methody. "Ha! Sewell," he cried,and the Methody, stricken into a ramrod, stood erect beforehim.

"These are recruits of ours?" he asked. "You have explained tothem the new orders?"

"Sir," said the ramrod, raising his voice so that all couldhear, "I have explained, as in dooty bound, and I 'ave to reportthat, though naturally disappointed, they bows to orders, all buta gypsy rapscallion, of whom we be well quit. I 'ave likewise toreport that Bill and me 'as been much assisted by this gentlemanyou sees before you, without whom things might 'ave goneugly."

The tall soldier's eyes turned towards Alastair and hebowed.

"I am in your debt, sir. General Oglethorpe is much beholdento you."

"Nay, sir, as a soldier who chanced upon a difficult situationI had no choice but to lend my poor aid."

The General proffered his snuff-box. "Of which regiment?"

"Of none English. My service has been outside my country, onthe continent of Europe. I am born a poor Scottish gentleman,sir, whose sword is his livelihood. They call me Maclean."

General Oglethorpe looked up quickly. "A most honourablelivelihood. I too have carried my sword abroad--to the Americas,as you may have heard. I was returning thither, but I have beenintercepted for service in the North. Will you dine with me, sir?I should esteem your company."

"Nay, I must be on the road," said Alastair. "Already I havedelayed too long. I admire your raw material, sir, but I do notcovet your task of shaping it to the purposes of war."

The General smiled sourly. "In Georgia they would have beengood soldiers in a fortnight. Here in England they will be stillraw after a year's campaigning."

They parted with elaborate courtesies, and looking back,Alastair saw what had five minutes before been an angry mobfalling into rank under General Oglethorpe's eye. He wonderedwhat had become of Ben the Gypsy.

Flambury proved but a short two-hours' journey. It was a largevillage with a broad street studded with ancient elm trees, and,as Alastair entered it, that street was thronged like a hiringfair. The noise of human voices, of fiddles and tabrets and ofexcited dogs, had greeted him half a mile off, like the rumour ofa battlefield. Wondering at the cause of the din, he wonderedmore when he approached the houses and saw the transformation ofthe place. There were booths below the elm trees, protected frompossible rain by awnings of sacking, where ribands and crockeryand cheap knives were being vended. Men and women, clothed likemummers, danced under the November sky as if it had been May-day.Games of chance were in progress, fortunes were being spae'd,fairings of gingerbread bought, and, not least, horses sold tothe accompaniment of shrill cries from stable boys and thewhinnyings of startled colts and fillies. The sight gave Alastaira sense of security, for in such an assemblage a stranger wouldnot be questioned. He asked a woman what the stir signified."Lawk a mussy, where be you borned," she said, "not to know 'tisFlambury Feast-Day?"

The Dog and Gun was easy to find. Already the darkness wasfalling, and while the street was lit with tarry staves, theinterior of the hostelry glowed with a hundred candles. The signwas undecipherable in the half light, but the name in irregularletters was inscribed above the ancient door. Alastair rode intoa courtyard filled with chaises and farmers' carts, and havingwith some difficulty found an ostler, stood over him while hishorse was groomed, fed and watered. Then he turned to the house,remembering Mr Kyd's recommendation to the landlord. If thatrecommendation could procure him some privacy in this visit,fortunate would have been his meeting with the laird ofGreyhouses.

The landlord, discovered not without difficulty, was a lustyflorid fellow, with a loud voice and a beery eye. He summoned thetraveller into his own parlour, behind the tap-room, from whichall day his bustling wife directed the affairs of the house. Theplace was a shrine of comfort, with a bright fire reflected inpolished brass and in bottles of cordials and essences whichshone like jewels. The wife at a long table was mixing bowl afterbowl of spiced liquors, her face glowing like a moon, and hernose perpetually wrinkled in the task of sniffing odours todetect the moment when the brew was right. The husband placed ared-cushioned chair for Alastair, and played nervously with thestrings of his apron. It occurred to the traveller that the manhad greeted him as if he had been expected, and at this hewondered.

The name of Mr Kyd was a talisman that wrought mightily uponthe host's goodwill, but that goodwill was greater than hispowers.

"Another time and the whole house would have been at yourhonour's service," he protested. "But to-day--" and he shruggedhis shoulders. "Oh, you shall have a bed, though I have to liemyself on bare boards, but a private room is out of my power.We've but the three of them, and they're all as throng as abee-hive. There's Tom Briggs in the Blue Room, celebrating thesale of his string of young horses--an ancient engagement, sir;and there's the Codgers' Supper in the Gents' Attic, and inShrewsbury there's five pig dealers sleeping on chairs. That'sso, mother?"

"Six in Shrewsbury," said the lady, "and there's five waitingon the Attic, as soon as the Codgers have supped."

"You see, sir, how I'm situated. You'll have a good bed toyourself, but I fear I must ask you to sup in the bar parlourwith the other gentry that's here to-day. Unless your honourwould prefer the kitchen?" he added hopefully.

Alastair, who had a vision of a company of drunken squirelingsof an inquisitive turn, announced that he would greatly preferthe kitchen. The decision seemed to please the landlord.

"There's a good fire and not above half a dozen for company atpresent. Warm yourself there, sir, and your supper will be readybefore your feet are comforted. A dish of pullets and eggs,mutton chops, a prime ham, a good cut of beef, and the best ofdouble Gloucester. What say you to that now? And for liquor abowl of mother's spiced October, with a bottle of old port to gowith the cheese."

Alastair was hungry enough to approve of the lot, and tiredand cold enough to welcome the chance of a roaring kitchenhearth. In the great shadowy place, the rafters loaded with hamsand the walls bright with warming-pans, there was only a handfulof topers, since the business out-of-doors was still tooengrossing. The landlord was as good as his word, and within halfan hour the traveller was sitting down to a most substantial mealat the massive board. The hostess's spiced October was delicateyet potent, the port thereafter--of which the host had a coupleof glasses--a generous vintage. The young man at length drew hischair from the table to the fireside and stretched his legs tothe blaze, replete and comfortable in body, and placid, if alittle hazy, in mind. . . . Presently the leaping flames of thelogs took odd shapes; the drone of voices from the corner becamesurf on a shore: he saw a fire on a beach and dark hills behindit, and heard the soft Gaelic of his kin. . . . His head noddedon his breast and he was sound asleep.

He woke to find an unpleasant warmth below his nose and tohear a cackle as of a thousand geese in his ears. Somethingbright and burning was close to his face. He shrank from it andat once sprawled on his back, his head bumping hard on the stonefloor.

The shock thoroughly awakened him. As he sprang to his feet hesaw a knot of flushed giggling faces. One of the group had beenholding a red-hot poker to his face, while another had drawn awaythe chair from beneath him.

His first impulse was to buffet their heads, for no man isangrier than a sleeper rudely awakened. The kitchen was nowcrowded, and the company seemed to appreciate the efforts of thepractical jokers, for there was a roar of applause and shouts ofmerriment. The jokers, who from their dress were hobbledehoyyeomen or small squires, were thus encouraged to continue, and,being apparently well on the way to drunkenness, were notdisposed to consider risks. Two of them wore swords, but it wasclear that the sword was not their weapon.

Alastair in a flaming passion had his hand on his blade, whenhis arm was touched from behind and a voice spoke. "Control yourtemper, sir, I beseech you. This business is premeditated. Theyseek to fasten a quarrel on you. Don't look round. Smile andlaugh with them."

The voice was familiar though he could not put a name to it. Asecond glance at the company convinced him that the advice wassound and he forced himself to urbanity. He took his hand fromhis sword, rubbed his eyes like one newly awakened, and forced aparody of a smile.

"I have been asleep," he stammered. "Forgive my inattention,gentlemen. You were saying . . . Ha ha! I see! A devilish goodjoke, sir. I dreamed I was a blacksmith and woke to believe I hadfallen in the fire."

The hobbledehoys were sober enough to be a little nonplussedat this reception of their pleasantry. They stood staringsheepishly, all but one who wore a mask and a nightcap, as if hehad just come from a mumming show. To judge by his voice heseemed older than the rest.

"Tell us your dreams," he said rudely. "From your talk in yoursleep they should have been full of treason. Who may you be,sir?"

Alastair, at sight of a drawer's face round the corner of thetap-room door, called for a bowl of punch.

"Who am I?" he said quietly. "A traveller who has acquired anoble thirst, which he would fain share with other goodfellows."

"Your name, my thirsty friend?"

"Why, they call me Watson--Andrew Watson, and my business isto serve his Grace of Queensberry, that most patriotic nobleman."He spoke from a sudden fancy, rather than from any purpose; itwas not likely that he could be controverted, for Mr Kyd was nowposting into Wiltshire.

His questioner looked puzzled, but it was obvious that thename of a duke, and Queensberry at that, had made an impressionupon the company. The man spoke aside with a friend, and thenleft the kitchen. This was so clear a proof that there had beenpurpose in his baiting that Alastair could have found it in himto laugh at such clumsy conspirators. Somehow word had been sentof his coming, and there had been orders to entangle him; but theword had not been clear and his ill-wishers were still in doubtabout his identity. It was his business in no way to enlightenthem, but he would have given much to discover the informant.

He had forgotten about the mentor at his elbow. Turningsuddenly, he was confronted with the queer figure of the tutor ofChastlecote, who was finishing a modest supper of bread andcheese at the main table. The man's clothes were shabbier thanever, but his face and figure were more wholesome than atCornbury. His cheeks had a faint weathering, his neck was lessflaccid, and he held himself more squarely. As Alastair turned,he also swung round, his left hand playing a tattoo upon hisknee. His eye was charged with confidences.

"We meet again," he whispered. "Ever since we parted I havehad a premonition of this encounter. I have much for your privateear."

But it was not told, for the leader of the hobbledehoys, thefellow with the mask and nightcap, was again in the kitchen. Itlooked as if he had been given instructions by someone, for heshouted, as a man does when he is uncertain of himself and wouldkeep up his courage.

"Gentlefolk all, there are vipers among us tonight. This manwho calls himself a duke's agent, and the hedge schoolmaster athis elbow. They are naught but lousy Jacobites and 'tis ourbusiness as good Englishmen to strip and search them."

The others of his party cried out in assent, and there was ameasure of support from the company at large. But before a mancould stir the tutor spoke.

"Bad law!" he said. "I and, for all I know, the othergentleman are inoffensive travellers moving on our lawfulbusiness. You cannot lay hand on us without a warrant from ajustice. But, sirs, I am not one to quibble about legality. Thisfellow has insulted me grossly and shall here and now be broughtto repentance. Put up your hands, you rogue."

The tutor had suddenly become a fearsome figure. He had risenfrom his chair, struggled out of his coat, and, blowing like abull, was advancing across the floor on his adversary, his greatdoubled fists held up close to his eyes. The other gaveground.

"I do not fight with scum," he growled. But as the tutorpressed on him, his hand went to his sword.

He was not permitted to draw it. "You will fight with thenatural weapon of Englishmen," his assailant cried, and caughtthe sword strap and broke it, so that the weapon clattered into acorner and its wearer spun round like a top. The big man seemedto have the strength of a bull. "Put up your hands," he criedagain, "or take a coward's drubbing."

The company was now in high excitement, and its sympathieswere mainly against the challenged. Seeing this, he made a virtueof necessity, doubled his fists, ducked and got in a blow on thetutor's brisket. The latter had no skill, but immense reach andstrength and the uttermost resolution. He simply beat down theother's guard, reckless of the blows he received, and presentlydealt him such a clout that he measured his length on the floor,whence he rose sick and limping and departed on the arm of afriend. The victor, his cheeks mottled red and grey and hisbreath whistling like the wind in a chimney, returned amidacclamation to the fireside, where he accepted a glass ofAlastair's punch.

For a moment the haggardness was wiped from the man's face,and it shone with complacence. His eyes shot jovial but martialglances at the company.

"We have proved our innocence," he whispered to Alastair. "Hadyou used sword or pistol you would have been deemed spy andforeigner, but a bout of fisticuffs is the warrant of thetrue-born Englishman."

Alastair stole a glance at his neighbour's face and found itchanged from their first meeting. It had lost its dumb miseryand--for the moment--its grey pallor. Now it was flushed, ardent,curiously formidable, and, joined with the heavy broad shoulders,gave an impression of truculent strength.

"I love to bandy such civilities," said the combatant. "I wastaught to use my hands by my uncle Andrew, who used to keep thering at Smithfields. We praise the arts of peace, but the keenestpleasure of mankind is in battles. You, sir, follow theprofession of arms. Every man thinks meanly of himself for nothaving been a soldier."

He helped himself to the remainder of the bowl of punch, whichhe gulped down noisily. Alastair was in two minds about his newacquaintance. The man's simplicity and courage and honestfriendliness went to his heart, but he was at a loss in whichrank of society to place him. Mr Johnson spoke with a queerprovincial accent--to him friend was "freend" and a shire a"sheer"--and his manners were those of a yokel, save that theyseemed to spring from a natural singularity rather than from anarrow experience, for at moments he had a fine dignity, and hisdiction was metropolitan if his pronunciation was rustic. Themore the young man looked at the weak heavy-lidded eyes and themassive face, the more he fell under their spell. The appearancewas like a Moorish palace--outside, a bleak wall which had yet apromise of a treasure-house within.

"What of your errand?" he asked. "When we last parted you werein quest of a runaway lady."

"My quest has prospered, though I have foundered a good horseover it, and when I have paid for this night's lodging, shallhave only a quarter-guinea to take me back to Chastlecote. Why,sir, since you are kind enough to interest yourself in thisaffair, you shall be told of it. Miss Grevel is duly and lawfullywed and is now my lady Norreys. Sir John has gone north on whathe considers to be his duty. He is, as you are aware, a partisanof the young Prince. My lady stays behind; indeed she is lodgednot a mile from this inn in the house of her mother's brother, MrThicknesse."

"Then you are easier in mind about the business?"

"I am easier in mind. The marriage was performed as decentlyas was possible for a thing so hastily contrived. He has behavedto the lady in all respects with courtesy and consideration, andhe has shown the strength of his principles by departing at onceto the camp of his Prince. I am disposed to think better of hischaracter than I had been encouraged to by rumour. And, sir,there is one thing that admits of no shadow of doubt. The lady ismost deeply in love."

"You have seen her?"

"This very day. She carries her head as if she wore a crown onit, and her eyes are as happy as a child's. I did not venture topresent myself, for if she guessed that I had followed her shewould have laid a whip over my back." He stopped to laugh, withaffection in his eyes. "She has done it before, sir, for 'tis ahigh-spirited lady. So I bribed a keeper with sixpence to allowme to watch from a covert, as she took her midday walk. She movedlike Flora, and she sang as she moved. That is happiness, said Ito myself, and whatever the faults of the man who is its cause,'twould be sacrilege to mar it. So I slipped off, thanking myMaker that out of seeming ill the dear child had won thisblessedness."

Mr Johnson ceased to drum on the table or waggle his foot, andfell into an abstraction, his body at peace, his eyes fixed onthe fire in a pleasant dream. The company in the kitchen hadthinned to half a dozen, and out-of-doors the din of the fairseemed to be dying down. Alastair was growing drowsy, and he toofell to staring at the flames and seeing pictures in theirdepths. Suddenly a hand was laid on his elbow and, turning with astart, he found a lean little man on the form behind him.

"Be 'ee the Dook's man?" a cracked voice whispered.

Alastair puzzled, till he remembered that an hour back he hadclaimed to be Queensberry's agent. So he nodded.

The little man thrust a packet into his hands.

"This be for 'ee," he said, and was departing, when Alastairplucked his arm.

"From whom?" he asked.

"I worn't to say, but 'ee knows." Then he thrust forward atoothless mouth to the other's ear. "From Brother Gilly," hewhispered.

"And to whom were you sent?"

"To 'ee. To the Dook's man at the Dog and Gun. I wor to ask atthe landlord, but 'e ain't forthcoming, and one I knows andtrusts points me to 'ee."

Alastair realised that he was mistaken for Mr Nicholas Kyd,now posting south; and, since the two were on the same business,he felt justified in acting as Mr Kyd's deputy. He pocketed thepackage and gave the messenger a shilling. At that moment MrJohnson came out of his reverie. His brow was clouded.

"At my lord Cornbury's house there was a tall man with aflorid face. He treated me with little politeness and laughed outof season. He had a servant, too, a rough Scot who attended to myhorse. I have seen that servant in these parts."

Alastair woke to a lively interest. Then he remembered that MrKyd had told him of a glimpse he had had of the tutor ofChastlecote. Johnson had seen the man Edom before he had startedsouth.

His thoughts turned to the packet. There could be no chance ofovertaking Mr Kyd, whose correspondent was so culpably inarrears. The thing might be the common business of theQueensberry estates, in which case it would be forwarded when hefound an occasion. But on the other hand it might be business ofMenelaus, business of urgent import to which Alastaircould attend. . . . He debated the matter with himself for alittle, and then broke the seal.

The packet had several inclosures. One was in a cypher towhich he had not the key. Another was a long list of names, muchcontracted, with figures in three columns set against each. Thethird riveted his eyes, so that he had no ear for the noises ofthe inn or the occasional remarks of his companion.

It was a statement, signed by the wordTekel andindorsed with the name ofMene--a statement of forcesguaranteed from Wales and the Welsh Marches. There could be nodoubt about its purport. There was Sir Watkin's levy and the dayand the hour it would be ready to march; that was a test casewhich proved the document authentic, for Alastair himself haddiscussed provisionally these very details a week ago atWynnstay. There were other levies in money and men against thenames of Cotton, Herbert, Savage, Wynne, Lloyd, Powell. Some ofthe figures were queried, some explicit and certified. There wasa note about Beaufort, promising an exact account within twodays, which would be sent to Oxford. Apparently the correspondentcalled Gilly, whoever he might be, knew of Kyd's journeysouthward, but assumed that he had not yet started. At the endwere three lines of gibberish--a cypher obviously.

As his mind grasped the gist of the thing, a flush crept overhis face and he felt the beat of his heart quicken. Here wasnews, tremendous news. The West was rising, careless of apreliminary English victory, and waiting only the arrival of thePrince at some convenient rendezvous. There were ten thousand menand half a million of money in these lists, and they were notall. Beaufort was still to come, and Oxfordshire andGloucestershire, and the Welsh south-west. The young man's eyeskindled, and then grew a little dim. He saw the triumph of hisPrince, and the fulfilment of his dreams, for the war would nolonger be a foreign invasion but a rising of Englishmen. Heremembered Midwinter's words, "You can win only by enlisting OldEngland." It looked as if it had been done. . . . He saw now whyKyd must linger in the south. He was the conduit pipe of a vitalintelligence which must go to the Prince by the swiftest means,for on it all his strategy depended. He himself would carry thisbudget, and for the others Kyd had doubtless made his own plans.Even now Lancashire would be up, and Cheshire stirring. . . .

The kitchen door was flung open with a violence which startledthree topers left by the table. A lantern wavered in the doorway,and in front of it a square-set man in fustian stumped into theplace. He carried a constable's stave in one hand and in theother a paper. Behind him a crowd followed, among which might berecognised the mummers of the evening, notably the one whosebandaged face bore witness to the strength of Mr Samuel Johnson'sfist.

The constable marched up to the hearth.

"By these 'ere presents I lays 'old on the bodies of twosuspected pussons, to wit one Muck Lane, a Scotchman, and oneJohnson, a schoolmaster, they being pussons whose doings andgoings and comings are contrairy to the well-bein' of this 'ererealm and a danger to the peace of our Lord the King."

The mention of himself by name showed Alastair that this wasno affair of village spy-hunters, but a major peril. In his handhe still held the packet addressed to Kyd. Were he searched itmight be damning evidence; moreover he had already the best partof the intelligence therein contained in his head. Mr Johnson,who was chilly, had just flung on more logs and the fire blazedhigh. Into the red heart of it went the paper and, since thetutor's bulky figure was between him and the door, the act wasnot noticed by the constable and his followers.

"What whim of rascality is this?" asked Mr Johnson, reachingfor a stout oak stick which he had propped in a corner.

"A very troublesome whim for you," said a voice. "Theconstable holds a warrant issued by Squire Thicknesse for thearrest of two Jacobite emissaries traced into this village."

"Ay," said the constable, "'ee'd better come quiet, for Squire'ave sent a brave lot o' keepers and stable lads to manhandle 'eeif 'ee don't. My orders is to carry 'ee to the Manor and lock 'eeup there till such time as 'ee can be sent to Brumming'am."

"Arrant nonsense," cried Johnson. "I'm a better subject of HisMajesty than any rascal among you, and so, I doubt not, is myfriend. Yet so great is our veneration for the laws of England,that we will obey this preposterous summons. Take me to yourSquire, but be warned, every jack of you, that if a man lays hishand on me I will fell him to the earth."

"And I say likewise," said Alastair, laying a significant handon his sword.

The constable, who had no great stomach for his duty, wasrelieved by his prisoners' complaisance, and after somediscussion with his friend announced that no gyves should be usedif they consented to walk with the Squire's men on both sides ofthem. Alastair insisted on having his baggage brought with him,which was duly delivered to one of the Manor's grooms by a silentlandlady; Mr Johnson carried his slender outfit in his pockets.The landlord did not show himself. But at the inn door, beforethe Manor men closed up, a figure pressed forward from the knotof drunken onlookers, and Alastair found his sleeve plucked andthe face of Brother Gilly's messenger beside him.

"I've been mistook, maister. 'Ee bain't the Dook's man, notthe one I reckoned. Gimme back the letter."

"It's ashes now. Tell that to him that sent you. Say theletter's gone, but the news travels forward in a man's head."

The messenger blinked uncomprehendingly and then made as if torepeat his request, but a sudden rush of merrymakers, hungry fora fresh spectacle, swept him down the street. Presently theescort was clear of the village and tramping through a blackaisle of trees. Someone lit a lantern, which showed the mattressof chestnut leaves underfoot and the bare branches above. Thekeepers and stable-boys whistled, and Mr Johnson chanted aloudwhat sounded like Latin hexameters. For him there was nodiscomfort in the adventure save that on a raw night it removedhim from a warm fireside.

But for Alastair the outlook was grave. Here was he arrestedby a booby constable on the warrant of some Justice Shallow, butarrested under his own name. He had passed secretly from Scotlandto Cornbury, and but for the party at the latter place and onestrange fellow on Otmoor, no one had known that name. Could thenews have leaked out from the Cornbury servants? But, even then,he was not among the familiar figures of Jacobitism, and he hadbut just come from France. Only Lord Cornbury knew his truecharacter, and Lord Cornbury did not talk. Yet someone with fullknowledge of his past and present had tracked him to thisvillage, a place far from any main highway to the North.

What he feared especially was delay. Unless Cornbury borewitness against him, or the man from Otmoor, the law had noevidence worth a farthing. Hearsay and suspicion could not hanghim. He would play the part of the honest traveller now returningfrom an Oxfordshire visit, and if needs be he would refer toQueensberry's business. But hearsay and suspicion could delay. Hewas suddenly maddened by the thought that some bumbling Justicemight detain him in these rotting midlands when the Prince wascrossing Ribble. And he had to get north with the news of theWelsh recruiting! At the thought he bit his lips in a sharpvexation.

They passed through gates into a park where the trees fellback from the road, and presently were in a flagged courtyardwith a crack of light showing from a door ajar. It opened and aportly butler filled it.

"You will await his honour in the Justice Room," he announced,and the prisoners swung to the right under an archway intoanother quadrangle.

The Justice Room proved to be a bare apartment, smellingstrongly of apples, with a raised platform at one end and on thefloor a number of wooden forms arranged like the pens at a sheepfair. On the platform stood a large handsome arm-chair covered inSpanish leather, and before it a small table. The butler enteredby a door giving on the platform, and on the table placed aleather-bound book and on the chair a red velvet cushion.

"Exit the clerk, enter the preacher," said Johnson.

The servant, bowing profoundly, ushered in a tall gentleman ina suit of dark-blue velvet, with a fine lace cravat falling overa waistcoat of satin and silver. The gentleman might have beenfifty years of age by the lines round his mouth, but his cherubiccountenance was infantine in contour, and coloured, by hunting orthe bottle, to an even pink. He had clearly been dining well, forhe plumped down heavily in the chair and his eye was as blue andvacant as a frosty sky. When he spoke it was with the carefulenunciation of one who is not in a condition to take libertieswith the English tongue.

"Makin' so bold, your honour," said the constable, "them'ere's the prisoners as is named in your honour's worshipfulwarrant."

His honour nodded. "What the devil do you want me to do,Perks?" he asked.

The mummer with the broken head, who had become mysteriouslyone of the party, answered.

"Lock 'em up for to-night, Squire Thicknesse, and to-morrowsend 'em to Birmingham with a mounted escort. It's politicalbusiness, and no matter of poaching or petty thieving."

"I require that the charge be read," said Johnson.

Squire Thicknesse took up a paper, looked at it with aversion,and gazed round him helplessly. "Where the devil is my clerk?" helamented. "Gone feasting to Flambury, I'll warrant. I cannot readthis damned crabbed hand."

"Let me be your clerk, Nunkie dear."

A girl had slipped through the door, and now stood by thechair looking over the Squire's shoulder. She was clearly veryyoung, for her lips had the pouting fullness and her figure thestraight lines of a child's, and her plain white gown and narrowpetticoats had a nursery simplicity. The light was bad, andAlastair could not note the details, seeing only a glory ofrusset hair and below it a dimness of pearl and rose. On thatmuch he was clear, and on the bird-like charm of her voice.

The effect of the vision on Johnson was to make him drive anelbow into Alastair's ribs and to murmur in what was meant for awhisper: "That is my lady. That is the dear child."

The sharp young eyes had penetrated the gloom below theplatform.

"Why, Nunkie, there is a face I know. Heavens! It is our tutorfrom Chastlecote. Old Puffin we called him, for he puffs like myspaniel. A faithful soul, Nunkie, but at times oppressive. Whatcan he want so far from home?"

The mummer, who seemed to have assumed the duties ofprosecution, answered:

"The man Johnson is accused of being act and part with theother in conspiracy against His Majesty's throne."

The girl's laughter trilled through the place. "Oh, whatdelectable folly! Mr Samuel a conspirator! He is too large andnoisy, Nunkie, and far, far too much of a sobersides. But give methe paper and I will be your clerk."

With disquiet and amazement Alastair listened to the record.His full name was set down and his rank in King Louis' service.His journey into Oxfordshire was retailed, and its purpose, butthe name of Cornbury was omitted. Then followed his expeditioninto Wales, with special mention of Wynnstay, and last his urgentreasons for returning north. Whoever had compiled the indictmentwas most intimately informed of all his doings. His head swam,for the thing seemed starkly incredible, and the sense of havinglived unwittingly close to a deadly foe affected him withsomething not far from fear.

"What do you say to that?" Squire Thicknesse asked.

"That it is some foolish blunder. You have laid hold on thewrong man, sir, and I admit no part of it except the name, whichis mine, and, with deference, as ancient and unsmirched as yourhonour's. No single fact can be adduced to substantiate thesecharges."

"They will be abundantly proven." The mummer's voice croakedominous as a raven's.

The charge against Johnson proved to be much flimsier, and wasderided by the girl. "I insist that you straightly discharge myMr Samuel," she cried. "I will go bail for his good behaviour,and to-morrow a servant shall take him back to Chastlecote. He istoo innocent to be left alone. The other--"

"He says he is an agent of the Duke of Queensberry," said therelentless mummer. "I can prove him to be a liar."

The girl was apparently not listening. Her eyes had caughtAlastair's and some intelligence seemed to pass from them to his.She spoke a word in the Squire's ear and then looked beyond theprisoners to the mummer.

"My uncle, who is known for his loyalty to the presentMajesty, will take charge of the younger prisoner and send himsafe to-morrow to Birmingham. The other he will discharge. . . .That is your will, Nunkie?"

The Squire nodded. He was feeling very sleepy and at the sametime very thirsty, and his mind hovered between bed and a freshbottle.

"You may go home now, friends," she said, "and sweet dreams toyou. You, constable, bring the two men to the Great Hall." Thenshe slipped an arm inside her uncle's. "My Mr Sam shall sup inthe buttery and have a bed from Giles. Tomorrow we will find hima horse. You are a wise judge, Nunkie, and do not waste yourwisdom on innocents. The other man looks dangerous and must bewell guarded. Put him in the Tower garret, and give Giles thekey. But first let the poor creature have bite and sup, if hewants it. He has the air of a gentleman."

As Alastair walked before the staff of the constable, whowielded it like an ox-goad, his mind was furiously busy atguessing the source of the revelations in the warrant. Not tillthey stood in the glow of the hall lights did the notion of Kyd'sservant come to him by the process of exhausting otherpossibilities. But the man had set off with Kyd early thatmorning for the South from a place forty miles distant. It was anaked absurdity, but nevertheless he asked Johnson the question,"Where did you see the serving man who took your horse atCornbury?"

The answer staggered him. "This very day at the gate of thisplace about an hour after noon."

As his perturbed gaze roamed round the hall he caught againthe eye of the girl, looking back with her foot on the staircase.This time there could be no mistake. Her face was bright withconfidential friendliness.

The butler Giles conducted him through long corridors to thedoor which separated the manor proper from its ancient Edwardiantower, and then up stone stairways to a room under the roof whichhad once been the sleeping apartment of the lord of the castle.The walls were two yards thick, the windows mere slits forarrows, the oaken floor as wavy as a ploughland. He had refusedsupper and asked only peace to collect his wits. Giles set acandle down on an oak table, and nodded to a cavernous canopiedbed. "There's blankets enow to keep you warm, since the night bemild for the time o' year. Good sleep to ye and easy dreams." Thekey turned in the lock, and the shuffle of heelless shoes died onthe stair.

Alastair flung himself on the bed, and lay staring at the roofof the canopy, fitfully illumined by the dancing candle. A lightwind must have crept into the room from some cranny of thewindows, for the flame flickered and queer shadows chased eachother over the dark walls. He was in a torment of disquietudesince hearing the warrant--not for his own safety, for he did notdespair of giving these chaw-bacons the slip, but for theprospects of the Cause. There was black treason somewhere in itsinnermost councils. The man who had betrayed every danger-pointin his own career could do the same thing for others. Therogue--Kyd's servant or whoever he might be--was in the way ofknowing the heart of every secret. Kyd, charged with a most vitalservice on which the future of England hung, had this Judasalways at his elbow to frustrate or falsify any message to theNorth, to play the devil with the Prince's recruiting, and at theend to sell his master's head for gold. The thought made theyoung man dig his nails into his palms. God's pity that in anaffair so gossamer-fine there should be this rude treachery torend the web. . . . But if the miscreant was Kyd's servant, howcame he in this neighbourhood? Had he been dismissed Kyd'sservice? Or was Kyd himself at hand and the journey intoWiltshire relinquished? His mind was in utter confusion.

Nevertheless the discovery had quickened his spirit, which oflate he thought had been growing languid. He was a campaigner,and made his plans quick. His immediate duty was to escape, hisnext to reach the Prince and concert measures to meet the case ofWest England. Fortunate for him that the letter of Brother Gillyhad fallen into his hand, for now he knew the magnitude of thebusiness. But first he must sleep, for all evening he had beennodding. He had the soldier's trick of snatching odd hours ofslumber, so, drawing a blanket round him and resolutely shuttingoff all thoughts, he was soon unconscious.

He slept lightly, and woke to see the candle, which he hadleft burning, guttering over the edge of the iron candlestick. Aswift shadow ran across the wall before him, and a sudden waft ofair caused the candle-end to flare like a torch. He glanced atthe door, and it seemed to move. Then the place was quiet again,but it was brighter, for a new light had come into it. Hescrambled from the bed to see the glow of a shaded lantern, and aslim cloaked figure slipping the key from the door.

The lantern was set beside the candle on the table. The figurewore a furred bed-gown and a nightcap of lace and pink satin, andits brown eyes in the shadow were bright as a squirrel's and verymerry.

"La, la, such a commotion ere I could come to you, sir," shesaid. "Giles must carry Nunkie to bed and hoist Squire Brethertonand Sir Ambrose on their horses, and get a message from me toBlack Ben, and pass a word to Stable Bill about Moonbeam. Youhave slept, wise man that you are? But it is time to be aboutyour business of escaping, for in three hours it will bedaylight."

She was like a pixie in the half darkness, a tall pixie, thathad a delicious small stammer in its speech. Alastair was on hisfeet now, bowing awkwardly.

"Tell me," she whispered. "The warrant is true? You areAlastair Maclean, a captain in Lee's Regiment of France, and amessenger from the Prince in Scotland. Oh, have no fear of me,for I am soul and body for the Cause."

"The warrant spoke truly," he said.

"And you will join the Prince at the first possible moment?How go things in the North? Have you any news, sir?"

"The Prince crossed the Border yesterday. He marches toLancashire."

She twined her fingers in excitement. "You dare not delay anhour. And you shall not. I have made everything ready. Sir, youwill find I have made everything ready. See, you shall follow medownstairs and Giles will be waiting. The lock of your door fitsbadly, for the wood around is worm-eaten. To-morrow it will belying on the floor, to show my uncle how you escaped. Giles willtake you by a private way to the Yew Avenue, and there Bill fromthe stables will await you with Moonbeam saddled and ready--myuncle's favourite, no less. You will ride down the avenue verycarefully, keeping on the grass and making no sound, till youreach the white gate which leads to Wakehurst Common. There Benwill meet you and guide you out of this county so that by theevening you may be in Cheshire."

"Ben the Gypsy?" he asked.

"The same. Do you know him? He is on our side and does many anerrand for me."

"But, madam, what of yourself? What will your uncle say whenhe finds his horse gone?"

"Stolen by the gypsies--I have the story pat. There will be apretty hue and cry, but Ben will know of its coming and takeprecautions. I am grieved to tell fibs, but needs must in the dayof war."

"But I leave you alone to face the consequences."

"Oh, do not concern yourself for me. My dear uncle isindulgent and, though a Whig, is no bigot. He will not grieve foryour absence at breakfast to-morrow. But I fear the loss ofMoonbeam will put him terribly out, and I should be obliged ifyou could find some way of restoring his horse when his purposeis served. As for myself, I propose leaving this hospitable houseno later than to-morrow and journeying north into Derbyshire. Iwill take Mr Johnson with me as company and protector, and I havealso my servants from Weston."

She spoke with the air of a commander-in-chief, an air somature and mistressly that it betrayed her utter youth.

"I am most deeply beholden to you, my lady," said Alastair."You know something of me, and I will beg in return some news ofmy benefactress. You are my lady Norreys?"

The matronly airs fled and she was a shy child again.

"I am m-my lady," she stammered, "this week back. How did youknow, sir? The faithful Puffin? My dear Sir John has gone northto join his Prince, by whose side you will doubtless meet him.Tell him I too have done my humble mite of service to the Cause,and that I am well, and happy in all things but his absence. . .. See, I have written him a little letter which will serveequally to present you to him and to assure him of my love. He isone of you--one of the trusted inner circle, I mean." She loweredher voice. "He bears the name ofAchilles."

The hazel eyes had ceased to sparkle and become modest anddim.

"Tell me one thing, my lady, before I go. My mission to theSouth was profoundly secret, and not four men in the Prince'sarmy knew of it. Yet I find myself and my doings set forth in ajustice's warrant as if I had cried them in the streets. There isa traitor abroad and if he goes undetected he spells ruin to ourCause. Can you help me to unearth him?"

She wrinkled her brows and narrowed her startled eyes.

"I cannot guess. Save you and Sir John I have seen noprofessor of our faith. Stay, who was the mummer last night inthe Justice Room?"

"Some common jackal of Hanover. No, the danger is not there.But, madam, you have a quick brain and a bold heart. If you canlay your finger on this fount of treason, you will do a noblework for our Prince. Have you the means to send a message to theNorth?"

She nodded. "Assuredly--by way of Sir John. . . . But you muststart forthwith, sir. I will take your mails into Derbyshire inmy charge, for you must ride fast and light. Now, follow me, andtread softly when I lift my hand."

Down the long stone stairs the lantern fluttered, and at acorner the man who followed caught a glimpse of bare rosy anklesabove the furred slippers. In the manor galleries, where oakenflooring creaked, a hand was now and then raised to advisecaution. Once there came the slamming of a door, and thelantern-bearer froze into stillness behind an armoire, whileAlastair, crouched beside her, felt the beating of her heart. Butwithout mishap they reached the Great Hall, where the last redembers crackled fitfully and a cricket ticked on the hearthstone.Through a massive door they entered another corridor and the girlwhistled long and soft. The answer was a crack of light from aside door, and Giles appeared, cloaked like a conspirator andcarrying a pewter candlestick. Gone was the decorum of the butlerwho had set the stage in the Justice Room, and it was a nervousfurtive old serving-man who received the girl's instructions.

"Oh, my lady, I'm doing this for your mother's sake, her as Iused to make posies for when I was no more'n buttery lad. But myknees do knock together cruel, for what Squire would say if heknew makes my blood freeze to think on."

"Now, don't be a fool, Giles. I can manage your master, andyou have nothing to do but lead this gentleman to the Yew Avenue,and then back to your bed with a clear conscience."

She laid a hand on the young man's arm--the gesture with whicha boy encourages a friend.

"Adieu, sir, and I pray God that He lead you swift andstraight to your journey's end. I will be in Derbyshire--atBrightwell under the Peak, waiting to bid you welcome when youcome south to the liberation of England." He took her hand,kissed it, and, with a memory of wistful eyes and little curlsthat strayed from her cap's lace and satin, he followed thebutler through the kitchen postern into the gloom of thenight.

A short and stealthy journey among shrubberies brought them toa deeper blackness which proved to be a grove of yews. Somethingscraped and rustled close ahead, and the hoarse whisper of Gilesreceived a hoarse answer. The night was not so dark as to hideobjects outside the shade of the trees, and on a patch of grassAlastair made out a horse with a man beside it. Bill thestableman put the bridle into his hand, after making certain by aword with Giles that he was the person awaited. Alastair found aguinea for each, and before their muttered thanks were done wasin the saddle, moving, as he had been instructed, into theblackness of the great avenue.

The light mouth, the easy paces, the smooth ripple of muscleunder his knees told him that he was mounted on no common horse,but his head was still too full of his late experience to be veryobservant about the present. The nut-brown girl, the melodiousvoice with a stammer like a break in a nightingale's song, seemedtoo delicious and strange for reality. And yet she was flesh andblood; he had felt her body warm against his when they shelteredbehind the armoire: it was her doing that he was now at libertyand posting northward. Now he understood Mr Johnson's devotion.To serve such a lady he would himself scale the blue air andplough the high hills, as the bards sang.

The bemusement took him down the avenue till the trees thinnedout and on the right came the ghostly glimmer of a white gate. Heturned and found it open, and by it another horseman.

"The gentleman from Miss Claudy--beg y'r pardon--from m'lady?"a voice asked.

"The same," Alastair replied. The speech was that of the gypsyhe had met the day before.

The man shut the gate with his whip. "Then follow me close andnot a cheep o' talk. We've some cunning and fast journeying to dobefore the day breaks."

They swept at a canter down a long lane, deeply rutted, andpatched here and there with clumps of blackberries. Then theywere on a heath, where the sky was lighter and the road had to becarefully picked round sandpits and quarry-holes. Alastair had noguess at direction, for the sky showed never a star, and thoughthe dark was not impenetrable it was hopeless to look forlandmarks. A strange madcap progress they made over every kind ofcountry, now on road, now in woodland, now breasting slopes ofheath with the bracken rubbing on the stirrups. Oftenest theywere in forest land, where sometimes there was no path andAlastair found it best to give his horse its head and suffer itto do the steering. He had forgotten that England could be sowild, for these immense old boles and the miles of thicket andmere belonged surely to a primeval world. Again the course wouldbe over fallow and new plough, and again in lanes and parishroads and now and then on the turnpike. The pace was easy--alight canter, but there were no halts, and always ahead overhedge and through gap went the slim figure of the gypsy.

The air was chilly but not cold, and soon the grey cloth ofdarkness began to thin till it was a fine veil dimming but nothiding objects, and the light wind blew which even on thestillest night heralds the dawn. The earth began to awake, lightskindled in farms and cottages, lanterns flickered aroundsteadings. Movement through this world just struggling out ofsleep was a joy and an exhilaration. It reminded Alastair of awinter journey from Paris to Beauvais--part of a Prince'swager--when with relays of horses he had ridden down the night,through woods and hamlets dumb with snow, intoxicated with hisyouth, and seeing mystery in every light that glimmered out ofthe dark. Now he was in the same mood. His spirits rose at thesigns of awaking humanity. That lantern by a brook was a shepherdpulling hay for the tups now huddled in the sheep-cote. The lightat that window was the goodwife grilling bacon for the farmer'sbreakfast, or Blowselinda of the Inn sweeping the parlour afterthe night's drinking. And through that homely ritual of morn hewas riding north to the Wars which should upturn thrones and makenobles of plain captains. Youth! Romance! And somewhere in thebackground of his brain a voice sounded like a trill of music."Adieu, sir. I pray God . . . I go to B-Brightwell under theP-Peak . . ."

The light had grown and he had his first view of Black Ben,and Ben of him. They jostled at a gate and stared at eachother.

"We meet again," he said.

"Happy meeting, my dear good gentleman. But you were on adifferent errand yesterday when my duty drove me the way of hotashes. No offence took along of a poor man's honesty, kindsir?"

"None," said Alastair. He saw now the reason for the gypsy'spresence with the recruits. He was in Jacobite pay, hired toscatter Oglethorpe's levies and so reduce Wade's command. Butnone the less he disliked the man--his soft sneering voice, andthe shifty eyes which he remembered from yesterday.

It was now almost broad day, about eight in the morning, andAlastair reckoned that they must have travelled twenty miles andbe close on the Cheshire border. The country wasfeatureless--much woodland interspersed with broad pastures, andfar to the east a lift of ground towards a range of hills. Theweather was soft and clear, a fine scenting morning for the hunt,and far borne on the morning air came the sound of a horn.

The gypsy seemed to be at fault. He stopped and considered fora matter of five minutes with his ear cocked. Then he plungedinto a copse and emerged in a rushy bottom between high woods.Here the sound of the horn was heard again, apparently from theslopes at the end of the bottom.

"The turnpike runs yonder at the back of the oak clump," hesaid. "Best get to it by the brook there and the turf bridge. Imust leave you, pretty gentleman. You take the left turn and holdon, and this night you will sleep in Warrington."

They were jogging towards the brook when Alastair took a fancyto look back, and saw between the two woods a tiny landscapeneatly framed in the trees. There was a church tower in it, andan oddly shaped clump of ashes. Surely it was familiar.

Across the brook the hunting horn sounded again, this timefrom beyond a spinney at the top of the slope.

"There lies your road, pretty sir," and the gypsy pointed tothe left of the spinney and wheeled his horse to depart.

But Alastair was looking back again. The higher ground of theslope gave him a wider prospect, and he saw across one of theenclosing woods the tall chimneys of a great house. That did notdetain his eye, which was caught by something beyond. There on alow ridge was sprawled a big village with square-towered churchand a blur of smoke above the line of houses. England must be amonotonous land, for this village of Cheshire was the very imageof Flambury, and the adjacent mansion might have been SquireThicknesse's manor.

At the same moment the music of hounds crashed from thespinney ahead, and a horn was violently blown. Round the edge ofthe spinney came the hunt, and the pack was spilled out of itsshade like curds from a broken dish. The sight, novel in hisexperience, held him motionless. He saw the huntsman strugglingwith outrunners, and the field, urged on by the slope, crowdingon the line. In the rear he saw a figure which was uncommonlylike the magistrate who had presided last night in theJustice-room. As he observed these things he realised that histwenty miles of the morning had been a circuit, and that he wasback now at the starting-point, mounted on a stolen horse, andwithin a hundred yards of the horse's owner. The gypsy had setspurs to his beast and was disappearing round the other end ofthe spinney, and even in the hubbub of the hunt he thought hedetected the man's mocking laugh.

To hesitate was to be lost, and there was but the one courseopen. A tawny streak had slid before the hounds towards thebrook. That must be the fox, and if he were not to become thequarry in its stead he must join in the chase. The huntsman wassoon twenty yards from him, immediately behind the hounds, andfifty yards at his back came the van of the field. In that van hecould see Squire Thicknesse mounted on a powerful grey, and heseemed to have eyes only for the hounds. Alastair cut in wellbehind him, in the hope that he would be taken for a straggler atcovert-side, and in three seconds was sweeping forward in thesecond flight.

The morning's ride had been for Moonbeam no more than ajourney to the meet, and the beautiful animal now laid back hisears and settled down to his share in that game which heunderstood as well as any two-legged mortal. But in the veryperfection of the horse lay the rider's peril. Moonbeam wasaccustomed to top the hunt, for Squire Thicknesse was famed overthree shires as a good goer. He would not be content to travel afield or two behind hounds; he must keep them company. Alastairfound that no checking could restrain his mount. The animal waslightly bitted and he had not the skill or the strength to holdhim back. True, he could have swerved and fetched a wide circuit,but in that first rush these tactics did not suggest themselves,and he set himself to a frantic effort at reining in, in which hewas worsted. Moonbeam crossed the brook like a swallow; in aboggy place he took off badly, topped an ox-bar in the hedge, andall but fell on his nose in the next meadow. But after that hemade no mistake, and in five minutes Alastair found himselflooking from ten yards' distance at the broad back of thehuntsman, with no rider near him except Squire Thicknesse on thegrey.

The going was good over old pasture, and the young man hadleisure to recover his breath and consider his position. He hadhunted buck in France--stately promenades in the forests ofFontainebleau and Chantilly, varied by mad gallops along grassyrides where the only risk was the cannoning with other cavaliers.But this chase of the fox was a very different matter, the gloryof it went to his head like strong wine, and he would not havecried off if he could. So far he was undiscovered. Were the fumesof last night's revel still in the Squire's head, or had he nevermeant to ride Moonbeam that day and his groom kept the loss fromhim? Crossing a thickset hedge neck by neck, Alastair stole aglance at him, and decided that the former explanation was thetrue one. His late host was still in the process of growingsober. . . . It could not last for ever. Sooner or later mustcome a check or a kill, when he would have a chance to look athis neighbour and his neighbour's horse. . . . Then he must ridefor it, become himself the fox, and trust to Moonbeam. Pray Godthat the run took them to the north and ended many miles fromFlambury.

For the better part of an hour hounds ran without acheck--away from the enclosed fields and the woodlands to acountry of furzy downs and bracken-filled hollows, and then oncemore into a land of tangled thickets. It took about twentyminutes to clear Squire Thicknesse's brain. Alastair heard asudden roar behind him and looked over his shoulder to see afurious blue eye fixed on him, and to hear a bellow of--"Damme,it's my horse. It's my little Moonbeam!" He saw a whip raised,and felt it swish a foot from his leg. There was nothing for itbut to keep his distance from the wrathful gentleman, and sogallantly did Moonbeam respond that he was presently at thehuntsman's elbow.

Had he known it, the grey was the faster of the two, thoughlacking Moonbeam's sweet paces and lionlike heart. His enemy wasup on him at once, and it looked as if there was nothing beforehim but to override hounds. But the discipline of the sport wasstronger than a just wrath. The Squire took a pull on the greyand drew back. He was biding his time.

Alastair seized the first chance, which came when hounds wereengulfed in a wide wood of oaks on the edge of a heath. Takingadvantage of a piece of thick cover, he caught Moonbeam by thehead and swung him down a side glade. Unfortunately he wasobserved. An oath from Squire Thicknesse warned him that thatsportsman had forgone the pleasure of being in at the death forthe satisfaction of doing justice on a horse-thief.

Now there was no hunt etiquette to be respected. The grey'shooves spurned the rotten woodland turf, and pursuer and pursuedcrashed into a jungle of dry bulrushes and sallows. Alastair wassaved by the superior agility of his horse, which could swerveand pivot where the heavier grey stumbled. He gained a yard ortwo, then a little more by a scramble through a gap, and a crazyscurry down a rabbit track. . . . He saw that his only chance wasto slip off, for Moonbeam had the madness of the chase on him,and if left riderless would rejoin the hounds. So when he hadgained some forty yards and was for the moment out of theSquire's sight, he took his toes from the stirrups and flunghimself into a bed of bracken. He rolled over and over into adell, and when he came to a halt and could look up he saw thegrey's stern disappearing round the corner, and heard far off theswish and crash of Moonbeam's flight.

Not a second was to be lost, for the Squire would soon seethat the rider had gone and turn back in the search for him.Alastair forced his stiff legs to a run, and turned in thedirection which he thought the opposite of that taken by hounds.Up a small path he ran, among a scrub of hazels and down into adesert of red bracken and sparse oak trees. The noises in thewood grew fainter, and soon his steps were the loudest sound, hissteps and the heavy flight of an occasional scared pigeon. He rantill he had put at least a mile of rough land behind him, and hadcrossed several tracks, which would serve to mislead the pursuit.Lacking a bloodhound, it would not be easy to follow his trail.Then in a broader glade he came upon a thatched hovel, such asforesters and charcoal-burners use when they have business abroadin the night hours.

Alastair crept up to it cautiously, and through a cracksurveyed the interior. His face hardened and an odd light cameinto his eye. He strode to the door and pushed the crazy thingopen.

Within, breakfasting on a hunch of bread and cheese, sat theman Edom, Mr Kyd's servant.

The face before him had the tightened look of a suddensurprise: then it relaxed into recognition; but it showed nofear, though the young man's visage was grim enough.

"You are Mr Kyd's servant?"

"Your honour has it. I'm Edom Lowrie at your honour'sservice."

"Your master started yesterday for Wiltshire. Why are you notwith him?"

The man looked puzzled.

"Ye're mista'en, sir. My master came here yestereen. I lefthim at skreigh o' day this morning."

It was Alastair's turn to stare. Kyd had lied to him, thinkingit necessary to deceive him about his road--scurvy conduct,surely, between servants of the same cause. Or perhaps thisfellow Edom was lying. He looked at him and saw no hint ofdouble-dealing in the plain ugly face. His sandy eyebrows wereindistinguishable from his freckled forehead and gave him an airof bald innocence, his pale eyes were candid and good-humoured,the eaves of his great teeth were comedy itself. The moreAlastair gazed the harder he found it to believe that this rusticzany had betrayed him. But what on earth was Kyd about?

"Where is your master now?" he asked.

The other took off his hat and scratched his head. "I wadnalike to say, sir. You see he telled me little, forbye sayin' thathe wadna see me again for the best pairt o' a month. I jalousemysel' that he's gone south, but he micht be for Wales."

"Were you in Flambury last night?"

The man looked puzzled till Alastair explained. "Na, na, I wasin nae village. I had a cauld damp bed in a bit public. Mymaister wasna there, but he appeared afore I was out o' theblankets, a' ticht and trim for the road, and gied me mymarching-orders. I was to traivel the woods on foot, and no getmysel' a horse till I won to a place they ca' Camley."

"Are you for Scotland?"

"Nae sic fortune. I'm for the Derbyshire muirs wi' letters."He hesitated. "Your honour's no gaun that road yoursel'? I wad beblithe o' company."

The light in the hut was too dim to see clearly, for there wasno window, the door was narrow and the day was sullen.

"Step outside, Mr Lowrie, till I cast an eye over you," saidAlastair.

The man pocketed the remains of his bread and cheese andshambled into the open. He wore a long horseman's coat and boots,a plain hat without cocks, and carried a stout hazelriding-switch. He looked less like a lackey than some smallyeoman of the Borders, habited for a journey to Carlisle or StBoswell's Fair.

"You know who I am," said Alastair. "You are aware that likeyour master I am in a certain service, and that between him andme there are no secrets."

"Aye, sir. I ken that ye're Captain Maclean, and a gude Scot,though ower far north o' Forth for my ain taste, if your honourwill forgie me."

"You carry papers? I must know more of your journey. What isyour goal?"

"A bit the name o' Brightwell near a hill they ca' thePeak."

Alastair had not been prepared for this, had had no glimmeringof a suspicion of it, and the news decided him.

"It is of the utmost importance that I see your papers. Yourmaster, if he were here now, would consent."

The man's face flushed. "I kenna how that can be. Your honourwadna have me false to my trust."

"You will not be false. You travel on a matter of the Prince'sinterest, as I do, and I must know your errand fully in order toshape my own course. Your master and I have equal rank in HisHighness's councils."

The other shook his head, as if perplexed. "Nae doot--naedoot. But, ye see, sir, I've my orders, and I maun abide by them.'Pit thae letters,' my maister says, 'intil the hand of him yeken o' and let naebody else get a glisk o' them.'"

"Then it is my duty to take them by force," said Alastair,showing the hilt of his sword and the butt of a pistol under hiscoat.

Edom's face cleared.

"That is a wiser-like way o' speakin'. If ye compel me I maune'en submit, for ye're a gentleman wi' a sword and I'm a landwardbody wi' nocht but a hazel wand. It's no that I mistrust yourhonour, but we maun a' preserve the decencies."

He unbuttoned his coat, foraged in the recesses of his person,and from some innermost receptacle extracted a packet tied with adozen folds of cobbler's twine. There was no seal to break, andAlastair slit the knots with his sword. Within was a bunch ofpapers of the same type as those he had received from BrotherGilly, and burned in the fire of the Dog and Gun. These he put inhis pocket for further study. "I must read them carefully, forthey contain that which must go straight to the Prince's ear," hetold the perplexed messenger.

But there was a further missive, which seemed to be a shortpersonal note from Mr Kyd to the recipient of the papers.

"Dear Achilles," it ran."Affairs march smoothly andthe tide SETS well to bring you to Troy town, where presently Idesign to crack a bottle and exchange tales. The Lady Briseispurposes to join you and will not be dissuaded by her kinsman. Afriendly word:mix caution with your ardour her-ward, forshe has got a political enthusiasm and is devilish strong-headed.The news of the Marches and the West will travel to you with allexpedition, but I must linger behind to encourage mycorrespondents. Menelaus greets you--a Menelaus that never owneda Helen."

The full sense of the document did not at first reachAlastair's brain. But he caught the word "Achilles," andremembered a girl's whispered confidence the night before. Asecond phrase arrested him--"Briseis"--he remembered enough ofFather Dominic's teaching to identify the reference. ThisNorreys, this husband of the russet lady, was far deeper in thesecrets of the Cause than he had dreamed, if he were thus madethe channel of vital intelligence. He was bidden act cautiouslytowards his new wife, and Mr Kyd, who had heard Johnson'saccusations at Cornbury and said nothing, had all the time beenin league with him. A sudden sense of a vast insecurity overcamethe young man. The ground he trod on seemed shifting sand, andnowhere was there a firm and abiding landmark. And the girl toowas walking in dark ways, and when she thought that she trippedover marble and cedar was in truth skimming the crust ofquicksands. He grew hot with anger.

"Do you know the man to whom these are addressed?" he askedwith stern brows.

Edom grinned.

"I ken how to find him. I'm to speir in certain quarters forane Achilles, and I mind eneuch o' what the Lauder dominie lickitintil me to ken that Achilles was a braw sodger."

"You do not know his name? You never saw him?"

The man shook his head. "I wad like the letters back, sir," hevolunteered warily, for he was intimidated by Alastair's darkforehead.

The latter handed back theAchilles letter, and beganto read more carefully the other papers. Suddenly he raised hishead and listened. The forest hitherto had been still with thestrange dead quiet of a November noon. But now the noise ofhounds was heard again, not half a mile off, as if they werehunting a line in the brushwood. He awoke with a start to thefact of his danger. What better sport for the patrons of theFlambury Hunt than to ride down a Jacobite horse-thief? A vaguefury possessed him against that foolish squire with the cherubicface and the vacant blue eye.

"The hunt is cried after me," he told Edom, "and I take it youtoo have no desire to advertise your whereabouts. For God's sakelet's get out of this place. Where does this road lead?"

Edom's answer was drowned in a hubbub of hounds which seemedto be approaching down the ride from the east. Alastair led theway from the hut up a steepish hill, sparsely wooded with scruboak, in the hope of finding a view-point. Unfortunately at thetop the thicket was densest, so the young man swung himself intoa tree and as quickly as riding-boots would permit sought a coignof vantage in its upper branches. There he had the prospect hewanted--a great circle of rolling country, most of it woodland,but patched with large heaths where gorse-fires were smouldering.The piece of forest in which he sat stretched far to east andwest, but to the north was replaced in less than a mile bypasture and small enclosures. As he looked he saw various thingsto disquiet him. The grassy road they had left was visible forhalf a mile, and down it came horsemen, while at the other endthere seemed to be a picket placed. Worse still, to the north,which was the way of escape he had thought of, there were mountedmen at intervals along the fringe of the trees. The hounds couldbe heard drawing near in the scrub east of the hut, and men'svoices accompanied them. He remembered that they would find thehut door open, see the crumbs of Edom's bread and cheese, and nodoubt discover the track which led up the hill.

He scrambled to the ground, his heart filled with forebodingsand a deep disgust. He, who should long ago have been in thebattle-field among the leaders, was befogged in this remotecountry-side, pursued by yokels, clogged and hampered at everystep, and yet with the most desperate urgency of haste to goadhim forward. His pride was outraged by such squalid ill-fortune.He must get his head from the net which was entangling andchoking him. But for the moment there was nothing for it but tocower like a hare, and somewhere in the deep scrub find ahiding-place. Happily a foxhound was not a bloodhound.

Down the other side of the hill they went, Edom pantingheavily and slipping every second yard. At the bottom they cameon another road running parallel with the first, and were aboutto cross it when a sound from in front gave them pause. Therewere men there, keepers perhaps, beating the undergrowth andwhistling. The two turned to the west and ran down the track,keeping as far as possible in the shadow of the adjacent coppice.A fine rain was beginning, which brought with it a mist thatlowered the range of vision to a few hundred yards. In that layAlastair's one hope. Let the weather thicken and he wouldundertake to elude all the foresters and fox-hunters in England.He cursed the unfamiliar land, which had no hills where fleetnessof foot availed or crags where a bold man could laugh atpursuit.

The place seemed terribly full of folk, as if whole parisheshad emptied their population to beat the covers. Now he realisedthat the mist had its drawbacks as well as its merits, for hemight stumble suddenly into a posse of searchers, and, though hehimself might escape, the clumsier Edom would be taken. He badethe latter choose a line of his own and save himself, as he wasnot the object of the hunt, and owed his chief danger to hiscompany, but this the man steadfastly refused to do. He ploughedstubbornly along in Alastair's wake, wheezing like a bellows.

Then the noises seemed to die down, and the two continued in adripping quiet. It was idle to think of leaving the forest, andthe best that could be done was to find a hiding-place when theywere certain that the pursuit was outdistanced. But this meantdelay, and these slow rustics might keep up their watch for aweek. . . .

Presently they came to a cross-roads, where a broader path cuttheir ride, and in the centre stood an old rotting stake, wherelong ago some outlaw may have swung. They halted, for Edom hadhis breath to get. He flung himself on the ground, and at thatmoment Alastair caught sight of something tied to the post. Goingnearer, he saw that it was a bunch of broom.

Had his wits not been sharpened by danger and disgust it mighthave had no meaning for him. But as it was, Midwinter's partingwords on Otmoor came back to him, and with it the catch which hehad almost forgotten. As Edom lay panting, he shaped his lips towhistle the air. In the quiet the tune rang out clear and shrill,and as he finished there was silence again. Then the bushesparted, and a man came out.

He was a charcoal-burner, with a face like an Ethiopian, andred sore eyes curiously ringed about with clean white skin.

"Ye have the tune, master," he said. "What be your commandsfor the Spoonbills? Folks be huntin' these woods, and maybe it'syou as they're seekin'."

"The place is surrounded," said Alastair, "and they arebeating the covers between the rides. Get us out, or show us howwe can be hid."

The man did not hesitate. "Escape's better'n hidin'," he said."Follow me, sirs, and I'll do my best for ye."

He led them at a great pace some two hundred yards into a tinydell. There a glaze hung in the dull air from a charcoal-oven,which glowed under a mound of sods. Neat piles of oak and birchbillets stood around, and the shafts of a cart stuck up out ofthe long bracken. On one side an outcrop of rock made a finewind-shelter, and, pushing aside the creepers which veiled it,the charcoal-burner revealed a small cave.

"Off with your clothes, sirs," he said. "They'll be safeenough in that hidy-hole till I gets a chance to return 'em. Themrags is my mates', and in this pickle are better'n finesilks."

Two filthy old smocks were unearthed, and two pairs ofwooden-soled clogs which replaced their boots. The change waseffected swiftly under the constant urging of thecharcoal-burner, who kept his ears cocked and his head extendedlike a dog. In five minutes Alastair was outwardly a figurediffering only in complexion from the master of the dingle. Thenthe latter set to work, and with a handful of hot charcoalsmeared hands and faces, rubbing the dirt into the eye-sockets sothat the eyes smarted and watered. Hats and cravats were left inthe cave, and Alastair's trim hair was roughly clubbed, anddusted with soot for powder. There was no looking-glass to showhim the result, but the charcoal-burner seemed satisfied. Thetransformation was simpler for Edom, who soon to Alastair's eyeslooked as if he had done nothing all his days but tend a smokyfurnace.

"I'll do the talking if we happen to meet inquiring folk," thecharcoal-burner admonished them. "Look sullen and keep your eyeson the ground, and spit--above all, spit. Ours is a drytrade."

He led them back to the main ride, and then boldly along theroad which pointed north. The forest had woke up, and there weresounds of life on every side. The hounds had come out of covertand were being coaxed in again by a vociferous huntsman. Echoesof "Sweetlip," "Rover," "Trueman," mingled with sundry oaths,came gustily down the wind. Someone far off blew a hornincessantly, and in a near thicket there was a clamour of voiceslike those of beaters after roebuck. The three men trampedstolidly along, the two novices imitating as best they could theangular gait, as of one who rarely stretched his legs, and theblindish carriage of the charcoal-burner.

A knot of riders swept down on them. Alastair ventured to lifthis eyes for one second, and saw the scarlet and plum colour ofSquire Thicknesse and noted the grey's hocks. The legs finickingand waltzing near them he thought belonged to Moonbeam, and wasglad that the horse had been duly caught and restored. The Squireasked a question of the charcoal-burner and was answered in adialect of gutturals. Off surged the riders, and presently thethree were at the edge of the trees where a forester's cottagesmoked in the rain. Beyond, wrapped in a white mist, stretchedploughland and pasture.

Alastair saw that his tree-top survey had been right. Thisedge of the wood was all picketed, and as the three emerged akeeper in buckskin breeches came towards them, and a man onhorseback turned at his cry and cantered back.

The keeper did not waste time on them, once he had a nearview.

"Yah!" he said, "it's them salvages o' coalies. They ain't goteyes to obsarve nothin', pore souls! 'Ere, Billy," he cried,"seen any strange gen'elmen a-wanderin' the woods thismorning?"

The charcoal-burner stopped, and the two others formed upsullenly behind him.

"There wor a fallow-buck a routin' round my foorness," hegrumbled in a voice as thick as clay. "Happen it come to some'urt, don't blame me, gossip. Likewise there's a badger as ismakin' an earth where my birch-faggots should lie. That's all thestrange gen'elmen I seen this marnin', barrin' a pack o'red-coats a-gallopin' 'orses and blowin' 'orns."

The rider had now arrived and was looking curiously at thethree. The keeper in corduroy breeches turned laughing to him."Them coalies is pure salvages, Mr Gervase, sir. Brocks andbucks, indeed, when I'm inquirin' for gen'elmen. Gawd A'mightymade their 'eads as weak as their eyes."

What answer the rider gave is not known, for thecharcoal-burners had already moved forward. They crossed a pieceof plough and reached a shallow vale seamed by a narrow stagnantbrook. Here they were in shelter, and to Alastair's surprisetheir leader began to run. He took them at a good pace up thewater till it was crossed by a high-road, then along a by-path,past a farm-steading, to a strip of woodland, which presentlyopened out into a wide heath. Here in deference to Edom's heavingchest he slackened pace. The rain was changing from a drizzle toa heavy downpour and the faces of the two amateurs were becominga ghastly piebald with the lashing of the weather.

The charcoal-burner turned suddenly to Alastair and spoke in avoice which had no trace of dialect.

"You have escaped one danger, sir. I do not know who you maybe or what your desires are, but I am bound to serve you as faras it may lie in my power. Do you wish me to take you to mymaster?"

"I could answer that better, if I knew who he was."

"We do not speak his name at large, but in a month's time thefestival of his name-day will return."

Alastair nodded. The thought of Midwinter came suddenly to himwith an immense comfort. He, if anyone could, would help him outof this miasmic jungle in which his feet were entangled and sethim again upon the highway. His head was still confused with thepuzzle of Kyd's behaviour.--Edom's errand, the exact part playedby Sir John Norreys, above all the presence of a subtle treason.He remembered the deep eyes and the wise brow of the fiddler ofOtmoor, and had he not that very day seen a proof of hispower?

The heath billowed and sank into ridges and troughs, waterlessand furze-clad, and in one of the latter they came suddenly upona house. It was a small place, built with its back to a steepridge all overgrown with blackberries and heather--two storieshigh, and flanked by low thatched outbuildings, and a pretence ata walled garden. On the turf before the door, beside an ancientwell, a sign on a pole proclaimed it the inn of The Merry Woman,but suns and frosts had long since obliterated all trace of therejoicing lady, though below it and more freshly painted wassomething which might have resembled a human eye.

The three men lounged into the kitchen, which was an appanageto the main building, and called for ale. It was brought by alittle old woman in a mutch, who to Alastair's surprise curtseyedto the grimy figure of the charcoal-burner.

"He's alone, sir," she said, "and your own room's waiting ifyou're ready for it."

"Will you go up to him?" the charcoal-burner asked, andAlastair followed the old woman. She led the way up a narrowstaircase with a neat sheepskin rug on each tread, to a tinycorridor from which two rooms opened. The one on the left theyentered and found an empty bedroom, cleanly and plainlyfurnished. A door in the wall at the other end, concealed by ahanging cupboard, gave access to a pitch-dark passage. The womantook Alastair's hand and led him a yard or two till she found adoor-handle. It opened and showed a large chamber with daylightcoming through windows apparently half cloaked with creepers.Alastair realised that the room had been hollowed out of thesteep behind the house, and that the windows opened in the briarsand heath of the face.

A fire was burning and a man sat beside it reading in a book.He was the fiddler of Otmoor, and in the same garb, save that hehad discarded his coat and wore instead a longrobe dechambre. A keen eye scanned the visitor, and then followed asmile and an outstretched hand.

"Welcome, Alastair Maclean," he said. "I heard of you in theseparts and hoped for a meeting."

"From whom?"

"One whom you call the Spainneach. He left me this morning togo into Derbyshire."

The name stirred a question.

"Had he news?" Alastair asked. "When I last saw you youprophesied failure. Are you still of that mind?"

"I do not prophesy, but this I say--that since I saw you yourchances and your perils have grown alike. Your Cause is on therazor-edge and you yourself may have the deciding."

"Yesterday morning your Prince was encamped outside Carlisle.By now the place may have fallen."

"Who told you?" Alastair asked.

"I have my own messengers who journey in Old England," saidMidwinter. "Consider, Captain Maclean. As a bird flies, the placeis not a hundred and fifty miles distant, and no mile is withoutits people. A word cried to a traveller is taken up by anotherand another till the man who rubs down a horse at night in aChester inn-yard will have news of what befell at dawn on theScotch Border. My way is quicker than post-horses. . . . But thename of inn reminds me. You have the look of a fasting man."

Food was brought, and the November brume having fallen thickin the hollow, the windows were curtained, a lamp lit, and freshfuel laid on the fire. Alastair kicked the boots from his wearylegs, and as soon as his hunger was stayed fell to questioninghis host; for he felt that till he could point a finger to thespy who had dogged him he had failed in his duty to the Cause. Hepoured out his tale without reserve.

Midwinter bent his brows and stared into the fire.

"You are satisfied that this servant Edom is honest?" heasked.

"I have observed him for half a day and the man is as much inthe dark as myself. If he is a rogue he is a master indissimulation. But I do not think so."

"Imprimis, you are insulted in the Flambury inn bythose who would fasten a quarrel on you.Item, you arearrested and carried before this man Thicknesse, and one dressedlike a mummer presses the accusation.Item, in a warrantyou and your purposes are described with ominous accuracy. Youare likewise this very day tricked by your gypsy guide, but thatconcerns rather my lady Norreys. These misfortunes came upon youafter you had supped with Kyd, and therefore you suspected hisservant, for these two alone in this country-side knew who youwere. A fairly argued case, I concede, and to buttress it Kydappears to have been near Flambury last night, when he professedto be on the road for Wiltshire. But you have ceased to suspectthe servant. What of the master?"

Alastair started. "No, no. That is madness. The man is in thevery heart of the Prince's counsels. He is honest, I swear--he istoo deep committed."

Midwinter nodded. "If he were false, it would indeed go illwith you; for on him, I take it, depends the rising of Wales andthe Marches. He holds your Prince in the hollow of his hand. Andif all tales be true the omens there are happy."

Alastair told of the message from Brother Gilly, and, suddenlyremembering Edom's papers, drew them from his pocket, and readthem again by the firelight. Here at last was news from Badmintonand from Monmouth and Hereford: and at the foot, in the cypherwhich was that most commonly used among the Jacobites, was afurther note dealing with Sir Watkin Wynn. The writer hadconcerted with him a plan, by which the Welsh levies should marchstraight through Gloucester and Oxfordshire to cut in betweenCumberland and the capital. To Alastair, the thing was provedauthentic beyond doubt, for it bore the pass-word which had beenagreed between himself and Sir Watkin a week before atWynnstay.

He fell into a muse from which he was roused by Midwinter'svoice.

"Kyd receives messages and forwards them northward, while hehimself remains in the South. By what channel?"

"It would appear by Sir John Norreys, who is now, or soon willbe, at Brightwell under the Peak."

As he spoke the words his suspicions took a new course.Johnson had thought the man a time-server, though he hadyesterday recanted that view. Sir Christopher Lacy at Cornburyhad been positive that he was a rogue. The only evidence to thecontrary was that his wife believed in him, and that he haddeclared his colours by forsaking his bride for the Prince'scamp. But he had not gone to the army, and it would seem that hehad no immediate intention of going there, for according to Edomhe would be at Brightwell during the month; and as for his wife'stestimony, she was only a romantic child. Yet this man was therepository of Kyd's secret information, the use of which meantfor the Prince a kingdom or a beggar's exile. If Kyd weremistaken in him, then the Cause was sold in very truth. But howcame Kyd to be linked with him? How came a young Oxfordshirebaronet, of no great family, and no record of service, to beAchilles of the innermost circle?

He told his companion of his doubts, unravelling each coilcarefully, while the other marked his points with jerks of hispipe-bowl. When he had finished Midwinter kept silent for alittle. Then "You swear by Kyd's fidelity?" he asked.

"God in Heaven, but I must," cried Alastair. "If he is false,I may return overseas to-morrow."

"It is well to test all links in a chain," was the dry answer."But for the sake of argument we will assume him honest. Sir JohnNorreys is the next link to be tried. If he is rotten, then thePrince had better bide north of Ribble, for the Westernauxiliaries will never move. But even if the whole hive be false,there is still hope if you act at once. This is my counsel toyou, Captain Maclean. Write straightway to the Army--choose theman about the Prince who loves you most--and tell him of thegreat things to be hoped for from the West. Name no names, butpromise before a certain date to arrive with full proof, and bidthem hasten south without delay. An invasion needs heartening,and if the worst should be true no word from Kyd is likely toreach the Prince. Hearten him, therefore, so that he marches tomeet you. That is the first thing. The second is that you goyourself into Derbyshire to see this Sir John Norreys. If he betrue man you will find a friend; if not you may be in time toundo his treason."

The advice was what had dimly been shaping itself inAlastair's own mind. His ardour to be back with the Army, whichfor days had been a fever in his bones, had now changed to anequal ardour to solve the riddle which oppressed him. Midwinterwas right; the Cause was on a razor edge and with him might liethe deciding. . . . There was black treachery somewhere, and farmore vital for the Prince than any victory in Scotland was thekeeping the road open for West England to join him. Shadows ofmany reasons flitted across his mind and gave strength to hisresolve. He would see this man Norreys who had won so adorable alady. He would see the lady again, and at the thought somethingrose in his heart which surprised him, for it was almost joy.

"Have you paper and ink?" he asked, and from a cupboardMidwinter produced them and set them before him.

He wrote to Lochiel, who was his kinsman, for though he knewLord George Murray there was a certain jealousy between them.Very roughly he gave the figures which he had gleaned fromBrother Gilly's letter and that taken from Edom. He begged him tomove the Prince to march without hesitation for the capital, andpromised to reach his camp with full information before the monthended. "And the camp will, I trust, be by that time no furtherfrom St James's than--" He asked Midwinter for a suitable place,and was told "Derby." He subscribed himself with the affection ofa kinsman and old playmate of Morvern and Lochaber.

"I will see that it reaches its destination," said Midwinter."And now for the second task. The man Edom is not suspect and cantravel by the high road. I will send him with one who will directhim to my lady Norreys' party, which this day, as you tell me,sets out for Derbyshire. For yourself I counsel a discreeterpart. Mark you, sir, you are sought by sundry gentlemen inFlambury as a Jacobite, and by Squire Thicknesse and his Hunt asa horse-thief. In this land suspicion is slow to waken, but inthe end it runs fast and dies hard. Rumour of your figure, face,clothes, manner and bloodthirsty spirit will have already flownfifty miles. If you would be safe you must sink into OldEngland."

"I will sink into Acheron if it will better my purpose."

Midwinter regarded him critically. "Your modish clothes are inKit's locker, and will duly be sent after you. Now you are theborn charcoal-burner, save that your eyes are too clear and yourfinger nails unscorched. The disguise has served your purposeto-day, but it is too kenspeckle except in great woodlands.Mother Jonnet will find you a better. For the rest I will guideyou, for I have the key."

"Where is this magic country?"

"All around you--behind the brake, across the hedgerow, underthe branches. Some can stretch a hand and touch it--to others itis a million miles away."

"As a child I knew it," said Alastair, laughing. "I called itFairyland."

Midwinter nodded. "Children are free of it, but their eldersmust earn admission. It is a safe land--at any rate it is securefrom common perils."

"But it has its own dangers?"

"It makes a man look into his heart, and he may find that init which destroys him. Also it is ambition's mortal foe. But ifyou walk in it you will come to Brightwell without obstruction,for the King's writ does not run in the greenwood."

"Whose is the law, then?" Alastair asked.

For answer Midwinter went to the window and flung it open. "Myfiddle cannot speak except with free air about it," he said. "Ifany drunken rustic is on the heath he will think the pixies areabroad."

He picked up the violin which had been lying on the tablebehind him, and drew forth a slow broken music, which presentlychanged into a rhythmical air. At first it was like the twangingof fine wires in a wind, mingled with an echo of organ musicheard over a valley full of tree-tops. It was tame and homely,yet with a childish inconsequence in it. Then it grew wilder, andthough the organ notes remained it was an organ that had neversounded within church walls. The tune went with a steady rhythm,the rhythm of growing things in spring, of seasonal changes; butalways ran the undercurrent of a leaping bacchanal madness, oflong wild dances in bare places. The fiddle ceased on a softnote, and the fiddler fell to singing in a voice so low that thewords and air only just rose above the pitch of silence. "Dianaand her darling crew," he sang.

"Diana and her darling crew
   Will pluck your fingers fine,
And lead you forth right pleasantly
   To drink the honey wine,--
To drink the honey wine, my dear,
   And sup celestial air,
And dance as the young angels dance,
   Ah, God, that I were there!"

"Hers is the law," he said. "Diana, or as some say,Proserpina. Old folk call her the Queen of Elfhame. But over youand me, as baptized souls, she has no spell but persuasion. Youcan hear her weeping at midnight because her power is gone."

Then his mood changed. He laid down the fiddle and shouted onMother Jonnet to bring supper. Edom, too, was sent for, andduring the meal was closely catechised. He bore it well,professing no undue honesty beyond a good servant's, but stiff onhis few modest scruples. When he heard Midwinter's plans for him,he welcomed them, and begged that in the choice of a horse hisprecarious balance and round thighs might be charitablyconsidered. Alastair returned him the letter and watched him foldit up with the others and shove it inside his waistcoat. Aprolonged study of that mild, concerned, faintly humorous faceconvinced him that Edom Lowrie was neither fox nor goose. Heretired to bed to dream of Mr Kyd's jolly countenance, which hadmysteriously acquired a very sharp nose.

Edom went off in the early morning in company with the mancalled Kit and mounted on an ambling forest cob whose paces hewhole-heartedly approved. Alastair washed himself like a Brahminin a tub of hot water in the back-kitchen, and dressed himself inthe garments provided by Mother Jonnet--frieze and leather andcoarse woollen stockings and square-toed country shoes. The hazeof yesterday had gone, and the sky was a frosty blue, with asharp wind out of the north-east. He breakfasted with Midwinteroff cold beef and beer and a dish of grilled ham, and then stoodbefore the door breathing deep of the fresh chilly morning. Thechange of garb or the prospect before him had rid him of all thelanguor of the past week. He felt extraordinarily lithe andsupple of limb, as in the old days when he had driven deer on thehills before the autumn dawn. Had he but had the free swing of akilt at his thighs and the screes of Ben Aripol before him hewould have recaptured his boyhood.

Midwinter looked at him with approval.

"You are clad as a man should be for Old England, and you havethe legs for the road we travel. We do not ride, for we go whereno horse can go. Put not your trust in horses, saith theScriptures, which I take to mean that a man in the last resortshould depend on his own shanks. Boot and spur must stick to thepaths, and the paths are but a tiny bit of England. How sits thewind? North by east? There is snow coming, but not in the nextthirty hours, and if it comes, it will not stay us.En avant,mon capitaine."

At a pace which was marvellous for one of his figure,Midwinter led the way over the heath, and then plunged into atangled wood of oaks. He walked like a mountaineer, swinging fromthe hips, the body a little bent forward, and his long evenstrides devoured the ground. Even so, Alastair reminded himself,had the hunters at Glentarnit breasted the hill, while his boyishsteps had toiled in their rear. Sometimes on level ground hewould break into a run, as if his body's vigour needed anoccasional burst of speed to chasten it. The young man exulted inthe crisp air and the swift motion. The stiffness of body andmind which had beset him ever since he left Scotland vanishedunder this cordial, he lost his doubts and misgivings, and feltagain that lifting ardour of the heart which is the glory ofyouth. His feet were tireless, his limbs were as elastic as asword-blade, his breath as deep as a greyhound's. Two daysbefore, jogging in miry lanes, he had seemed caught and stifledin a net; now he was on a hill-top, and free as the wind thatplucked at his hair.

It is probable that Midwinter had for one of his purposes thecreation of this happy mood, for he kept up the pace till aftermidday, when they came to a high deer-fence, beyond whichstretched a ferny park. Here they slackened speed, their facesglowing like coals, and, skirting the park, reached a thatchedhut which smoked in a dell. A woman stood at the door, who at thesight of the two would have retired inside, had not Midwinterwhistled sharply on his fingers. She blinked and shaded her eyeswith her hand against the frosty sunshine; then to Alastair'samazement she curtseyed deep.

Midwinter did not halt, but asked if Jeremy were at the stonepit.

"He be, Master," was her answer. "Will ye stop to breakbread?"

"Nay, Jeremy shall feed us," he cried, and led the way up thedingle where a brook flowed in reedy pools. Presently there was asound of axe-blows, and, rounding a corner, they came on a mancutting poles from a thicket of saplings. Again Midwinterwhistled, and the woodcutter dropped his tool and turned with agrinning face, pulling at his forelock.

Midwinter sat down on a tree-trunk.

"Jeremy, lad, you behold two hungry men waiting to sample theart of the best cook in the Borton Hundreds. Have you thewherewithal, or must we go back to your wife?"

"I has, I surely has," was the answer. "Be pleased to beseated, kind sirs, and Jerry Tusser will have your meat readybefore ye have rightly eased your legs. This way, Master, thisway."

He led them to a pit where a fire burned between three stonesand a kettle bubbled. Plates of coarse earthenware were broughtfrom some hiding-place, and in five minutes Alastair was suppingwith an iron spoon as savoury a stew as he had ever eaten. Thefruits of Jeremy's snares were in it, and the fruits of Jeremy'sold fowling piece, and it was flavoured with herbs whose meritsthe world has forgotten. The hot meal quickened his vigour, andhe was on his feet before Midwinter had done, like a dog eager tobe on the road again.

He heard the man speak low to Midwinter. "Dook o' Kingston'shorse," he heard and a hand was jerked northward.

In the afternoon the way lay across more open country, whichMidwinter seemed to know like the palm of his hand, for he madepoints for some ridge or tree-top, and yet was never held up bybrook or fence or dwelling. The air had grown sharper, cloudswere banking in the east, and a wind was moaning in the tops ofthe high trees. Alastair seemed to have been restored to theclean world of his youth, after long absence among courts andcities. He noted the woodcock flitting between the bracken andthe leafless boughs, and the mallards silently flighting frommere to stubble. A wedge of geese moving south made him turn hisface skyward, and a little later he heard a wild whistle, and sawfar up in the heavens a line of swans. His bodily strength wasgreat as ever, but he had ceased to exult in it, and was ready toobserve and meditate.

A highway cut the forest, and the two behind a bush of boxwatched a company of riders jingle down it. They were rusticfellows, poor horsemen most of them, mounted on every variety ofbeast, and at the head rode a smarter youth, with brand-newholsters out of which peeped the butts of ancient pistols.

"Recruits for the Duke of Kingston," Midwinter whispered."They rendezvous at Nottingham, I hear. Think you they will makea good match of it with your Highland claymores?"

Night fell when they were still in the open, and Midwinter,after halting for a second to take his bearings, led the way to awood which seemed to flow in and out of a shallow vale.

"The night will be cold, Captain Maclean, and a wise man takescomfort when he can find it. I could find you twenty lodgings,but we will take the warmest."

The woodland path ended in a road which seemed to be theavenue to a great house. It was soon very dark, and Alastairheard the rustling of animals which revived some ancestralknowledge, for he could distinguish the different noises whichwere rabbit, badger, stoat and deer. Down the avenue Midwinterled unconcernedly, and then turned off to a group of buildingswhich might have been stables. He bade Alastair wait while hewent forward, and after some delay returned with a man whocarried a lantern. The fellow, seen in the dim light, was fromhis dress an upper servant, and his bearing was in the extremerespectful. He bowed to Alastair, and led them through a gateinto a garden, where their feet rang on flagged stones andrustled against box borders. A mass loomed up on the left whichproved to be a great mansion.

The servant admitted them by a side door, and led them to aroom, where he lit a dozen candles from his lantern, and revealeda panelled octagonal chamber hung with full-length portraits offorbidding gentlemen. There he left them, and when he returned itwas with an elderly butler in undress, who bowed with the samedeferent decorum.

"His lordship has gone since yesterday into Yorkshire, sir,"he informed Midwinter. "I will have the usual rooms made readyfor you at once, and you can sup in my lord's cabinet which isadjacent."

The two travellers soon found themselves warming their feetbefore a bright fire, while some thousands of volumes in calf andvellum looked down on them from the walls. They supped royally,but Alastair was too drowsy for talk, and his body had scarcelytouched the sheets of his bed before he was asleep. He was wokebefore dawn, shaved and dressed by the butler, and givenbreakfast--with China tea in place of beer--in the same cabinet.It was still dark when the first servant of the night beforeconducted them out of the house by the same side door, led themacross the shadowy park, and through a gate in the wall usheredthem out to a dusky common, where trees in the creeping lightstood up like gibbets. Midwinter led off at a trot, and at a trotthey crossed the common and put more than one little valleybehind them, so that when day dawned fully there was no sign inall the landscape of their night's lodging.

"Whose was the house?" Alastair asked, and was told--"We nameno names in Old England."

The second day was to Alastair like the first for joy in themovement of travel, but the weather had grown bitterly cold andunfallen snow was heavy in the leaden sky. The distances werestill clear, and though all the morning the road seemed to lie inhollows and dales, yet he had glimpses in the north of high blueridges. Other signs told him that he was nearing the hills. Thestreams ceased to be links of sluggish pools, and chattered inrapids. He saw a water ouzel with its white cravat flash from thecover of a stone bridge. A flock of plovers which circled overone heath proved to be not green but golden. He told this toMidwinter, who nodded and pointed to a speck in the sky.

"There is better proof," he said.

The bird dropped closer to earth, and showed itself as neithersparrow-hawk nor kestrel, but merlin.

"We are nearing the hills," he said, "but Brightwell is far upthe long valleys. We will not reach it before to-morrownight."

Just at the darkening the first snow fell. They weredescending a steep boulder-strewn ridge to a stream of some size,which swirled in icy grey pools. Above them hung a tree-crownedhill now dim with night, and ere they reached the cover on itscrest the flakes were thick about them. Midwinter grunted, andbroke into a trot along the ridge. "Ill weather," he croaked,"and a harder bed than yestereen. We'll have to make shift withtinkler's fare. They told me at Harrowden that Job Lee's packwere in the Quarters Wood, and Job has some notion ofhospitality. Job it must be, for the snow is fairly come."

In a broad coombe on the sheltered side of the ridge they camepresently on a roaring fire of roots with three tents beside it,so placed that they were free alike from wind and smoke. The snowwas falling hard, and beginning to drift, when Midwinter strodeinto the glow, and the man he called Job Lee--a long man withuntied hair brushing his shoulders and a waistcoat of dyeddeerskin--took his right hand between both of his and carried itto his lips. The newcomers shook themselves like dogs and wereallotted one of the tents, thereby ousting two sleeping childrenwho staggered to the hospitality of their father's bed. Theysupped off roast hare and strong ale, and slept till the wintrysun had climbed the Derbyshire hills and lit a world allvirgin-white.

"The Almighty has sent a skid for our legs," Midwintermuttered as he watched the wet logs hiss in Job Lee's morningfire. "We can travel slow, for the roads will be heavy for mylady." So they did not start till the forenoon was well advanced,and as soon as possible exchanged the clogged and slipperyhillside for a valley road. A wayside inn gave them a scrag ofboiled mutton for dinner, and thereafter they took a short cutover a ridge of hill to reach the dale at whose head lay thehouse of Brightwell. On the summit they halted to reconnoitre,for the highway was visible there for many miles.

Just below them at the road side, where a tributary waybranched off, stood an inn of some pretensions, whose sign wasdeciphered by Alastair's hawk eyes as a couchant stag. Fresh snowwas massing on the horizon, but for the moment the air wasdiamond clear. There had been little traffic on the road sincemorning and that only foot passengers, with one horse's trackscoming down the valley. These tracks did not pass the door,therefore the horseman must be within. There were no signs of acoach's wheels, so Lady Norreys had not yet arrived. He liftedhis eyes and looked down the stream. There, a mile or so distant,moved a dark cluster, a coach apparently and attendantriders.

The snow was on them again and Alastair bowed his head to theblast. "They will lie at that inn," said Midwinter. "Brightwellis half a dozen miles on, and the road is dangerous. You will, ofcourse, join them. I will accompany you to the door and leaveyou, for I have business in Sherwood that cannot wait."

Again Alastair peered through the snow. He saw a man come outof the inn door as in a great hurry, mount a waiting horse, andclatter off up the vale--a tall man in a horseman's cloak with ahigh collar. Then a little later came the vanguard of theapproaching party to bespeak quarters. The two men watched tillthe coach came abreast the door, and a slender hooded figurestepped from it. Then they began to make their way down thehillside.

The whole staff of the Sleeping Deer were around the door whenmy lady Norreys, making dainty grimaces at the weather, trippedover the yards of snow-powdered cobbles between the step of hercoach and the comfortable warmth of the inn. The landlord,ill-favoured and old, was there with his bow, and the landlady,handsome and not yet forty, with her curtsey, and in the gallerywhich ran round the stone-flagged hall the chambermaid tribe ofDollys and Peggys clustered to regard the newcomer, for prettyyoung ladies of quality did not lie every night at a moorlandhostelry. But the lady would not tarry to warm her toes by thegreat fire or to taste the landlady's cordials. A fire had beenbespoke in her bedchamber and there she retired to drink tea,which her woman, Mrs Peckover, made with the secret airs of aplotter in the sanctum beside the bar. The two servants fromWeston attended the coach in the inn-yard. Mr Edom Lowriecomforted himself with a pot of warm ale, while Mr SamuelJohnson, finding a good fire in the parlour, removed his shoes,and toasted at the ribs his great worsted stocking soles.

Twenty minutes later, when the bustle had subsided, twounassuming travellers appeared below the signboard on which mightbe seen the fresh-painted gaudy lineaments of a couching fallowdeer. The snow was now falling thick, and the wind had risen sothat the air was one wild scurry and smother. Midwinter marchedstraight for the sanctum, and finding it empty but for MrsPeckover, continued down a narrow passage, smelling of onions, toa little room which he entered unbidden. There sat the landlordwith horn spectacles on his nose, making a splice of a trout rod.At the sight of Midwinter he stood to attention, letting all hisparaphernalia of twine and wax and tweezers slip to thefloor.

"I have brought a friend," said Midwinter. "See that youentreat him well and do his biddings as if they were my own. Formyself I want a horse, friend Tappet, for snow or no I must sleepin the next shire."

So as Alastair was changing into his own clothes, which thelandlord fetched for him from Edom, he saw from his window in thelast faint daylight a square cloakless figure swing from the yardat a canter and turn south with the gale behind it.

The young man had now secured all his belongings, some havingcome with Edom by grace of the charcoal-burner and the rest fromSquire Thicknesse's manor in the lady's charge. As he dressed,his mind was busy on his old problem, and he had sadly to confessthat though he had covered much country in recent days he had gotlittle new light. More than once he had tried to set Midwinter'smind to work on it, but, beyond his advice to come to Brightwell,he had shown no interest. Why should he, Alastair reflected,since his creed forswore all common loyalties? But as he hadplodded up and down the foothills that day his thoughts had beenrunning chiefly on the lady's husband whom she believed to be nowwith the Prince, but who most certainly was, or was about to be,in the vicinity of Brightwell. For what purpose? To receive aletter from Edom--a continuing correspondence, sent by Kyd, andcharged with the most desperate import to the Prince--acorrespondence which should be without delay in the Prince'shands. What did Sir John Norreys in the business? Why did Kydsend the letters by Brightwell, which was not the nearest road toLancashire?

As he came downstairs he noticed a map hanging on a panelbetween prints of the new gardens at Chatsworth and the oldMarquis of Granby. It was a Dutch thing, drawn by Timothy Hooge ahundred years before, and it showed all the southern part of thePeak country, with fragments of Yorkshire, Notts andStaffordshire adjoining. It was hard to read, for it had beenpasted on a wooden board and then highly varnished, but the mainroads were strongly marked in a purplish red. He saw the roadfrom the north-west descend the valleys to Derby and so toLondon, the road from Manchester and Lancashire which thePrince's army would travel. With some trouble he found Brightwelland to his surprise saw the road which passed it marked withequal vigour, as if it vied with the other in importance. Amoment's reflection told him the reason. It was the main way fromthe West. By this road must come the levies from Wales if theywere to join the Prince before he reached Derby and the flatcountry. By this road, too, must all messages come from WestEngland so soon as the army left Manchester. More, the Hanoverianforces were gathering in Nottinghamshire. If they sought to cutin in the Prince's rear they would march this way. . . .Brightwell was suddenly revealed as a point of strategy, aganglion; if treachery were abroad, here it would roost.

He walked into the kitchen, for he had an odd fancy about thehorseman whom he had seen ride away a little before Lady Norreys'arrival--an incredible suspicion which he wished to lay. Akitchen wench was busy at the fire, and on a settle a stablemansat drinking beer while a second stamped the snow from his bootsat the back door. The appearance of a dapper gentleman in buckledshoes and a well-powdered wig so startled the beer-drinker thathe spilled half his mug on the floor. Alastair ordered freshsupplies for all three and drank his on the seat beside theothers. Had they been in the yard all afternoon? They had, andhad prophesied snow since before breakfast, though Masterwouldn't have it so and had sent the waggons to Marlock, wherethey would be storm-stayed. . . . Yes. A rider had come down thevalley and had put up his horse for the better part of an hour.He had been indoors most of the time--couldn't say why. A tallfellow, Bill said. No, not very powerful--lean shoulders--paleface--big nose. Young, too--Tom reckoned not more thantwenty-five. . . . Alastair left them with an easier mind, forthe worst of his suspicions had been disproved. The back he hadseen from the ridge-top posting up the dale had had a disquietingresemblance to Kyd's.

In the parlour he found Mr Johnson stretching his great bulkbefore a leaping fire and expanding in the warmth of it. Thewindows had not been shuttered, so the wild night was in visiblecontrast to the snug hearth. A small girl of five or six years,the landlady's child, had strayed into the room, and, fascinatedby a strange gentleman, had remained to talk. She now sat on oneof Johnson's bony knees, while he told her a fairy tale in aportentous hollow voice. He told of a dragon, a virtuous dragonin reality a prince, who lived in a Derbyshire cave, and of howthe little girl stumbled on the cave, found the dragon, realisedhis true character, and lived with him for a year and a day,which was the prescribed magical time if he were to be a princeagain. He was just describing the tiny bed she had in the rockopposite the dragon's lair, which lair was like a dry mill-pond,and the child was punctuating the narrative with squeals ofexcitement, when Alastair entered. Thereupon the narrator becameself-conscious, the story hastened to a lame conclusion, and thesmall girl climbed from his knee and with many backward glancessidled out of the room.

"You find me childishly employed, sir," said Johnson, "but Idearly love a little miss and I think my company has charms forthem. I rejoiced to hear from the Scotch serving-man, who by theway is a worthy fellow, that you were expected to meet us at thisplace. We are fortunate in winning here thus early, for presentlythe snow will so conglobulate that the road will be impossiblefor coach and horses. . . . You have not yet dined, sir? No morehave I or the Scotchman, and my lady has retired to her chamber.Our hostess promised that the meal should not be long delayed,and I have bidden the Scotchman to share it, for though hiscondition is humble he has becoming manners and a just mind. I donot defend the sitting down of servants and masters as aquotidian occurrence, but customs abate their rigidity on ajourney."

To Johnson's delight a maid entered at that moment for thepurpose of laying the table. She lit a half-dozen of candles, andclosed and barred the heavy shutters so that the only evidence ofthe storm that remained was the shaking of the window frames, therumbling in the chimney and the constant fine hissing at the backof the fire where the snow descended. This distant reminder gavean edge to the delicate comfort of the place, and as fragrantodours were wafted from the kitchen through the open doorJohnson's spirits rose and his dull eyes brightened likechildren's at the sight of sweets.

"Of all the good gifts of a beneficent Providence to men," hecried, "I think that none excels a well-appointed inn, and I callit a gift, for our fallible mortal nature is not capable unaidedof devising so rare a thing. Behold me, Captain Maclean. Mywealth is less than a crown and, unless I beg my way, I see nothow I can return to Chastlecote. I am dependent upon my dearyoung lady for the expense of this journey, which she chose tocommand. Therefore I do not feel justified in ordering what myfancy dictates. Yet so strongly am I delighted by this place thatI propose to spend this my last crown on a bowl of bishop tosupplement the coming meal, which from its odour should be worthyof it. Like Ariadne in her desertion I find help in Bacchus."

"Nay, sir, I am the host," said Alastair. "Last night I sleptby a tinkler's fire and dined off a tinkler's stew. To-night weshall have the best the house affords. The food, I take it, is atthe discretion of the landlady, but the wine shall be atyours."

"Oh brave we!" cried Johnson. "Let us have in the landlordforthwith, for, Captain Maclean, sir, I would be indeed a churlif I scrupled to assent to your good fellowship."

He rang the bell violently and, when the landlord was fetched,entered upon a learned disquisition on wines, with thewell-thumbed cellar-book of the inn as his text. "Claret we shallnot drink, though our host recommends his binns and it is thefavourite drink of gentlemen in your country, sir. In winterweather it is too thin, and, even when well warmed, too cold.Nay, at its best it is but a liquor for boys."

"And for men?" Alastair asked.

"For men port, and for heroes brandy."

"Then brandy be it."

"Nay, sir," he said solemnly. "Brandy on the unheroic, such asI confess myself to be, produces too soon and certainly theeffect of drunkenness. Drunkenness I love not, for I am a manaccustomed to self-examination, and I am conscious when I amdrunk, and that consciousness is painful. Others know not whenthey are drunk or sober. I know a man, a very worthy bookseller,who is so habitually and equally drunk that even his intimatescannot perceive that he is more sober at one time than another.Besides, my dear lady may summon us to a hand at cartes or todrink tea with her."

Eventually he ordered a bottle of port, one of old madeira andone of brown sherry, that he might try all three before decidingby which he should abide. Presently Edom was summoned, and on hisheels came dinner. It proved to be an excellent meal to which MrJohnson applied himself with a serious resolution. There wasthick hare soup, with all the woods and pastures in itsfragrance, and a big dressed pike, caught that morning in the innstew-pond. This the two Scots did not touch, but Mr Johnson ateof it largely, using his fingers, because, as he said, he wasshort-sighted and afraid of bones. Then came roast hill mutton,which he highly commended. "Yesterday," he declared, "we alsodined upon mutton--mutton ill-fed, ill-killed, ill-kept andill-dressed. This is as nutty as venison." But he reserved hishighest commendations for a veal pie, made with plums, which heaverred was his favourite delicacy. With the cheese and wheatencakes which followed he sampled the three bottles and decided forthe port. Alastair and Edom were by comparison spare eaters, andhad watched with admiration the gallant trencher-work of theircompanion. For liquor they drank a light rum punch of Alastair'scompounding, while Mr Johnson consumed, in addition to diversglasses of sherry and Madeira, two bottles of rich dark port,dropping a lump of sugar into each glass and stirring it with thebutt of a fork.

And all the while he talked, wisely, shrewdly, truculently,and with a gusto comparable to that which he displayed in thebusiness of eating.

"You slept hard last night?" he asked of Alastair. "How cameyou here?"

"On foot. For ten days I have been in an older world with aman who is a kind of king there." He spoke for a little ofMidwinter, but Johnson was unimpressed.

"I think I have heard these boasts before, sir. When a mandecries civility and exalts barbarism, it is because he is illfitted to excel in good society. So when one praises rusticity itis because he is denied the joys of town. A man may be tired ofthe country, but when he is tired of London he is tired oflife."

"Yet the taste can be defended," said Alastair. "A lover ofnatural beauty will be impatient of too long a sojourn in town,and if he would indulge his fancy he must leave the highway."

Mr Johnson raised his head and puffed out his cheeks.

"No, sir, I do not assent to this fashionable cant of naturalbeauty, nor will I rave like a green girl over scenery. One partof the earth is very much as another to me, provided it supportlife. The most beautiful garden is that which produces mostfruits, and the fairest stream that which is fullest of fish. Asfor mountains--"

The food and the wine had flushed Mr Johnson's face, and hisuncouth gestures had become more violent. Now with a wheel of hisright hand he swept two glasses to the floor and narrowly missedEdom's head.

"Mountains!" he cried, "I deny any grandeur in the spectacle.There is more emotion for me in a furlong of Cheapside than inthe contemplation of mere elevated bodies."

Edom, with an eye on the port, was whispering to Alastair thatthey would soon be contemplating another elevated body, whenthere came a knocking and the landlady entered.

"Her ladyship's services to you, sirs," she announced, "andshe expects Mr Johnson to wait upon her after the next half-hour,and she begs him to bring also the gentleman recently arrivedwith whom she believes she has the honour of an acquaintance."The landlady, having got the message by heart, delivered it withthe speed and monotony of a bell-man. Mr Johnson rose to his feetand bowed.

"Our service to my lady," he said, "and we will obey hercommands. "Our service, mark you," and he inclined towardsAlastair. The summons seemed to have turned his thoughts fromwine, for he refused the bottle when it was passed to him.

"The dear child is refreshed, it would seem," he said. "Shefound this morning's journey irksome, for she has littlepatience. Reading she cannot abide, and besides the light waspoor."

"Is madam possessed of many accomplishments?" Alastair asked,because it was clear that the other expected him to speak on thesubject.

"Why no, sir. It is not right for a gentlewoman to be trainedlike a performing ape. Adventitious accomplishments may bepossessed by any rank, but one can always distinguish the borngentlewoman."

Then he repented.

"But I would not have you think that she is of dull wits. Nay,she is the most qualitied lady I have ever seen. She has anadmirable quick mind which she puts honestly to yours. I have hadrare discussions with her. Reflect, sir; she has lived always inthe broad sunshine of life, and has had no spur to form her witssave her own fancy. A good mind in such a one is a greater creditthan with those who are witty for a livelihood. 'Twill serve herwell in matrimony, for no woman is the worse for sense andknowledge. For the present, being not three weeks married, hermind is in a happy confusion."

He smiled tenderly as he spoke, like a father speaking of achild.

"She is happy, I think," he said, and repeated the phrasethree times. "You have seen her," he turned to Alastair. "You canconfirm my belief that she is happy?"

"She is most deeply in love," was the reply.

"And transmutes it into happiness," said Johnson, and repeatedwith a rolling voice some lines of poetry, beating time with hishand,

"Love various minds does variously inspire;
It stirs in gentle bosoms gentle fire
Like that of incense on the altar laid."

"There," said he, "Dryden drew from a profundity which Popecould not reach. But it is time for us to be waiting on my lady."He hoisted himself from his chair, brushed the crumbs from hiswaistcoat, straightened his rusty cravat, and opened the doorwith a bow to the others. He was in the best of spirits.

The landlady was waiting to show the two upstairs, Edom havingmeantime retired to smoke a pipe in the bar. As they ascended,the gale was still pounding on the roof and an unshutteredlattice showed a thick drift of snow on the outer sill, but overthe tumult came the echo of a clear voice singing. To Alastair'ssurprise it was a song he knew, the very song that Midwinter hadplayed two nights before. "Diana and her darling crew" sang thevoice, and as the door opened it was Diana herself that seemed tothe young man to be walking to meet him.Vera incessu patuitDea.

Mrs Peckover had dressed her hair, which the coach journey haddisarranged, but to Alastair's eye her air was childlike, ascontrasted with the hooped and furbelowed ladies of the Frenchcourt. Her skirts were straight and unmodish, so that her limbsmoved freely, and the slim young neck was encircled with her onlyjewel--a string of pearls. The homely inn chamber, which till afew hours before had been but the Brown Room, was now to him ahall in a palace, a glade in the greenwood, or wherever else walkprincesses and nymphs.

She gave him her hand and then dropped into a chair, lookingat him earnestly from under her long eyelashes.

"I thought that b-by this time you would be in L-Lancashire,Captain Maclean."

"So also did I," and he told her the story of Gypsy Ben andhis morning's hunt. "There is business I have had news of inthese parts, a riddle I must unravel before I can ride north witha quiet mind. The enemy musters in Nottinghamshire, and I mustcarry word of his dispositions."

Her brown eyes had kindled. "Ben is a rogue then! By Heaven,sir, I will have him stript and whipt from Thames to Severn.Never fear but my vengeance shall reach him. Oh, I am heartilyglad to know the truth, for though I have used him much I havehad my misgivings. He carried letters for me to my dear SirJohn." She stopped suddenly. "That is why the replies aredelayed. Oh, the faithless scoundrel! I can love a foe but I doabhor all traitors. . . . Do you say the enemy musters inNottingham?" The anger in her voice had been replaced byeagerness at this new thought.

"So it is reported, and, as I read it, he may march by thisvery road if he hopes to take the Prince's flank. You atBrightwell may have the war in your garden."

Her eyes glistened. "If only Sir John were here! There is thechance of a famous exploit. You are a soldier, sir. Show me, forI love the gossip of war."

On the hearthstone with a charred stick he drew roughly thetwo roads from the north. "Here or hereabouts will lie thedecision," he said. "Cumberland cannot suffer the Prince toapproach nearer London without a battle. If you hear of us southof Derby undefeated, then you may know, my lady, that honesty haswon."

She cried out, twining her hands.

"Tell me more, sir. I had thought to pass the evening playingPope Joan with my Puffin, but you are here to teach me a betterpastime. Instruct me, for I am desperate ignorant."

Alastair repeated once again his creed in which during thepast days he had come the more firmly to believe. There must be avictory in England, but in the then condition of Wales and theWest a very little victory would suffice to turn the scale. Thedanger lay in doubting counsels in the Prince's own circle.Boldness, and still boldness, was the only wisdom. To be cautiouswas to be rash; to creep soberly south with a careful eye tocommunications was to run a deadly peril; to cut loose and marchincontinent for London was safe and prudent. "Therefore I mustget quickly to the Prince's side," he said, "for he has manydoubting Thomases around him, and few with experience ofwar."

"He has my Sir John," she said proudly. "Sir John is young,and has not seen such service as you, but he is of the same boldspirit. I know his views, for he has told them me, and they areyours."

"There are too many half-hearted, and there is also ranktreason about. Your Gypsy Ben is the type of thousands."

She clenched her hands and held them high. "How I l-loathe it!Oh, if I thought I could betray the Cause I should hang myself.If I thought that one I loved could be a traitor I should d-die."There was such emotion in her voice that the echo of it alarmedher and she changed her tone.

"Puffin," she cried, "are you honest on our side? I havesometimes doubted you."

"Madam," Mr Johnson replied in the same bantering voice, "Ican promise that at any rate I will not betray you. Being neithersoldier nor statesman, I am not yet called to play an overt partin the quarrel, but I am a Prince's man inasmuch as I believe inthe divine origin of the Christian state and therefore in thedivine right of monarchs to govern. I am no grey rat fromHanover."

"Yet," she said, with a chiding finger, "I have heard you saythat a Tory was a creature generated between a non-juring parsonand one's grandmother."

"Nay, my dear lady," he cried, "such heresy was never mine. Ionly quoted it as a pernicious opinion of another, and I quotedtoo my answer that 'the Devil, as the first foe to constitutedauthority, was the first Whig.'"

At this juncture Mrs Peckover appeared with a kettle ofboiling water and the rest of the equipment of tea, which thegirl dispensed out of the coarse inn earthenware and sweetenedwith the coarse sugar which Mr Johnson had used for his port.While the latter drank his dish noisily, she looked curiously atAlastair.

"You are no politician, Captain Maclean, and doubtless have noconcern with the arguments with which our gentlemen soothe theirconsciences. You do not seek wealth or power--of that I amcertain. What are the bonds that join you to the Prince?"

"I am a plain soldier," he said, "and but fulfil myorders."

"Nay, but you do not answer me. You do more than obey yourorders; you are an enthusiast, as Sir John is--as I am--as thatdull Puffin is not. I am curious to know the reason of yourfaith."

Alastair, looking into the fire, found himself constrained toreply.

"I am of the old religion," he said, "and loyalty to my kingis one of its articles."

She nodded. "I am a daughter of another church, which has alsothat teaching."

"Also I am of the Highlands, and I love the ancient ways. Myclan has fought for them and lost, and it is in my blood to fightstill and risk the losing."

Her eyes encouraged him, and he found himself telling the taleof Clan Gillian--the centuries-long feud with Clan Diarmaid, theshrinking of its lands in Mull and Morvern, the forays withMontrose and Dundee, the sounding record of its sons in the warsof Europe. He told of the old tower of Glentarnit, with the lochlapping about it, and his father who had no other child but him;of the dreams of his youth in the hot heather; of that littleragged clan which looked to him as leader and provider; and intohis voice there came the pathos and passion of long memories.

"I fight for that," he said; "for the old things."

It seemed that he had touched her. Her eyes were misty andwith a child's gesture she laid a hand on his sleeve and strokedit. The spell which had fallen on them was broken by MrJohnson.

"I conceive," he said, "that the power of the Scottish chiefis no less than Homeric, and his position more desirable thanthat of any grandee in England. He may be poor, but he has highduties and exacts a fine reverence. When I was a child my fatherput into my hands Martin's book on the Western Isles, and eversince I have desired to visit them and behold the patriarchallife with my own eyes."

"Your Highlanders are good soldiers?" she asked.

"They are the spear-point of the Prince's strength," saidAlastair.

"It is a strange time," said Johnson, "which sees enlisted onthe same side many superfine gentlemen of France, certainsophisticated politicians of England, and these simple, brave,ignorant clansmen."

"There is one bond which unites them all," she cried withenthusiasm, "which places my Sir John and the humblest Scotchpeasant on an equality. They have the honesty to see their dutyand the courage to follow it. What can stand against loyalty? Itis the faith that moves mountains."

"Amen, my dear lady," said Johnson, and Alastair with a suddenimpulse seized her hand and carried it to his lips.

*****

The next morning dawned as silent as midnight. The wind haddied, the snowfall had ceased, and the world lay choked, six-footdrifts in the road, twenty foot in the dells, and, with it all,patches of hill-top as bare as a man's hand. The shepherds wereout with the first light digging sheep from the wreaths, and thecows after milking never left the byres. No traveller appeared onthe road, for a coach was a manifest impossibility, and a horselittle better. Alastair and Johnson breakfasted at leisure, andpresently the elder of the Weston servants brought word of thecondition of the highway. This was borne by Mrs Peckover to hermistress, who summoned Mr Johnson to her to discuss thesituation. The landlord was unhopeful. Unless he could put sixhorses to it the coach would not get to Brightwell, though asquad of men went ahead to clear the drifts. The extra fourhorses he could not provide since his waggons were all at Marlockand the two riding horses were useless for coach work. The bestplan would be to send to Brightwell for the requisite horses, andthis should be done later in the day, if no further snow fell.The lady pouted, but settled herself comfortably at cartes withher maid.

She inquired after Alastair's plans, and was told that hewould make a shift to travel, since his errand brooked no delay.Thereafter he found the landlord and drew him aside. "You werebidden by our friend to take orders from me," he said. "I havebut the one. I stay on here, but you will let it be known that Ihave gone--this day after noon. You will give me a retired roomwith a key, forbid it to chambermaids, serve me with your ownhand, and show me some way of private entry. It is important thatI be thought to have left the countryside."

The man did as he was told and Alastair spent the morning withMr Johnson, who suffered from a grievous melancholy after theexhilaration of the night before. At first he had turned thepages of the only book in the inn, an ancient devotional workentitled "A Shove for a Heavy-sterned Christian." But presentlyhe flung it from him and sat sidelong in a chair with hisshoulders humped, his eye dull and languid, and his left legtwitching like a man with the palsy. His voice was sharp-pitched,as if it came from a body in pain.

"I am subject to such fits," he told Alastair. "They come whenmy mind is unemployed and when I have pampered my body withover-rich food. Now I suffer from both causes. Nay, sir, do notcommiserate me. Each of us must live his life on the terms onwhich it is given him. Others have some perpetual weakness ofmind or some agonising pain. I have these black moods when I seeonly the littleness of life and the terrors of death."

Lady Norreys had written a letter to her husband's great-uncleat Brightwell, and armed with it Alastair set out a little beforemidday. He had dressed himself in the frieze and leather withwhich Midwinter had provided him, for it was as good a garb as akilt for winter snows. The direction was simple. He had but tofollow the valley, for Brightwell was at its head, before theroad began to climb to the watershed.

To one who had shot hinds on steeper hills in wilder wintersthe journey was child's play. He made his road by the barerridges, and circumvented the hollows or crossed them where mattedfurze or hazel made a foundation. He found that the higher hemoved up the vale the less deep became the fall, and theshallower the wreaths, as if the force of the wind had beenabated by the loftier mountains. Brightwell lay in a circle ofwoods on whose darkness the snow had left only a powder; beforeit ran the upper streams of a little river; behind it the dalebecame a ravine and high round-shouldered hills crowded in onit.

A thin column of smoke rose from a chimney into the bitterwindless noon, so the place was inhabited. But the gates of themain entrance were shut--massive gates flanked by stone pillarsbearing a cognisance of three mullets on a chief--and the snow ofthe avenue was a virgin sheet of white. Alastair entered the parkby a gap in the wall, crossed the snow-filled river, and came byway of a hornbeam avenue to the back parts of the house. There hefound signs of humanity. The courtyard was trampled into slush,and tracks led out from it to the woody hills. But neverthelessan air of death sat on the place, as if this life it bore witnessto was only a sudden start in a long slumber. With his spiritsheavily depressed he made his way to what seemed to be the door,and entered a lesser courtyard, where he was at once attacked bytwo noisy dogs.

As he drove them off, half thankful for their cheerfulviolence, an old man, dressed in black like a butler, appeared.He had a thin peevish face, and eyes that squinted so terriblythat it was impossible to guess the direction of his gaze. Hereceived the letter without a word and disappeared. After aconsiderable lapse of time he returned and bade Alastair followhim through a labyrinth of passages, till they reached a high oldpanelled hall, darkened by lozenged heraldic windows, and mostfeebly warmed by a little fire of damp faggots. There he was leftalone a second time, while he had leisure to observe the immensedusty groining and the antlers and horns, black as bog oak, onthe walls. Then suddenly a woman stood before him.

She was tall as a grenadier and beaked like a falcon, and todefend her against the morning cold she wore what seemed to be amilitary coat and a turban. Her voice was surprisingly deep andlarge.

"You are the messenger from the Sleeping Deer? My lady Norreyslies there storm-stayed, because of the snow and asks for horses?You travelled that road yourself. Would six horses bring a coachthrough?"

Alastair, coarsening his accent as best he could, replied thatwith care six horses could get a coach to Brightwell.

"Then return at once and say that the horses will be there anhour before sunset."

A new voice joined in, which came from an older woman, fat asthe other was lean, who had waddled to her side.

"But, sister, bethink you we have not the animals."

The first speaker turned fiercely. "The animals must and shallbe found. We cannot have our new cousin moping in a public hostelon her first visit to us. For shame, Caroline."

"Back with you," she turned to Alastair. "Bennet will give youa glass of ale, but see you do not dally over it."

The buttery ale was not such as to invite dalliance, and likethe whole place smacked either of narrow means or narrow souls.Even the kitchen, of which he had a glimpse, was comfortless. Towarm his blood Alastair trotted across the park, and as he ranwith his head low almost butted into a horseman who was riding onone of the paths that converged on the back courtyard. He pulledhimself up in time, warned by the rider's cry, and saw pass him agentleman in a heavy fawn riding-coat, whose hat was pulled downover his brows and showed little of his face. Two sharp eyesflashed on him and then lifted, and a sharp nose, red with theweather, projected over the high coat collar.

Alastair stared after him and reached certain conclusions.That was the nose he had seen by the light of Edom's lantern thenight he spent with Kyd at the inn. That was the back he hadobserved yesterday afternoon riding away from the Sleeping Deer.Thirdly and most important--and though his evidence was scanty hehad no doubt on the matter--the gentleman was Sir John Norreys.My lady when she reached Brightwell would find her husband.

Four nights later Alastair was in his little bedroom at theSleeping Deer, dressing by the light of two home-made candles. Hehad been taken to this inn by Midwinter because of the honesty ofthe landlord, who lived only for trout-fishing, and thefacilities of the rambling old house for a discreet retirement.He was given an attic at the back where the dwelling part of thebuilding merged in a disused watermill and granary. There was anentrance to it from the first floor, by way of a store cupboard;another from the kitchen regions, and still a third from themill-house. Accordingly he was able to enter unobtrusively at anyhour of the day or night, and had the further advantage that themill-house road led directly to a covert of elders and so to thehillside. His meals, when he was at home to partake of them, werebrought him by the landlord himself, who also would ascend tosmoke his pipe of an evening, and discuss the habits ofDerbyshire trout as compared with their northern kin.

Clad in his leather and frieze he had spent the days among thevalleys and along the great road. The snow had not melted, but itwas bound in the stricture of a mild frost, and all day a wintersun shone on the soft white curves of the hills. It was weatherto kindle the blood and lift the heart, and Alastair found hisjourneys pleasant enough, though so far fruitless. He had hauntedBrightwell like a cattle-lifting Macgregor looking down on aLennox byre, and since few could teach him woodcraft in hillyplaces, he had easily evaded the race of keepers and foresters.Twice he had met the man whom he took to be Sir John Norreys. Thefirst time he had watched him from cover, setting out onhorseback by a track which ran from Brightwell to Dovedale--a manin a furious hurry, with a twitching bridle-hand and a nervouseye. The second time he met him full face on the high road, andseemed to be recognised. Sir John half pulled up, thought betterof it, and rode on with one glance behind him. He had madecertain inquiries in the neighbourhood and learned that the tallgentleman in the fawn coat was a newcomer and beyond doubtsojourned in Brightwell: but he had a notion that in that vastdecaying pile a man might lodge unbeknown to the other dwellers.He was curious to discover if Sir John had yet greeted hislady.

Four days ago she had departed in her coach, fresh horsed fromBrightwell, attended by Mr Johnson and Edom Lowrie. Since then hehad seen no sign of the party. The old house had swallowed themup, and neither taking the air in the park nor riding on thehighway had any one of them emerged to the outer world. Themystery of the place grew upon him, till he came to look on thebleak house lying in the sparkling amphitheatre of hill as theenchanted castle of a fairy tale. It held a princess and it helda secret--the secret, he was convinced, most vital to hisPrince's cause. He need not scour the country; in that onedwelling he could read the riddle.

On this, the fourth night of his reconnaissance, he returnedto the inn assured that the first part of his task was over. Hemust find some way of entering Brightwell and growing familiarwith the household, and his head was busy with plans as heslipped into the mill-house in the early dark, and climbed thedusty wooden ladder to the loft which gave on his attic. In hisbedroom stood the landlord.

"I heard ye come in by the mill," he said, "and I'm herebecause I've news ye may like to hear. There's a famous gentlemancoming here to-night. Ye'll have heard o' General Oglethorpe, himthat's been fighting in Ameriky? He's coming to his supper, noless. His regiment is lying down the vale, and an officer rideshere this afternoon and says the General will be to sup sharp atseven o'clock. After that he's to meet a friend here and wants tobe left quiet. He needs no bed, for he's riding back to his campwhen he's done his business. Now, what dy e make of that,sir?"

"Where does he sup?" Alastair asked.

"In the Brown Room, the one my lady had."

"When he arrives pray give him a message from me. Say that onewho had the happiness to oblige him a week back is in the house,and will do himself the honour of waiting on him if he will namethe hour. Is that clear? Now fetch me some hot water, for I mustmake a toilet."

He got rid of his soaked clothes and assumed his oldhabit--chocolate coat and green velvet waistcoat, stockings andbuckled shoes, and a tie-wig new dressed by the landlord. Theexposure of the past days had darkened his skin, and it was ahard-bitten face that looked back at him from the cracked mirror.Before completing his toilet he lay down on the truckle bed andstared at the ceiling. Oglethorpe was friendly to him, and mightgive him news of moment--he had the name himself of a Jacobite orat any rate of a lukewarm Hanoverian. But the man the General wasto meet? He had no doubt it was Sir John and he chuckled at thechance which Fortune had offered him.

As he lay his thoughts roamed wide but always returned to onecentre, the Brown Room at the inn. But it was not Oglethorpe orSir John that he saw there, but a slim girl with eyes now ardent,now laughing, now misty, and a voice that stammered adorably andsang "Diana" like a linnet. Sometimes he saw Brightwell and itschilly hall, but he saw no human personage other than the girl, alittle forlorn and lost now, but still happy and dreaming. . . .He pulled himself up sharply. For the first time in his life awoman's face was filling the eye of his mind--he, the scorner oftrivialities whose whole being was dedicate to a manly ambition!He felt irritated and a little ashamed, and began laboriously toexamine himself to prove his resolution. Now in the very crisisof his fate he could least afford a whimsy.

The landlord disturbed him when he had become drowsy.

"The gentleman is here--General Oglethorpe. I give him yourmessage, and he says, pleasant-like, 'I can guess who thegentleman is. Tell him that my gratitude is not exhausted andthat I will be happy if he will add to his obligations by givingme his company at supper.' Ye'd better hasten, sir, for supper isbeing dished up."

Alastair followed the landlord through the cobwebby backregions of the store-room and out to the gallery at the head ofthe stairs whence the Brown Room opened. He noticed that thedusky corridor was brightly lit just opposite the room doorbecause of the lamps in the hall below which shone up a sidepassage. This glow also revealed in full detail the map which hehad studied on his first night there. As he glanced at it, thetwo great roads from the north seemed to stand out like blood,and Brightwell, a blood-red name, to be the toll-house to shut oropen them.

The Brown Room was bright with candles and firelight, andwarming his back at the hearth stood a tall man in militaryundress. He was of a strong harsh aquiline cast of countenance;his skin was somewhat sallow from the hot countries he had dweltin, but he carried his forty-odd years lightly, and, toAlastair's soldier eye, would be a serious antagonist withwhatever weapon of hand or brain. His face relaxed at the sightof the young man and he held out his hand.

"I am overjoyed to see you again, Mr Maclean. . . . Nay, Inever forget a name or a face . . . I do not ask your businesshere, nor will I permit you to ask mine, save in so far as allthe world knows it. I have my regiment billeted at Marlock, andam on my way across England to Hull, there to join General Wade.In that there is no secret, for every old woman on Trent sideproclaims it. . . . Let us fall to, sir, for I am plaguily hungrywith the frosty air, and this house has a name for cookery."

General Oglethorpe proved himself a trencherman of the calibreof Mr Samuel Johnson; that is to say, he ate heartily ofeverything--beefsteak pie, roast sirloin, sheep's tongues,cranberry tarts and a London bag-pudding--and drank a bottle ofclaret, a quart of ale, and the better part of a bottle ofMadeira. But unlike Mr Johnson he did not become garrulous, nordid the iron restraint of his demeanour relax. The board wascleared and he proceeded to brew a dish of punch, mixing theseveral ingredients of limes, rum, white sugar and hot water withthe meticulosity of an alchemist. Then he produced from a flatsilver box which he carried in his waistcoat pocket a number ofthin brown sticks, which he offered to his companion.

"Will you try my cigarros, sir? It is a habit which Icontracted in Georgia, and I find them mighty comforting to acampaigner. . . . You journey northward, Mr Maclean, but you makeslow progress." He smiled with a quizzical kindliness whichstripped the martinet's cloak from him and left onlybenevolence.

Alastair smiled back. "I journey slowly for I have hadmischances. But I must mend my pace, for I am still far from myhome, and my time of leave passes quick."

"From the French King's service?"

"From the French King's service."

"You are aware that there are certain rumours of war in thisland?"

"I heard gossip to that effect in Paris."

General Oglethorpe laughed. "I can guess where your sympathieslie, Mr Maclean. Your name, your birthplace and your professionare signposts to them."

"I too have heard tales from which I could hazard a guess atGeneral Oglethorpe's sentiments," said Alastair.

"Tut, tut, sir. I bear His Majesty's commission and amembarked in His Majesty's service."

"I could name some in the same case--and with the samesympathies."

The other's brows had descended and he was staring in the firelike a perplexed bird of prey.

"I do not altogether deny it. I have been a Member ofParliament for years and I have never concealed my views onpolitics, sir. I regret that England ever lost her natural andrightful line of kings. I have no love for Ministers with theircourting of this neighbour, and baiting of that, and bleeding thecommonalty of England for their crazy foreign wars. I detest andabhor the cabal of greedy bloodsuckers that call themselvesWhigs. I am a Tory, sir, I serve the ancient constitution of thisrealm, I love and reverence its Church, and I hold this mongeringof novelties an invention of the Devil. But--and it is a potentbut--I cannot wish that this attempt of the Chevaliershould succeed. I must with all my soul hope that it fail and domy best to ensure that failure."

"Your conclusion scarcely accords with your premises,sir."

"More than may at first sight appear. What has a young manbred abroad in a vapid Court, and suckled into Papistry, to sayto the people of England?"

"His church is the same as mine, sir. But he is no bigot, andhas sworn to grant to all beliefs that full tolerance whichEngland has denied to his."

"It is not enough. He is the young gallant, a figure from anold chivalrous world. Oh, I do not deny his attraction; I do notdoubt that he can charm men's hearts. But, sir, there is a newtemper in the land. You have heard of the people they callMethodists--humble folk, humble servants of Almighty God, whocarry the Gospel to dark places at the expense of revilings andbuffetings and persecutions. I have had them with me in Georgia,and they fight like Cromwell's Ironsides, they are tender andmerciful and brave, and they preach a hope for the vilest. Withthem is the key of the new England, for they bring healing to thesouls of the people. . . . What can your fairy Prince say to thepoor and the hungry?"

General Oglethorpe's eye was lit with a fervour which softenedthe rigour of his face into something infinitely gentle. Alastairhad no words to answer so strange a plea.

"But--but King George is no more of that way of thinking thanmy Prince," he stammered.

The other nodded. "I am not arguing on behalf of his presentMajesty. I plead for the English people and I want no change,least of all the violent change of revolution, unless it be totheir benefit. A mere transfer of monarchs will do small good tothem, and it will bring needless suffering to the innocent.Therefore, I, James Oglethorpe, who am reputed a Jacobite, willdo my utmost to nip this rising in the bud and confine it to thebarbarous parts of the North. In the service of my country I willpretermit no effort to keep England neutral in the quarrel, forit is in England's participation that the danger lies."

Alastair deemed it wise not to answer, but, as he regardedthis man who was now his declared opponent, he felt thesatisfaction of a fighter who faces an honourable foe. Here wasone whose hand he could clasp before he crossed swords.

"I am no Englishman," he said, "and therefore I am remote fromthis particular controversy."

The other's eye burned with a fanatic's heat. "I will fightlike a tiger for England against all who would do her hurt. Godforgive them, but there are many on my side whose hearts are likerotten eggs. They are carrion crows who flock wherever there isblood and pain. In times of civil strife, sir, the base can makemoney. Had you travelled north by Chester you would have passedthrough a land of fat pastures and spreading parks and snugmanors, and had you asked the name of the fortunate owner youwould have been told Sir Robert Grosvenor. You know the name? Aworthy gentleman and somewhat of your way of thinking. Now SirRobert's mother was an heiress and all the faubourgs of Londonbetween St James' and Kensington village were her fortune. Whencecame that fortune, think you, to enrich the honest knights ofCheshire? 'Twas the fortune of an ancient scrivener who bought upforfeited lands from Cromwell's Government, bought cheap, andsold most profitably at his leisure. There are other fortunesto-day waiting for the skilled broker of fines and attainders.But to make the profit there must be a forfeiture, and for theforfeiture there must be first the treason. Therefore it is inthe interest of base men to manufacture rebels, to encouragesimple folk to take blindly some irrevocable and fatal step. Doyou follow me?"

Alastair nodded automatically. He saw as in a long vista achain of infamies and the name to them was Sir John Norreys.

"The scoundrels must be in the confidence of both sides,"Oglethorpe went on. "With their victims they are honestJacobites, but next day they are closeted with Mr Pelham inWhitehall. They will draw a poor innocent so far that he willlose his estate, but they will prevent his loss being of serviceto the Prince."

The man had risen and strode about the room, a formidablefigure of wrath, with his jaw set sternly and his eyes hard.

"Do you know my purpose, Mr Maclean? So far as the Almightypermits me, I will save the pigeon from the crow. The pigeon willbe hindered from meddling in matters of Government, his estatewill be saved to him, and the crow, please God, will be plucked.Do you commend my policy?"

"It is the conduct of an honest gentleman, sir, and though Imay not share your politics I would hope to share yourfriendship."

Oglethorpe's face relaxed into the convivial kindliness it hadshown at supper.

"Then two friends and honourable opponents will shake handsand bid farewell. You will be for bed, sir, and I must returnpresently to my regiment."

But as the young man left the room the General seemed in nohurry to call for his horse. He flung another log on the fire,and stood by the hearth with his brows knit in meditation.

Alastair retired to his bedroom but did not undress. His brainwas dazzled with new light, and he saw all the events of the pastweeks in a new and awful perspective. This man Norreys was thetraitor, theagent provocateur who lured honest clodpolesto their doom and pocketed his commission on their ruin. That waswhat Sir Christopher Lacy had said at Cornbury--the man caredonly for gain. But he must be a rogue of vast accomplishments,for he had deceived a proud lady, and he had won the confidenceof a shrewd Scots lawyer. It was Kyd's beguilement that staggeredhim. He, a sagacious man of affairs, had used a traitor as anagent for the most precious news--news which instead of goingstraight to the Prince would be transferred to the enemy and usedfor honest men's undoing. General Oglethorpe would prevent thefellow from making his foul profit; it was the business ofAlastair Maclean to stamp the breath from him, to rid thePrince's cause of a menace and the world of a villain.

He mused on this strange thing, England, which was like aspell on sober minds. Midwinter had told of Old England like alover of his mistress, and here was this battered traveller, thisOglethorpe, thrilling to the same fervour. That was something hehad not met before. He had been trained to love his family andclan and the hills of his home, and a Prince who summed upcenturies of wandering loyalty. But his devotion had been for thelittle, intimate things, and not for matters large and impersonallike a country or a people. He felt himself suddenly and in verytruth a stranger and alone. The Prince, the chiefs, thearmy--they were all of them strangers here. How could they askfor loyalty from what they so little understood?

The reflection pained him and he put it from him and turned tohis immediate business. Kicking off his shoes, he tiptoed backthrough the store-cupboard and into the long corridor, at the endof which he saw the bright reflection from the hall lamp fallingon the map and the Brown Room door. He listened, but there was nosound except a faint clatter from far away in the direction ofthe kitchen, where presumably the General's servant waited on hismaster's orders. He stole to the door of the Brown Room for asecond, and played the eavesdropper. Yes, there were voiceswithin, a low voice speaking fast, and another replying inmonosyllables. He had no wish to overhear them, so he crept backto the store-room door, where he was securely hid. Thence hecould see all that he wanted, in the patch of light by themap.

He did not wait long. The door opened, and a figure wasillumined for one instant in profile before it turned to descendthe stairs. It was a tall man in a long riding-coat which he hadunbuttoned in the warmth of the room. He bowed his head a littleas one does when one walks stealthily, and his lips were tightlypursed. But where was the sharp nose like a pen, and the palecomplexion of Sir John? This man had a skin like red sandstone, ashort blunt nose and a jovial mouth. He cast one glance at themap, and then went softly down the staircase.

With a queer flutter of the heart Alastair recognised MrNicholas Kyd.

The sinking at the heart disappeared long before Alastairreached his attic, and was replaced by a violent heat of anger.He lit a candle, for the dark irked him, and sat on his bed withhis face as scarlet as if it had been buffeted. He felt histemples throb and a hot dryness at the back of his throat. Forthe moment thoughts of the dire peril to the Cause were swallowedup in natural fury at a rogue.

Blind fool that he had been! All the steps were now bitterlyclear in his bedraggled Odyssey. At Cornbury Kyd had been sowingtares in my lord's mind--not in partnership with the DuchessKitty, of that he was assured--he did not believe that thatvivacious lady, Whig as she might be, was a partner of hisvillainy. From the first encounter at the roadside inn the manhad dogged him; perhaps that meeting had been premeditated. Thescene at Flambury, the accusing mummer in Squire Thicknesse'sJustice Room, the well-informed warrant, Ben the Gypsy and histreachery--all were the doing of the pawky Lammermuir laird.General Oglethorpe would use his services but prevent his gettinghis reward; but there were others less scrupulous, and anyhowthese services spelled death to the Prince's fortunes. . . . Asecond Grosvenor fortune would be achieved! No, by God, it shouldnot, if Alastair Maclean were left another six months alive!

Sir John Norreys was the man's tool, and the news from theWest passed through him to Kingston and Wade, and Ligonier andCumberland, and Mr Pelham in London. Mr Pelham doubtless hadtaken steps. He would arrest the levy in the West before it hadgrown dangerous; and the fines and forfeitures of brokenloyalists would go to enrich the Exchequer and Mr Nicholas Kyd ofGreyhouses. . . . He had lost his dislike of Sir John. Thathuckstering baronet was only an instrument in the hand of acleverer knave.

But why was Kyd here, when he had sent Edom to Brightwell withthe news that he was not to be looked for before the close of themonth? He did not believe that Edom had lied, so either there wasa deeper game afoot, or Kyd had changed his plans. He thought thelatter, for even rogues were the sport of circumstance. Some newshad reached him of surpassing importance and he had posted allthat way to see Oglethorpe, who, as a former Jacobite, would bethe more readily believed by the Government when he acted againsthis former friends.

It stood to reason that Kyd would visit Brightwell, to seeNorreys, to instruct his servant--some errand or other, even ifhe returned next day to the South. Brightwell was the Philippi ofthe campaign, the place of meetings, or why had Norreys been sentthere? Even now the laird's ruddy visage and the baronet's leanjaw might be close together in some damnable machination. . . .And the lady, the poor lady. At the thought of her Alastairclenched his hands, and shut his eyes tight to kill the pain inthem. That poor nymph, that dainty innocence in such a den ofsatyrs!

And then, oddly enough, his mood changed to a happier one asthe picture of Claudia Norreys brightened on the screen of hismemory. Please God, she was cut off now for ever from the man shecalled husband. Her eyes must soon be opened, and he pictured herloathing, her horror of disgust. There were other thoughts at theback of his mind, which he choked down, for this was no time forpretty fancies. But it comforted him to think that he wasfighting for the happiness of the girl who sang "Diana."

He slept little and at dawn was up and dressed in his friezeand leather, his coarse stockings and his hob-nailed shoes. Thefrost was passing, and a mild south wind blew up the vale,softening the snow crust and sending runnels of water down thehollows and eaves of the great drifts. Alastair found thelandlord breakfasting in the dog-kennel he called his room.

"I am going to Brightwell," he told him, "and may be absentfor days. Expect me back when you see me. Keep my room locked,and leave the key as before in the crack below the brokenaxle-hole of the mill." Then he stepped out-of-doors, where themilkers were just opening the byres, and soon was on the hillsidewith his face to the High Peak.

He crossed the high road and looked at the tracks. There wasone fresh and clear, that of a man in heavy boots ploddingtowards the inn. There were faint hoof marks also, but theyseemed to be old. He reflected that the thaw could not have beguntill after midnight, and that if Kyd had ridden this road hishorse's track would have shown no more than the others ofyesterday.

The sun was well above the horizon when he reached the parkwall of Brightwell and entered the demesne by his usual gap. Itwas a morning like early spring, when the whole world was full ofmelting snows, running waters and light breezes. His plan was togo to the wood which overhung the kitchen yard and gave aprospect of the house and all its environs. There he would watchtill noon, in the hope that either Kyd would appear or one ofLady Norreys' party. If the former, he would follow him and havethe interview for which his soul longed; if the latter, then hewould find a way of getting speech and learning the nature of thehousehold. If nothing happened by noon, he would contrive to makehis way into the kitchen as before, and trust to his wits to findan errand.

He saw no one as he forded the now turbulent stream andclimbed the farther slope to the wood of hazels and ashes whichclung like an eyebrow to the edge of a bare grey bluff, beneathwhich were the roofs of the rearmost outbuildings. But as heentered the wood he received a shock. Suddenly he had theconsciousness that he was being observed, which comes as from aspecial sense to those who have lived much in peril of theirlives in lonely places. He cowered like a rabbit, and seemed todetect very faint and far-off movements in the undergrowth whichwere too harsh and sudden for a wild animal. Then they ceased,and the oppression passed. He threaded his way through theundergrowth to his old lair beside a stone, where a tangle offern hid his head, and there he sat him down to wait.

It was a very wet anchorage. The frozen ground beneath him wasmelting into slush, rivulets descended from the branches, vagrantwinds blew avalanches of melting snow like hail in his face. Hegrew cold and stiff, and there was no such drama on the stagebefore him as might have caused him to forget his icy stall. Hesaw in every detail the morning awakening of a Derbyshire manor.A man with his head tied up in a stocking wheeled barrow-loads ofchopped logs from the wood-hovel; another brought milk pails fromthe byres; while two stable-boys led out to water various horses,among which Alastair recognised those once ridden by Mr Johnsonand Edom. The butler Bennet, wearing a kind of dingy smock,shuffled out-of-doors and cried shrilly for someone who failed toappear. Then came a long spell of quiet--breakfast, thoughtAlastair. It was broken by a stout fellow in boots, whom he hadnot seen before, coming from the direction of the kitchen,shouting the name of "Peter." Peter proved to be one of thestable-boys, who, having been goaded by a flight of oaths intoactivity, produced in a space of five minutes a horse saddled andbridled and tolerably well groomed. This the man in boots ledround to the front of the house, and presently, out from theshelter of the leafless avenue, appeared Sir John Norreys, in ahurry as usual and heading for the bridle-path to Dovedale.

This told Alastair two things. First, that in all likelihoodMr Kyd had never been to Brightwell, or had left earlier,otherwise Sir John would scarcely have fled his company. Second,that the said Sir John had been restored to his lady and wasliving openly in the house, and not, as he had half suspected,hidden in some priest-hole in the back parts.

The morning passed on leaden wings, for the thought that Kydwas not there had dashed Alastair's spirits. Once he seemed tohear the sound of breathing close at hand, and after some searchtraced it to a deep bed of leaves under which a hedgehog wassnoring in its winter sleep. Once the pied snout of a badger,returning late to his earth, parted the thicket. Just before noonhe saw that which set his mind off on a new tack. Down thevalley, a matter of half a mile from the house, a brook enteredthe stream from the west, and, since the hills there overhung thewater, flowed for the last part of its course in a miniatureravine. Both sides of the dell were thickly covered with scruboak, but glades had been cut, and at the intersection of two onthe near bank stood a thatched hut. Alastair had noticed itbefore, and from his present eyrie it was clearly visible.

Below him in the courtyard the butler suddenly appeared and,shading his eyes, looked down the valley. Then he took from hispocket a handkerchief and waved it three times, staring hardafter each wave. Alastair followed his gaze and saw that he waslooking towards the oak wood. Presently from the hut there afigure emerged, waved a white rag three times, and disappeared inthe scrub. The butler seemed satisfied, and turned back to thehouse, from which he emerged again with a covered basket. A boyrose from a bench, took the basket and set off at a boy's trot.Alastair watched his progress and noted that he did not take thedirect road, but kept unobtrusively in the shade of thickets. Heavoided the glades and reached the hut by an overland routethrough the scrub. He seemed to stay about a minute within, andthen hurried back by the way he had gone. The butler was waitingfor him in the yard, and the two talked for a little, after whichthe boy went off whistling.

There was someone in the hut in the oak scrub--someone who wasbeing fed, and who did not wish to reveal himself to the house.It could only be Kyd. At the notion Alastair's face flushed andhe forgot his cold vigil. The road was open for that meeting withKyd, alone and secure, which was his main desire. Havingsatisfied himself that the coast was clear, he began to worm hisway along the hillside.

At the edge of the covert he reconnoitred again. A figure hadrevealed itself in the pleasance which skirted one side of thehouse--a large figure which took the air on a green walk andappeared to be reading, with a book held very near its eyes. Itwas Mr Samuel Johnson, and for one moment he hesitated as towhether he should not first have speech with him. There was amplecover to reach him by way of a sunk fence. It was a criticaldecision, had he known it, but he took it lightly. His duty andhis pleasure was first to settle with Kyd.

He reached the oak shaw without difficulty, and, like the boy,shunned the glades and squeezed through the thick undergrowth. Hestopped once, for he thought he heard a faint whistle, butdecided that it was only a bird. There were no windows in thehut, which, as he neared it, proved to be a far solider thingthan he had imagined, being built of stout logs, jointed betweenstouter uprights, and roofed in with thatch as carefully woven asthat of a dwelling-house. He listened, but all was quietwithin.

The door yielded and he stepped inside with a quick motion,drawing it behind him, for the place was in sight of the house. .. . Then something smote him in the dark. He felt himselffalling, and threw out his hand, which gripped only on vacancyand blackness. . . .

The first pin-prick of consciousness found him climbing. Therewas a sound of sea water in his ears, and the salt tingled in hiseyes and nostrils, for he had been diving from the Frenchman'sRock and was still breathless with it. Now he was going up and upsteeps of bracken and granite to the flat top where the ripeblackberries were. He was on Eilean a Fhraoich, had crossed overthat morning in Angus Og's coble--a common Saturday's ploy. . . .But he found it very hard to get up the ledges, for they werealways slipping from beneath him, and only wild clutches at thebracken kept him from slithering down to the beach. Also his headsang abominably, and there was a queer smell in his nose, morethan salt, a smell like burning--burning lime. He wished he hadnot dived so deep. . . . Then his eyes suddenly stabbed him withpain and the beach of Eilean a Fhraoich disappeared, and the sunand the sky and the dancing sea. All was black now, with apin-point of light which was not the sun.

"Ye struck him over hard, Ben," a voice said.

"Never you fear," came the answer. "I know the stout prettyheads of these Scotchmen." He waved the light over his face."See, he is coming round already."

Alastair would have liked to speak, for he was worried aboutEilean a Fhraoich and the smell in his nose was overpowering. Butas his voice struggled to emerge it woke a deadly nausea, and heseemed to sink again down, down through cottony worlds of utterfeebleness. . . .

His next conscious moment found him lying with his headpropped up, while someone tried to open his lips with a spoon andpour hot liquid between them. The stuff burned his throat but didnot sicken him. He moved himself to take it better and discoveredthat the slightest motion shot a flight of arrows through hishead, arrows of an intolerable pain. So he kept very still, onlyopening his eyes by slow degrees. It was very dark, but there wasa tiny light somewhere which showed a hand and arm moving from abowl to his mouth and back again. . . . He began to piece hissurroundings together. He was indoors somewhere and someone wasfeeding him, but beyond that he could tell nothing, so he slippedback into sleep.

After that he began to come again more frequently to theworld, and the pain in his head and eyes bothered him less. Heknew when meal-time came, for it was preceded by a dazzlingbrightness (which was daylight through the open door) andattended by a lesser light, which was a stable lantern. Slowly hebegan to reason and observe, and work his way back till he sawsuddenly in his mind's eye the outside of the hut, and couldremember the last waking moment. Then he heard a man's voicewhich woke a chord in his memory, and further bits of the pastemerged. Soon he reached a stage when in a flood the whole storyof his journeys and perplexities rolled back into his mind, andhe grew sick again with a worse kind of nausea. Still he couldnot quite recapture the link; he saw everything up to a certainnoon, and realised the dim world which now enveloped him, but hecould not find the archway between the two. Then one day the handthat brought his food left the door wide open, and in the lightof it he saw a dark gypsy-looking fellow who smiled impishly butnot malevolently.

"No ill will, dear pretty gentleman," he whined. "You knew toomuch and were proving too inquisitive, so them as I obeys bade meput you to sleep for a tidy bit. No harm is meant you, so eatyour pretty dinner and say your pretty prayers and go beddie-byelike a good little master. You're picking up strength like a cubfox."

Alastair saw again the dim door of the hut, felt the mustydarkness, and the fiery pain that seemed to rend his skull. Nowhe had the tale complete.

The gypsy left him to feed himself, which was achieved at theexpense of spilling a third of the soup. He sat on a pile of ashpoles, swinging his legs, and preening himself like a jay.

"Ben was too clever for you, my dainty gentleman. He wasa-watching for you days back, and when you was a-creepingbelly-flat Ben was never a dozen yards behind you. He was in thewood above the stable that morning when you arrived, and 'twashim as arranged the play about the Shaw Hut with old Bennet. Notbut what you had a pretty notion of travelling, my dear, andnimble legs to you. I owed you one for the day with Oglethorpe'ssoldiers and I paid it that morning at the Flambury meet. Now youowes me one for this device, and I'm waiting to pay it. All for abit of sport is Ben."

Alastair let him brag and asked him but the one question. "Howlong have I been here?"

"Nineteen days," said the gypsy. "This is now the second dayof December."

The news would have put the young man into a fever had hiswits been strong enough to grasp its full meaning. As it was, heonly felt hazily that things had gone very ill with him, withoutany impulse to take the wheel from Destiny's hand and turn itback.

All morning he drowsed. He was not uncomfortable, for he had abed of bracken and rushes and sufficient blankets for the mildwinter weather. An old woman, the wife of the butler, broughtwater and bathed his head daily, and the food, which was soup orstew of game, was good and sufficient. That day for the firsttime he felt his strength returning, and as the hours passedrestlessness grew on him. It was increased by an incident whichhappened in the afternoon. He was awakened from a doze by thesound of steps and voices without. Two people were walking there,and since there were interstices between the logs of the wall itwas possible to overhear their conversation.

Said one, a female voice, "He left Manchester two daysago?"

"Two days ago, St Andrew's Day," was the reply, "and thereforea day of happy omen for a Scot."

"So in two days he will be in D-derby."

That stammer he would have known in the babble of a thousandtongues. The other--who could he be but her husband, and the manthey spoke of but the Prince?

A hand was laid on the latch and the door shook. Then a keywas inserted and the lock turned. Alastair lay very quiet, butbelow his eyelids he saw the oblong of light blocked by a figure.That figure turned in profile the better to look at him, and hesaw a sharp nose.

"He is asleep," said the man to his companion without. "He hasbeen sick, for there was a sharp scuffle before he was taken, butnow he is mending. Better for him, poor devil, had he died!"

"Oh, Jack, what will they do with him?"

"That is for His Highness to decide. A traitor's death, at anyrate. He may get the benefit of his French commission and beshot, or he may swing like better men in hemp."

The other voice was quivering and anxious. "I cannot creditit. Oh, Jack, I am convinced that there is error somewhere. Hemay yet clear himself."

"Tut, the man was caught in open treason, interceptingmessages from the West and handing them to the Government. Hislies to you prove his guilt. He professed to be hastening to thePrince, and he is taken here crouching in a wood fifty miles fromhis road, but conveniently near General Ligonier and the Duke ofKingston."

The door was shut and the key turned, but not before Alastairheard what he took for a sigh.

There was no sleep for him that night. His head had cleared,his blood ran easily again, the strength had come back to hislimbs, and every nerve in him was strung to a passion of anger.His fury was so great that it kept him calm. Most desperately hadthings miscarried. The Prince was on the threshold of the Englishmidlands, and all these weeks Kyd and Norreys had been at theirrogueries unchecked. Where were the western levies now? Whatdevil's noose awaited the northern army, marching into snareslaid by its own professed allies? Worse, if worse were possible,the blame would be laid on him; Norreys and Kyd had so arrangedit that he would pass as traitor; doubtless they had their cookedevidence in waiting. And in the dear eyes of the lady he wasguilty, her gentle heart wept for his shame. At the memory of hervoice, as it had made its last protest, he could have beaten hishead on the ground.

His bonds had always been light--a long chain with a padlockclasping his left ankle and fastened to a joist of the hut--forhis captors trusted to the strength of the walls and his frailcondition. During the night he worked at this and managed so toweaken one of the links that he thought he could break it atwill. But the morning brought him a bitter disappointment. Somefresh orders must have been issued, for Gypsy Ben produced newfetters of a more formidable type, which bound Alastair to anarrow radius of movement. As a make-weight he did not lock thedoor, but left it ajar. "You're like me, gentleman dear," hesaid; "you like the sky over you and to hear birds talking roundabout. I can humour you in that, if you don't mind a shortertether."

It was a fine morning, the third of December, with a loudfrolicking wind and clouds that sailed in convoys. In blackdepression of heart Alastair watched the tiny half-moon oflandscape vouchsafed to him, three yards of glade, a clump ofhazels, the scarred grey bole of an ancient oak. He had toiled athis bonds till every muscle was wrung, and he had not moved alink or coupling one fraction of an inch. Breathless, furious,despairing, he watched a pert robin approaching the door injerks, when the bird rose startled at someone's approach.Alastair, lifting dreary eyes, saw the homely countenance ofEdom.

The man cried out, and stood staring.

"Guid sake, sir, is this the way of it? I heard that somethingill had happened to ye, but I never jaloused this."

Hungry eyes read the speaker's face, and saw nothing there buthonest perplexity.

"They have invented a lie," Alastair said, "and call me atraitor. Do you believe it?"

"Havers," said Edom cheerfully. "They never telled me that, orthey'd have got the lee in their chafts. Whae said it? Yon langwersh lad they ca' Sir John?"

"Is your master here?"

"He's comin' the morn and I'm michty glad o't. For three weeksI've been like a coo in an unco loan. But, Captain Maclean, sir,I'm wae for you, sittin' sae gash and waefu' in this auldbourock."

Alastair's eyes had never left Edom's face, and suddenly hismind was made up. He resolved to trust everything to this man'shonesty.

"You can help me if you will. Can I count on you?"

"If it's onything reasonably possible," said the cautiousEdom.

"I need friends. I want you to summon them."

"I'll be blithe to do that."

"You know the country round and the inns?"

"I've traivelled the feck o't on my twae feet and sampled themaist o' the publics."

"Then find a cross-roads which has broom on the signpost or aninn with an open eye painted under the sign. Whistle this air,"and he hummed Midwinter's ditty.

Edom made a tolerable attempt at it. "I mind ye whustled thatwhen we were huntit i' the big wud. And after that?"

"Someone will come to you and ask your errand. Tell him of myplight and direct him or guide him here."

Edom nodded, and without more ado turned and swung out for theriver-bridge and the high road.

The hours passed slowly, for Alastair was in a ferment of hopeand fear, into which like lightning-flashes in a dark sky shotnow and then a passion of fury, as he remembered Claudia Norreys.He had not seen her as she stood outside the hut, but he couldpicture the sad disillusionment of her eyes, and the quiver ofher mouth as she protested against a damning truth which she yetneeds must believe. Her gentle voice sounded maddeningly in hisears. He could not forecast what his fate might be, he could notthink settled thoughts, he could not plan; his mind was in thathelplessness in which man falls back upon prayer.

The afternoon drew to a quiet sunset. The door of the hutremained open, and through it he saw the leafless knotted limbsof the oaks, which had before been a grey tracery against thesmoky brown of the scrub, fire with gold and russet. There was nosign of Edom or his friends, but that at the best he could hardlyhope for till late, there was no sign of his gaoler or of anyliving thing--he was left alone with the open door before him,and the strict fetters on his limbs. The sun sank, the oaks grewgrey again, a shiver went through the earth as the night colddescended. The open space in the door had turned to ebony darkbefore there was a sound of steps.

It was Ben the Gypsy, and he had two others with him, whomAlastair could not see clearly in the light of the singlelantern. The man seemed in high excitement.

"'Tis time to be stirring, pretty gentleman," he chirruped."Hey for the high road and the hills in the dark o' the moon,says I. No time for supper, neither, but there'll be a long feastand a fine feast where you're going. Up with him, Dick lad andTony lad. I'm running no risks with the bonds of such a fieryfearless gentleman."

Two stalwart followers swung him in their arms, and marcheddown one of the glades, the gypsy with the lanthorn dancingbefore, like a will-o'-the-wisp. At the foot of the slope werehorses, and on one of them--a ragged shelty--they set him,undoing his leg bonds, and fastening them again under theanimal's belly. The seat was not uncomfortable, for he had hisfeet in stirrups of a sort, but it was impossible for him toescape. His hands they tied, and one of the party took theshelty's bridle.

The road ran up-hill, first through woods and then in a wasteof bracken and heather and scree. Black despair was Alastair'sportion. His enemies had triumphed, for even if Edom discoveredsome of Midwinter's folk, they would find the hut empty, and howcould they trace him by night over such trackless country? Hisbody as well as his heart was broken, for the sudden change fromthe inertia of the hut made every limb ache and set his headswimming. Soon he was so weary that he lost all count of the way.Dimly he was conscious that they descended into glens and climbedagain to ridges, but the growing chill and greater force of thewind told him that they were steadily rising. Presently the wrackwas blown off the face of the sky, the winter regiment of starsshone out, and in their faint radiance he saw all about him thedark fields of the hills. Often he thought himself fainting.Repeatedly he would have fallen, but for the belly girth, andmore than once he bowed over his horse's neck in deep weariness.Ben the Gypsy spoke to him, but as he did not answer rode ahead,with his lantern bobbing like a ship's riding light in a gustyharbour.

Then Alastair fell asleep, and was tortured by nightmares.Indeed all the latter part of the journey was a nightmare,sleeping and waking, for it was a steady anguish, half muffled bya sense of crazy unreality. When the party stopped at last, hecame back from caverns of confused misery, and when thebelly-girth was cut fell leadenly to the ground. The ride in anunnatural position had given him a violent cramp in his rightleg, and the sharp pain woke him to clear consciousness. He waspicked up and carried inside some building, and as he crossed thethreshold had a vision of steep walls of cliff all about him.

After that he must have slept, for when he next remembered hewas lying on a settle before a fire of peat and heather-roots,and, watching him through the smoke, sat Gypsy Ben, whittling astick with a long, fine shagreen-handled knife.

"Feeling happier now?" the gypsy asked. "Soon it will besupper time and after that the soft bed and the long sleep, mydarling dear. Ben's are the kind hands."

Something in the voice made Alastair shake off his torpor. Thegypsy, as he first remembered him, had been a mischievoussneering fellow, and he had longed to wring his neck when he rodeoff grinning that day at the Flambury Hunt. In the hut he hadbeen almost friendly, protesting that he bore no malice but onlyobeyed orders. But now--there was something bright and mad aboutthose dark dancing eyes, something ghoulish in the soft gloatingvoice. Had his orders been changed? What plan of his foes wasserved by bringing him thus into this no-man's-land of thehills?

"Why am I here?" he asked, and his tongue so stumbled betweenhis dry lips that the gypsy passed him a jug of ale that wasbeing kept warm by the fire.

"Orders, kind precious sir. Them that I obeys has changedtheir mind about you, and thinks you are too dear and good forthis wicked, wicked world. Therefore they hands you over to GypsyBen, who brings you the straight way to Journeyman John."

The other looked puzzled, and the gypsy rose and, dancing to afar end of the room, opened a large rough door like a partitionin a cowshed. Instantly a great gust swept the place, drivingclouds of fine dust from the hearth. A noise came from thatdarkness beyond the door, a steady rumbling and grinding whichhad been a mere undercurrent of sound when the door was shut, butnow dominated the place--a sound like mill-stones working under afull press of water, joined with a curious shuddering like windin an old garret. The gypsy stood entranced, one hand to his ear,his eyes glittering.

"That's him we call Journeyman John. Hark to him grinding hisold teeth! Ah, John, hungry again! But cheer up, there's a finesupper a-coming."

He shut the door as a showman shuts a cage. The light died outof his eyes, leaving only smouldering fires.

"That's the deepest pot-hole in all the land," he said, "andJohn like a scaly serpent lies coiled at the foot of it. Nothingthat goes in there comes out--leastways only in threads andbuttons by way of Eldingill, and that long after. There's yourbed made for you, master, and it's Ben's duty to tuck you in. Oh,Ben's a kind mammy."

The young man's brain had been slow to grasp the fate preparedfor him, but the crazy leer which accompanied the last wordsbrought a hideous illumination, and at the same time the faintestray of hope. The man was clearly a madman, and thereforeincalculable. With a great effort Alastair steeled his heart andcomposed his voice.

"What of supper?" he asked. "That comes before bed in ahospitable house."

The gypsy laughed like a magpie, high and harsh. "Supper beit!" he cried, "and a good one, for John is a generous host. Hey,Bobadilla!"

An old woman answered his cry and proceeded to lay on thetable plates and glasses, a platter of bread and the end of acheese. Presently she came back with a great dish of frizzlingeggs and fried ham. The gypsy lifted the jug of ale from thefireside, and drew in a chair to the board.

"Mammy will feed her pretty chick," he said, "for the chick'sclaws are too dangerous to loose."

Alastair's heart had ceased fluttering, and an immensecomposure had settled upon him. He had even an appetite, and wasable to swallow the portion of eggs and ham which the gypsyconveyed to his mouth on the end of his knife. The ale was mostwelcome, for his thirst was fierce, and the warmth and the spiceof it recalled his bodily strength. By now he was recovering amanlier resolution. He was a soldier and had faced death often,though never in so gruesome a form. If it were the end, so let itbe, but he would not abandon hope while breath was in his body.He even forced himself to a laugh.

"Tell me of this Journeyman John," he asked. "What house isthis that he lurks behind?"

"A poor farm called Pennycross, with no neighbour nearer thansix miles. Goody Lugg is the farmer, a worthy widow who looksafter a cow and a dozen wethers and leaves the care of John toBen and his friends. Mighty convenient fellow is John to keep ina neighbourhood. If a girl would be quit of a love-child or awife of a stepson they come to Ben to do their business. Ay,pretty sir, and John has had dainty meat. Listen," and he thrusthis face close to Alastair. "I have done a job or two for LordDash and Lord Mash--naming no names, as being against my swornoath--when they were in trouble with petticoats no longer wanted.And before my time there was the young heir of Crokover--you'veheard that tale. Ay, ay, the Journeyman does his work swift andclean and lasting and keeps mum!"

"Who paid you to bring me here?"

The gypsy grinned cunningly. "Since I swore no oaths andyou'll never live to peach, you shall hear. Down in Brightwelllive two grey she-corbies. 'Twas them gave Ben the office."

"No other?"

"No other except a red-faced Scot that rides the roads like apackman. Him I have not seen for weeks, but the corbies inBrightwell work to his bidding. All three love the bright yellowgold."

"Sir John Norreys had a part in it?"

"Nay, nay, pretty sir. Sir John, brave gentleman, was privy toyour capture and imprisonment, but he knows nothing of thisnight's work. He is too young and raw for so rare a thing as myJohn."

"You are paid well, I fancy. What if I were to pay you betterto let me go?"

"What you have is already mine," said the gypsy.

"A large sum will be brought you in twelve hours if you willlet me send a message, and as proof of good faith I will remainhere in your power till it is paid."

The gypsy's eye glittered with what was not greed.

"Though you filled my hat with guineas, my darling, I wouldnot let you go. John is hungry, for it is long since he tastedproper meat, and I have promised him that to-night he shall sup.I have whispered it in his great ear, and he has purred happilylike a cat. Think you I would disappoint John? Do not fear,pretty sir. It is midwinter and the world is cold, and full ofhard folks and wan cheeks and pinched bellies. But down with Johnthere is deep sleep and it is sunny and warm, for the fires ofHell burn next door. Nay, nay, John is not the Devil, but only acousin on the spindle side."

In spite of his resolution Alastair felt his blood chilling asthe gypsy babbled. Hope had grown very faint, for what could hedo, manacled as he was, in a struggle against a lithe andpowerful madman, who could call in the other companions of thenight to help him? The undercurrent of sound seemed to be growinglouder, and the wooden partition shook a little with thereverberation. How many minutes would pass before he was fallinginto that pit of echoing darkness!

"When does John sup?" he asked.

"When he calls for supper," was the answer. "At a certain houreach night the noise of his grinding becomes louder. Hark, it isbeginning now. In less than half an hour he will speak. . . . Youhave a ring on your finger, a pretty ring--give it to Ben that itmay remind him of a happy night and a sweet gentleman."

"Why do you ask for it when I am in your power, and it isyours for the taking?"

"Because a thing gifted is better than a thing taken. Plundera man must sell, but a gift he can wear. If I had a dead man'shat on my head took from his body, it would be crying out in myears, but if he had kindly given it me, it would fit well andhold its peace. I want that ring that I may wear it and kiss itand call to mind my darling dear."

The gypsy seized the hand and peered at the ring, a heavyjasper cut with the crest of Morvern, a tower embattled.

"Set free my hands, then, and I will give it you," saidAlastair.

The gypsy grinned cunningly. "And risk your strong fingers atmy throat, my pretty one. Nay, nay. Just say the words, 'I giftmy ring freely and lovingly to Gypsy Ben,' and hark to theservice I will do you. With my own hand I will cut your prettythroat, and save you the cruel fall down, down into the darkness.Most gentlemen fear that more than death. 'Tis unfair to theJourneyman, for he's no raven that can put up with dead carrion,but a peregrine who kills what he eats. But for this once he willpardon his servant Ben. Say the words, gentleman dear. See, it isgetting very close on supper time and John is crying out."

He lifted his hand, an eldritch and evil figure, and sureenough the noise of the grinding had risen till it was like astorm in the night. The wooden partition and the windows at thefar side of the room rattled violently and the whole place, roof,walls and rafters, shuddered. In a tumult a small sound pitchedin a different key will sometimes make itself heard, and onAlastair's ear there fell something like a human voice. It mayhave been fancy, but, though he had abandoned hope, it encouragedhim to play for time.

"I do not fear the darkness," he said, "or death in thedarkness. But it is a notion of my family to die in the daylight.I will gladly speak the words which gift you the ring if you willlet me live till dawn. It cannot be far distant."

The gypsy took from his fob a vast old silver watch. "Nay,sir, not till daybreak, which is still four hours distant. ButJohn shall wait for one half-hour on his supper, and he cannotcomplain, for he will have the killing of it himself. Take yourpleasure, then, for thirty minutes by this clock which Ben had ofthe Miller of Bryston before he was hanged at Derby. What shallwe do to make the moments go merrily? Shall Ben sing to you, whosoon will be singing with angels?"

The gypsy was on his feet now, his face twitching withexcitement and his eyes like two coals. He skipped on the tableand cut a step.

"You shall see the Gallows Jig, darling mine, which goes tothe tune of 'Fairladies.'"

With grace and skill he threaded his way among the dishes onthe stout oaken board, showing a lightness of foot amazing in onewearing heavy riding-boots.

"Bravo," cried Alastair. "If I were unshackled I would giveyou the sword-dance as we dance it in the Highlands." If themaniac could be absorbed in dance and song he might forget thepassage of time. Somehow the young man believed that withdaylight he would have a chance of salvation.

The gypsy leaped from the table, and took a long pull at theale jug.

"Sing in turn or sing in chorus," he cried. "Raise a ditty,precious gentleman."

Alastair's dry throat produced a stave of Desportes--a lovesong which he had last heard ata fêtechampêtre at Fontainebleau. The gypsy approved andbellowed a drinking catch. Then to Alastair's surprise he loweredhis voice and sang very sweetly and truly the song of "Diana."The delicate air, with the fragrance of the wildwood in it,pierced Alastair like a sword. He remembered it as Midwinter hadsung it--as Claudia Norreys had crooned it, one foot beating timeby the hearth and the glow of firelight on her slim body. Itroused in him a new daring and a passionate desire to live. Hesaw, by a glance at the watch which lay on the table, that thehalf-hour had already been exceeded.

"Nobly sung," he cried. "Where got you that song?"

"Once I heard a pretty lady chant it as she walked in agarden. And I have heard children sing it far away from here--andlong, long ago."

The man's craziness had ebbed a little, and he was staringinto the fire. Alastair, determined that he should not look atthe watch, coaxed him to sing again, and praised his music, and,when he did not respond, himself sang--for this new mood hadbrought back his voice--a gypsy lay of his own land, a catch ofthe wandering Macadams that trail up and down the sea-coast.Gentle and soothing it was, with fairy music in it, which theGood Folk pipe round the sheilings on the July eves. Ben beattime to it with his hand, and after it sang "Colin on a summerday" with a chorus that imitated very prettily a taboraccompaniment. . . . Alastair's glance at the watch told him thatmore than an hour had passed, and he realised, too, that thenoise of the Journeyman was dying down.

"Your turn," said the gypsy, who had let his legs sprawltoward the fire, and seemed like one about to go to sleep.

An unlucky inspiration came to the young man. He broke intothe song of "The Naked Men" and he let his voice ring out so thatthe thing might have been heard outside the dwelling. For amoment the gypsy did not seem to hear; then he frowned, as if anunpleasant memory were aroused; then suddenly he woke to fullconsciousness.

"Hell and damnation!" he cried. "What warlock taught you that?Stop the cursed thing," and he struck the singer in the face.

Then his eye saw the watch, and his ear caught the cessationof the Journeyman's grinding. His madness flared up again, heforgot all about the ring, and he leaped upon the prisoner like awild-cat. He dragged him, helpless as he was, from the settle andflung him across the table, sending the remains of suppercrashing to the floor. Then he left him, rushed to the woodenpartition, and tore it apart. From the black pit thus revealed athin grey vapour seemed to ascend, and the noise was like thesnarling of hounds in kennel.

"John is hungry," he cried. "I have kept you waiting, mydarling, but your meat is ready," and he was back clutching hisprisoner's middle.

The despair and apathy of the earlier hours had gone, andAlastair steeled himself to fight for his life. The gypsy'sstrength was always respectable and now his mania made itprepotent. The young man managed to get his manacled anklescrooked in a leg of the table, but they were plucked away with adislocating wrench. His head grated on the floor as he wasdragged towards the pit. And then he saw a chance, for the ropethat bound his wrists caught in a staple fixed in the floor,apparently to make an anchorage for a chain that had worked anancient windlass. The gypsy pulled savagely, but the good hempheld, and he was forced to drop the body and examine theobstacle. Alastair noted that beyond the pit was a naked drippingwall of cliff, and that the space between the edge and the wallsof the shed inclined downward, so that anything that once reachedthat slope would be easily rolled into the abyss. Death was verynear him and yet he could not despair. He lifted up his voice ina great shout for help. A thousand echoes rang in the pit, andfollowing on them came the gypsy's crazy cackle.

"Do not fear, pretty darling. John's arms are soft bedding,"and he dragged him over the lip of stone beyond which the sloperan to the darkness.

Once again by a miracle his foot caught. This time it was onlya snag of rock, but it had a rough edge to it, and by the mercyof God, the bonds at his ankles had been already frayed. Thegypsy, who had him by the shoulders and arms, tugged frantically,and the friction of the stone's edge severed the last strands.Suddenly Alastair found his ankles free, and with a desperatescramble tried to rise. But his feet were cramped and numb and hecould not find a stand. A tug from the gypsy brought him to thevery edge of the abyss. But the incident had wakened hope, andonce again he made the vault ring with a cry for help.

It was answered. The dim place suddenly blazed with light, andthere was a sound of men's voices. For an instant the gypsyloosed his hold to stare, and then with a scream resumed hisefforts. But in that instant Alastair's feet had found on thevery brink a crack of stone, which enabled him to brace his legsand resist. The thing was trivial and he could not hold out long,but the purchase was sufficient to prevent that last heave fromhurling him into the void.

The gypsy seemed suddenly to change his mind. He let the youngman's shoulders drop, so that he fell huddled by the edge,plucked the long shagreen-handled knife from his belt and struckat his neck. But the blow never fell. For in the same fraction oftime something bright quivered through the air, and struck deepin his throat. The man gurgled, then grew limp like a sack, anddropped back on the ground. Then with a feeble clawing at the airhe rolled over the brink, struck the side twice, and dropped tillthe noise of his fall was lost in the moaning of the measurelessdeep.

Alastair lay sick and trembling, not daring to move, for hisheels were overhanging the void. A hand seized him, a stronghand; and though he cried out in terror it dragged him up theslope and into the room. . . . The intense glare stabbed his eyesand he had the same choking nausea as when he had been felled inthe hut. Then he came suddenly out of the fit of horror and sawhimself on the settle, ready to weep from weariness, but saneagain and master of himself.

A dark friendly face was looking down at him.

"You may travel the world's roads for a hundred years," saidthe Spainneach, "and never be nearer death. I warned you, SirSandy. You have been overlong in the South."

Five hours' sleep were not enough to rest his body, but theywere all that his unquiet mind would permit. He woke to a senseof great weariness combined with a feverish impulse to drivehimself to the last limits of his strength. His limbs weredesperately stiff, and at his first attempt to rise he rolledover. A bed had been made for him in the attic of the farm, andthe view from the window showed only the benty shoulder of ahill. Slowly the doings of the night came back to him; from thebowels of the earth he seemed to hear the mutterings ofJourneyman John, and he crawled down the trap-ladder in a fret toescape from the place of horror.

In the kitchen the Spainneach was cooking eggs in a pan,smiling and crooning to himself as if the morning and the worldwere good. He put Alastair in a chair and fed him tenderly,beating up an egg in a cup with French brandy.

"Have that for your morning's draught, Sir Sandy," he said."You are with your friends now, so let your anxieties sleep."

"They cannot," said the young man. "I have lost weeks ofprecious time. My grief! but I have been the broken reed to leanon! And the Prince is in this very shire."

"To-night he will lie in Derby. Lord George Murray has led acolumn in advance to Congleton and the Duke of Kingston has fledback to Lichfield. His Grace of Newcastle has sent offers to thePrince. All goes well, heart's darling. Your friends have givenCumberland the slip and are on the straight road to London."

The news stirred his languid blood.

"But the West," he cried. "What news of the West--of Barrymoreand Sir Watkin and Beaufort? There is the rub." And with thespeaking of the words the whole story of the past weeks unrolleditself clear and he dropped his head into his hands and groaned.Then he staggered to his feet.

"There is a man reaches Brightwell this day. He must beseized--him and his papers." Swiftly he told the story of Kyd."Let me lay hands on him and I will extort the truth though Ihave to roast him naked, and that truth the Prince must havebefore a man of us sleep. It is the magic key that will unlock StJames's. Have you men to lend me?"

The Spainneach smiled. "Last night they tracked you, as fewmen in England could, and they were here to overpower therascaldom that held the door. Now they are scattered, but I havea call to pipe them back like curlews. The Spoonbills are at yourback, Sir Sandy."

"Then for God's sake let us be going," Alastair cried. "Haveyou a horse for me, for my legs are like broomshanks?"

"Two are saddled and waiting outbye. But first I have a littleerrand to fulfil, which the Master charged on me."

From a shed he brought armfuls of hay and straw and piled themin a corner where the joists of the roof came low and the thatchcould be reached by a man's hand. Into the dry mass he flung asmouldering sod from the fire. As Alastair, stiffly feeling hisstirrups, passed between the dry-stone gateposts, he heard aroaring behind him, and, turning, saw flames licking theroof.

"Presently Journeyman John will lie bare to the heavens," saidthe Spainneach, "and the wayfaring man, though a fool, willunderstand. Brightwell is your goal, Sir Sandy? 'Tis fifteenmoorland miles."

"First let us go to the Sleeping Deer," was the answer. "Ihave a beard weeks old, and my costume is not my own. Please God,this day I am going into good society and have a high duty toperform, so I would be decently attired."

The Spainneach laughed. "Still your old self. You were alwaysfor the thing done in order. But for this Kyd of yours--he comesto Brightwell to-day, and may depart again, before you take orderwith him. It is desirable that he be detained?"

"By God, he shall never go," cried Alastair.

"The Spoonbills do not fight, but they can make a hedge abouta man, and they can bring us news of him."

So at a grey cottage in the winding of a glen the Spainneachturned aside, telling Alastair that he would overtake him, andwhen he caught him up his face was content. "Mr Kyd will notenter Brightwell unknown to us," he said, "and he will assuredlynot leave it."

The day had been bright in the morning, but ere they descendedfrom the high moors to the wider valleys the wind had veered tothe north, and a cold mist had blown up, which seemed a precursorof storm. Rain fell heavily and then cleared, leaving a windy skypatched with blue and ruffled with sleet blasts. The tonicweather did much to refresh Alastair's body, and to add fuel, ifthat were possible, to the fire in his brain. He knew that he wasliving and moving solely on the passion in his spirit, for hislimbs were fit only for blankets and sleep. When his horsestumbled or leaned on the bit he realised that the strength hadgone out of his arms. But his mind amazed him by its ardour ofresolution, as if all the anxieties of the past week had beenfused into one white-hot fury. . . . So far the Prince had notfailed, and these forced marches which would place him betweenCumberland and the capital were surely proof of undividedcounsels. Perhaps he had news of the West after all. There washis own letter to Lochiel--but in that he had promised proofs atDerby, and this day the Prince would be in Derby and would notfind him.

"You have seen His Highness?" he asked the Spainneach.

"At Manchester, for a brief minute, surrounded by whitecockades."

"How did he look?"

"Sad and reflective--like a man who has staked much againstodds and does not greatly hope."

It was the picture he had made in his own mind. But by Heavenhe would change it, and bring a sparkle again to those eyes andthe flush of hope to that noble brow. . . . For weeks no newscould have reached the camp from the West, for Kyd would havepassed it to Norreys and Norreys to one of the Whig Dukes inNottinghamshire, and if the levies had marched from Wales theGovernment had had ample warning to intercept them. . . .Probably they had not started, for Kyd could no doubt counterfeitorders from the Prince. But the point was that they werethere--men, armed men, and money--ready and eager for the field.His thoughts were drawing to a point now, and he realised whathad been the vague fear that so long had tormented him. It wasthat the Prince would lose heart--nay, not he, but his Council,and instead of striking for St James's, fall back to a defensivewar inside the Scottish Border. That way lay destruction, slow orspeedy--with England unconverted and France uncommitted. But thebold road, the true road, would bring France and England to theirside, and strike terror to the heart of their already perplexedenemy. Tower Hill or St James's! Would to God he was now by thePrince's side, instead of Lord George with his slow Atholl drawl,or the Secretary Murray, fussy and spluttering andchicken-hearted, or the Teagues, whose boldness was that of kernsand only made the others more cautious. At the thought of hisPrince's haggard face he groaned aloud.

But, please God, it was still in his power to find the remedy,and by evening the peril might be past. He spurred his horse atthe thought, and, since the beasts were fresh and they were nowon the good turf of the vales, the miles flew fast, and they rodeout of sleet showers into sun. To his surprise he found that hisattitude to Kyd had changed. He loathed the man and longed tocrush him, but it was as a vile creeping thing and not as apersonal enemy. But against Sir John Norreys he felt a furioushatred. The thing was illogical--to hate a tool rather than theprincipal, the more as Norreys had done him no personal ill,while Kyd had connived at his death. But had the two been on thesward before him with drawn swords he could have left the lairdof Greyhouses to the Spainneach and taken the baronet forhimself. Why? His heart inexorably gave the answer. The man wasthe husband of the russet lady; to her ears he had lied, and withhis lies drawn a moan of pity from her gentle lips. For Sir JohnNorreys, Alastair reserved a peculiar vengeance. Kyd might fallto a file of the Prince's muskets, but Norreys must die beforethe cold point of his own steel. And then . . . ? Claudia wouldbe a free woman--sorrowful, disillusioned, shamefaced, but stilla child with the world before her, a white page on which lovecould yet write a happy tale.

They skirted the little hill on which Alastair had stood withMidwinter, and came to the high road and the door of the SleepingDeer. There was now no need of back stairs, and Alastair, givingup his horse to an ostler, boldly entered the hall and made forthe landlord's sanctum. But an elegant travelling trunk caughthis eye, its leather bearing the blazon of a crowned heart, andby the fire a lackey in a red-and-blue livery was warminghimself. A glance through the open door of the stable-yardrevealed more red and blue, and a fine coach which threestable-boys were washing. The landlord was not in his room, butin the kitchen, superintending the slicing of hams, the pluckingof pullets and the spicing of great tankards of ale. At the sightof Alastair he started, called another to take his place at thetable and beckoned him out-of-doors.

"I'm joyful to see ye again, for I feared ye had come by foulplay. That Scotch serving-man was here seeking ye more than once,and"--lowering his voice--"word came from the Spoonbills, and younot here to answer, and me not knowing where in hell orDerbyshire ye had got to. Ye've happened on a rare to-do at theSleeping Deer. Her right honourable Grace, the Duchess ofQueensberry, has come here to lie the night, before journeyingdown into the West country. She has been at Chatsworth, but thegentles is all a-fleeing south now, for fear of the wildHighlandmen. Duke William himself escorted her here, and thatpretty lad, his eldest son, the Lord Hartington, and dinner isordered for three, and my wife's like to fire the roof withperplexity. Ye'll be for your old room, doubtless. It's been kepttidy against your return, and I'll see that a bite of dinner issent up to ye, when Her Grace is served."

The Spainneach had disappeared, so Alastair mounted to hisattic and set about the long process of his toilet. His crampedfingers made a slow business of shaving, but at last his chin andcheeks were smooth, and the mirror showed a face he recognised,albeit a face hollow in the cheeks and dark about the eyes. Ashis dressing proceeded his self-respect stole back; thefresh-starched shirt, the well-ironed cravat, were an assurancethat he had returned from savagery. By the time he had finishedhe felt his bodily health improved, and knew the rudiments of anappetite. The meal and the glass of brandy which the landlordbrought him assisted his transformation, and he seemed to breatheagain without a burden on his chest. He had bidden the landlordlook out for the Spainneach, and meantime he had an errand to doon his own account; for it occurred to him that the arrival ofthe Duchess Kitty was the solution of one perplexity.

He walked through the store-closet to the landing above thestaircase. At the half-opened door of the Brown Room stood afootman in the Queensberry colours, one who had been with hismistress at Cornbury and recognised Alastair. He bowed and lethim pass; indeed he would have pushed the door wide for him hadnot the young man halted on the threshold. There were voicesinside the room, and one of them had a familiar sound.

The sight which greeted his eyes made him shut the door firmlybehind him. Duchess Kitty, still wearing the cloak of grey furand the velvet mittens which had kept her warm in the coach, satin the chair which Claudia had once sat in, one little foot onthe hearth-stone, the other tapping impatiently on thehearth-rug. On a table lay the remains of a meal, and beside it,balancing himself with one large hand among the platters, stoodMr Samuel Johnson. It was not the Mr Johnson to whom he had badefarewell three weeks ago, but rather the distraught usher who hadmade the midnight raid on Cornbury. His dress was the extreme ofshabbiness, his hair was in disorder, his rusty small clothes andcoarse stockings were splashed with mud; and he seemed to befamished, too, for his cheeks were hollow, and for all hisdistress, he could not keep his eyes from straying towards thetable.

"I beseech your Grace to remember your common womanhood," hewas saying when Alastair's entrance diverted the Duchess'sattention.

She recognised him, and a look which was almost alarm crossedher face.

"Here enters the first of the conquerors," she cried, andswept him a curtsey. "What is the latest news from the seat ofwar? My woman tells me that the Prince is already in Bedfordshireand that London is ablaze and King George fled to Holland. Yournews, Captain Maclean?"

"I have none, madam. I have been no nearer the Prince's campthan I am at this moment."

Her eyes opened wide. "Faith, you have dallied long in theSouth. Have you been sick, or is Beaufort's conscience a tenderplant? Or did you return to Cornbury?" Her face had grownstern.

"I left Cornbury on the day you remember, and I have not sinceseen my lord, your brother."

"That is well," she said, with an air of relief. "I ask nofurther questions lest they embarrass you. But you are comeopportunely, for you can give me counsel. This gentleman," andshe turned to Johnson, "has forced his company upon me, and, whenyou arrived, had embarked upon a monstrous tale. He bespeaks mypity, so I have composed myself to listen."

"The gentleman and I are acquainted, and I can vouch for hishonesty. Nay, madam, I have a fancy that his errand is alsomine."

She looked curiously from one to the other, as Johnson,rolling his head like a marionette, seized Alastair's hand. "Itis the mercy of God, sir, that you have returned," the tutorcried. "I have missed you sorely, for that house of Brightwell isno better than a prison. Its master is aged and bedridden anddemented, and it is governed by two malevolent spinsters.Brightwell! Bridewell is its true name. I myself have eatenlittle and slept bare, but that matters nothing. It is my poorlady I grieve for. 'Tis true, she has her husband, but he islittle at home, and is much engrossed with affairs. Soon, too, hewill ride south with his Prince, and Miss Claudia cannot travelwith him nor can she be left behind in that ill-omened den. Shemust have a woman to befriend her in these rough days, andconduct her to Chastlecote or Weston, but she has few femalefriends of her rank and I knew not where to turn. But to-day,walking on the high road, I saw an equipage and learned that itwas Her Grace travelling south, and that she would lie at thisinn. So I ran hither like a Covent-garden porter, and have beenadmitted to her presence, though my appearance is not so politeas I could have desired." He bowed to the Duchess, and in hisclumsiness swept her travelling-mask from the table to thefloor.

She looked at him for a little without speaking, and thenfixed her eyes on Alastair, those large childlike eyes which wererarely without a spark of impish humour.

"Your friend," she said, "has already opened his tale to me,but his manner of telling it is not of the clearest. Since yousay that his errand may be yours, I pray you expound it. But beseated, gentlemen both. I have already a crick in my neck fromlooking up to such enormities."

Mr Johnson, as if glad of the permission, dropped into achair, but Alastair remained standing. His legs no longer feltcrazy, but they were amazingly stiff, and once in a chair hedistrusted his ability to rise. He stood at the opposite side ofthe hearth to the Duchess, looking down on the elfin figure, aspretty as porcelain in the glow of firelight.

"I do not ask your politics," he said, "which I take to beyour husband's. But you are an honourable lady, by the consent ofall, and, I can add of my own knowledge, a kind one. To you atraitor must be doubly repulsive."

Her answer was what Claudia Norreys's had been in that veryroom.

"You judge rightly, sir. If I thought I could betray a friendor a cause I should hang myself forthwith to avert thecalamity."

Alastair bowed. "Mr Johnson has told you of this girl, my ladyNorreys. She is own sister to you, tender and brave andinfinitely faithful. Her husband is otherwise. Her husband is ablack traitor, but she does not know it."

Mr Johnson cried out. "I had thought better of him, sir. Haveyou got new evidence?"

"I have full evidence. News of desperate import is sent to himhere by another in the South, that other being one of theforemost agents of our Cause. That news should go forthwith tothe Prince's camp. It goes forthwith to the enemy's."

"For what reward?" the Duchess asked.

"For that reward which is usual to traitors in times of civilstrife. They induce honest but weak-kneed souls to take a boldstep, and then betray them to the Government, receiving a shareof the fines and penalties that ensue. Great fortunes have beenbuilt that way."

"But if the rebellion wins?"

"Then they are lost, unless indeed they are skilful enough tomake provision with both sides and to bury whichever of the twovillainies is unprofitable."

"He is a young man," she said. "He shows a shocking precocityin guile. And the poor child his wife dreams nothing ofthis?"

"Ah, madam," cried Johnson. "She is the very soul and flowerof loyalty. If she suspected but a tithe of it, her heart wouldbreak."

"His precocity is remarkable," said Alastair, "but he is notthe principal in the business. The principal is that other I havementioned who is in the very centre of the Prince'scounsels."

She put her hands to her ears. "Do not tell me," she cried. "Iwill be burdened with no secrets that do not concern me. I takeit that this other has not a wife whom you would have mebefriend."

"Nevertheless I fear that I must outrage your ears, madam.This other is known to you--closely allied with you."

Her eyes were suddenly bright with anxiety.

"His name is Mr Nicholas Kyd."

Her face showed relief; also incredulity.

"You are certain? You have proof?"

"I have long been certain. Before night I will have fullproof."

She fell into a muse. "Kyd--the bluff honestbonenfant! The man of the sad old songs and ready pathos, whoalmost makes a Jacobite of me--Kyd to play the rogue! Faith, HisGrace had better look into his accounts. What do you want of me,Captain Maclean?"

"Two things, madam. My purpose is to do justice on rogues, butjustice is a cruel thing, and I would spare the lady. I want youto carry her southward with you, and leave her at Chastlecote orWeston, which you please, or carry her to Amesbury. She shallnever know her husband's infamy--only that he has gone to thePrince, and when he does not return will think him honourablydead."

The Duchess nodded. "And the other?"

"I beg your presence when Mr Kyd is confounded. He is on hisway to Brightwell and this night will sleep there. His errand inthe West is now done, and to-morrow, as I read it, he descendsinto Nottinghamshire to the Government headquarters to receivehis reward. Therefore he will have papers with him, and in thosepapers I look for my proof. If they fail, I have othersources."

"And if he is found guilty, what punishment?"

Alastair shrugged his shoulders. "That is not for me. Both heand Norreys go bound to the Prince."

She brooded with her chin on her hand. Then she stood up,laughing.

"I consent. 'Twill be better than a play. But how will you setthe stage?"

"I go to Brightwell presently, and shall force admission. Mylady Norreys will keep her chamber, while in another part of thehouse we deal with grimmer business. I nominate you of our courtof justice. See, we will fix an hour. Order your coach for six,and you will be at Brightwell by seven. By that time the housewill be ours, and we shall be waiting to receive you. You willbring Mr Johnson with you, and after that you can comfort thelady."

She nodded. "I will come masked," said she, "and I do swearthat I will not fail you or betray you--by the graves ofDurrisdeer I swear it, the ancient Douglas oath. Have you menenough? I can lend you two stout fellows."

"Your Grace has forgotten that you are a Whig," said Alastair,laughing.

"I have forgotten all save that I am trysted to a merryevening," she cried.

*****

When Alastair returned to his attic he found theSpainneach.

"Your Kyd is nearing port," he said. "I have word that heslept at Blakeley and dined early at Little Laning. In two hoursor less he will be at Brightwell."

"And the Spoonbills?"

"Await us there. Haste you, Sir Sandy, if you would arrivebefore your guest."

The night was mild and dark, and the high road which the twomen followed was defined only by the faint glimmer of therain-pools that lay in every rut. The smell of wet earth was intheir nostrils, and the noise of brimming streams in their ears,and to Alastair, with a sword at his side again, the world wastransformed. All might yet be saved for the Cause, and in twelvehours he should see the Prince; the thought comforted him, but itwas not the main tenant of his mind. For a woman's face hadlodged there like an obsession in sleep; he saw Claudia's eyeschange from laughter to tragedy and back again to laughter, heheard her tongue stumble musically among greetings, he fancied hesaw--nay, it was beyond doubt--her face some day light up forhim, as a girl's lights up for her lover. . . . Across thepleasant dream passed the shadow of a high coat-collar and a longsharp nose. He shivered, remembering the ugly business beforehim.

"Where are the Spoonbills?" he asked.

"By now they will be close around Brightwell, ready to run tomy whistle."

"Are they armed?"

"With staves only. We are men of peace."

"Suppose Norreys has a troop of Kingston's Horse for garrison.Or even that he and Kyd and a servant or two have pistols. We aretoo evenly matched to administer justice in comfort."

"Then we must use our wits," was the answer. "But a file ortwo of your Highland muskets would not be unwelcome."

The wish was fulfilled even as it was uttered. As they swunground a corner of road, half a mile from Brightwell gates, theyhad to rein in their horses hard to avoid a collision with a bodyof mounted men. These were halted in a cluster, while by thelight of a lantern their leader made shift to examine a scrap ofpaper. The sudden irruption set all the beasts plunging, and thelantern went out in the confusion, but not before Alastair hadcaught sight of him who had held it.

"God's mercy!" he cried. "Charles Hay! Is it Tinnishimself?"

"You have my name," a voice answered, "and a tongue I haveheard before."

Alastair laughed happily. "Indeed you have heard it before, MrCharlie. In quarters and on parade, and at many a merry supper inthe Rue Margot. Your superior officer has a claim upon you."

The lantern, being now relit, revealed a tall young man withtwenty troopers at his back, most of them large raw lads who werenot long from the plough tail. The leader's face was flushed withpleasure. "Where in God's name have you been lurking, my dearsir?" he cried. "I have looked for you at every bivouac, for Ilonged to clap eyes again on a soldier of Lee's, after so muchundisciplined rabble."

"The story will keep, Charles, and meantime I claim a service.You are on patrol?"

"A patrol of Elcho's ordered to feel our way down this valleyand report at Derby town by breakfast. 'Tis a cursed difficultaffair riding these hills when there is no moon."

"You have time and to spare before morn. Turn aside with mehere for a matter of two hours. You shall have a good supper tocheer you, and will do your Prince a distinguished service. Ipledge my word for it."

"Lead on," said Mr Hay. "I am back in Lee's again, and take myorders from Captain Maclean."

He cried to his men, and the troop wheeled behind him, wherehe rode with Alastair and the Spainneach. "Now tell me the ploy,"he said. "It should be a high matter to keep you away from Derbythis night, where they say the fountains are to run claret."

"We go to do justice on a traitor," said Alastair, and toldhim the main lines of the story. Mr Hay whistled long andloud.

"You want us to escort the gentleman to Beelzebub's bosom," heasked.

"I want you to escort him to the Prince."

"Not the slightest use, I do assure you. His Highness has asingular passion for gentry of that persuasion. Yesterday LordGeorge's force brought in a black-hearted miscreant, by the nameof Weir, caught red-handed no less, and a fellow we had beenlonging for months to get our irons on. Instead of a tow or abullet he gets a hand-shake from His Highness, and is bowed outof the camp with 'Erring brother, go and sin no more.' Too muchdamned magnanimity, say I, and it's not like we'll get much of itback from Cumberland. Take my advice, and hang him from thenearest oak, and then apologise to His Highness for being in toomuch of a loyal hurry."

The gates of Brightwell to Alastair's surprise stood open, andin the faint light from a shuttered window of the lodge it seemedas if there had been much traffic.

"Where are your Spoonbills?" he asked the Spainneach.

"I do not know. In furze bush and broom bush and hazelthicket. But when I whistle, in ten seconds they will be at thedoor of Brightwell."

The troopers were left in the dark of the paved court, withcertain instructions. Accompanied by the Spainneach, Mr Hay andMr Hay's troop sergeant, Alastair rode forward to the great door,and pulled the massive bell-rope. A tinkle sounded inside at animmense distance, and almost at the same moment the door wasopened. There was a light within which revealed the ancientbutler.

"We have business with Sir John Norreys."

"Sir John awaits you," said the man. "But are there not otherswith you, sir?"

So the conspirators had summoned their friends, doubtless atroop of Kingston's Horse from down the water. A thought struckhim.

"We are also appointed to meet a Scotch gentleman, Mr Kyd," hesaid.

"Mr Kyd arrived some minutes ago," was the answer, "and is nowrepairing his toilet after his journey. Will you be pleased toenter?"

Alastair spoke in French to Mr Hay, who gave an order to histroop sergeant, who took the horses and fell back; and the threemen passed through the outer portals into the gaunt gloomy hall,in which Alastair had shivered on his first visit. Tonight therewas a change. A huge fire of logs roared up the chimney, and froma door ajar came a glimpse of firelight in another room, and thecorner of a laden table. Miserly Brightwell was holding revelthat night.

Hay flung himself on a settle and toasted his boots.

"Comfort," he cried, "after bleak and miry moors, and I have aglimpse of the supper you promised me. Sim Linton will hold thefort against any yokels on cart-horses that try to interrupt us.But what has become of your swarthy friend?"

The Spainneach had disappeared, and the two were alone. Kydhas his papers here, thought Alastair, and it were well to makecertain of them first. Evidence should be collected before thecourt sat. It would seem that the staging of the play was inother hands than his, and what had been proposed as a feast wouldby an irony of destiny be turned into mourning. . . . And then herealised with a shock that Claudia was beneath this roof, anunwitting, unsuspecting dove in a nest of ravens. . . . But in alittle the Duchess Kitty would be with her and she would be safein Oxfordshire, and some day he would journey there. . . .

A figure was standing at the foot of the great staircase, asplendid figure, with a nobly laced coat and such ruffles as wererarely seen outside St James's. It wore a sword, but its carriagewas not that of a soldier. It advanced into the circle of thefirelight, and, seeing it was observed, it bowed and smiledgraciously. Its face was that of a young man, with a long sharpnose.

"I bid you welcome, gentlemen," it began, and then its eyesrested on Alastair. An instant and extreme terror flooded itsface. It stopped abruptly, stumbled a step and then turned andran.

Alastair was after the man like an arrow, but his feet slippedon the stone floor, and ere he had recovered himself Norreys haddisappeared in the corridor which led to the back regions of thehouse. It was in gloom, but a lamp burned at the far end, and tothis Alastair directed himself. But the place was acul-de-sac, and he had to turn back and find aside-passage. The first led him into cellars, the second into thekitchen, where there seemed to be a strange to-do, but no sign ofNorreys. At last he found the way to the back-yard, and rushedthrough an open door into a storm of rain. Surely the Spoonbillsmust have prevented the man's escape. But the Spoonbills had beennodding on that side of the house, for it was certain thatNorreys had gone. No doubt he had kept a horse always readysaddled, and the sound of hooves could be heard growing faint onthe turf of the park. Hatless and cloakless, Sir John had fled tohis Whig friends in Nottinghamshire to claim reward andsanctuary.

Alastair's first impulse was there and then to ride the mandown, with Hay's troopers and the Spoonbills alike on his trail.His hatred of him had flared up furiously, when the mean face inthe firelight had broken in on his thoughts of Claudia. Thefellow must be brought to justice, or the castle of fancy he hadbeen building would tumble. But it was clear that Kyd must firstbe dealt with, and, bitterly unwilling, he allowed hisinclinations to give place to his duty.

Kyd's papers! The thought struck him that Norreys might havecarried them off, and sent him hurrying along the passages to thehall, where Mr Hay was still basking like a cat in the warmth.There, too, stood the Spainneach, looking like a panther in hislean dark shadowy grace.

"Mr Kyd is in his chamber, cleansing himself of the stains oftravel and humming merrily. I mistrust the servants, Sir Sandy,so I have replaced them by our own folk. Where are the saidservants, you ask? Shut up in various corners, very scared anddocile. Likewise I have discovered Mr Kyd's travelling-bag. It isin strange wardenship. Come and see."

The man, stepping lightly, led the way up a broad shallowstaircase, to a room of which he noiselessly opened the door. Thehospitable warmth downstairs had not penetrated to that coldchamber, for the air of it was like a tomb. On a table stood asaddlebag from which the contents had been spilled, and overthese contents hung the two grey women whom Alastair had seen onhis earlier visit. They caressed the papers as if they weremisers fumbling banknotes, one lean and hawk-beaked, the other ofa dropsical fatness.

"Sir Robert Leatham--fifty men and five hundred pounds--goodpickings in that, sister. That makes the roll of Herefordcomplete. The fines will not be less than half a million pounds,and at two pounds per centum that is a sum of ten thousand--halfto cousin John and half to him we know of. . . ."

The other was fingering the rings on a tally-stick.

"He favours you, Caroline, and between you there will be arare fortune. Cousin Johnnie has promised me Brightwell, when ourfather leaves us, and I look to you to assist the conveyance.That is my price, remember. If you play me false, I will scratchyour eyes out and curse him till he rots. Ay, and I will tell onhim to that puling miss in the Green Chamber. . . . Does Johnniesup to-night?"

"Ay, and departs early, for he is bound for the Duke ofRichmond, but he we know of stays till the Duke comes hither.He's the great man, sister, and Johnnie but a boy. A cleverdutiful boy, to be sure, with an old head on his young shoulders.I'll wager that when they both come to die there will be littledifference between the fortunes of Sir John Norreys of Weston andSir Robert Grosvenor of Eaton. The pity of it that he has set hisheart on that baby-faced wench."

"She brought him a fine estate, Caroline."

"Pish! He thinks less of the good acres than her pink cheeks.I could scratch them till the bones were bare. . . . Read theShropshire roll again, sister. How deep is Henry Talbot?"

The two witches, obscene, malevolent, furtive, bent over thepapers as over a bubbling cauldron. Alastair stepped forward,choking down a strong disgust.

"I must beg your permission to remove these papers, mesdames.They are required for the conference to which Mr Kyd willpresently descend."

The women huddled together, stretching each an arm over thepapers.

"Mr Kyd gave them into our charge," they said in onevoice.

"He releases you from that charge," said Alastair. "Permit me,madam," and he laid a hand on the saddle-bag and began to re-fillit.

The women would have resisted had not the Spainneach steppedbehind them and murmured something into the lean one's ear.Whatever it was, it caused her to draw back her protecting armand bid her sister do likewise. Alastair bundled the papers intothe bag, and left the room followed by two pairs of wolfish eyes.The Spainneach locked the door, and left the key on the outside."Best keep these wild cats fast in their cave," he observed."There might have been a tussle over that treasure-trove, had Inot remembered something I had heard of those grey ones long ago.Now I go to find the servant Edom."

"When Kyd leaves his room see that the hall is empty. I willawait him in the dining-room. When I ring, do you and Hay enterand join us. Make Edom wait at the meal with the servants youhave provided."

"It is a noble meal which is now cooking," said theSpainneach. "Even the miserly will spend themselves on a highoccasion. It is the habit of Madame Norreys to sup in her room,and that room is at the far end of the house from us. She willnot be disturbed if we grow merry."

Alastair sat himself by the fire in the great vaulteddining-room and tore open the saddle-bag. He ran hastily throughthe papers, for he was looking for what he knew to be there, andit did not take him long to discard the irrelevant. Once ortwice, as he found what he hoped and yet feared to find, anexclamation was wrung from him. He selected several documents andplaced them in his breast, and re-read others with set lips and aknotted forehead. Then he looked into the fire and mused. . ..

Through the open door came the sound of a step on the pavedfloor of the hall, a heavy, assured, leisurely step. The youngman kicked the saddlebag under the table and stood erect by thehearth with an odd smile on his face. Grimness had left it, and awry courtesy remained.

The laird of Greyhouses was a gallant sight. Gone were thesplashed boots and muddy breeches, and all that might recall thewintry roads. He was dressed as on that night at Cornbury when hehad kept Sir Christopher Lacy company--in flowered waistcoat, andplum-coloured coat, and canary stockings, and buckled shoes thatshone like well-water. He was humming a little tune as heentered, his eye bright and content, his heavy figure tautenedand refined by hard travelling, his shapely face rosy as awinter's eve. It was the entrance of a great man to a companywhere he expects to be acclaimed, for there wasself-consciousness in the primness of his mouth. He lifted hisgenial eyes and saw Alastair.

The man was a superb actor, for though Alastair was watchinghim like a hawk he could see no start of surprise, no flicker ofdisappointment or fear.

"Captain Maclean, upon my soul!" he cried. "And who would haveexpected it? Man, I did not know you were acquaint here. But 'tisa joyful meeting, my dear sir, and I'mfelix opportunitatecoenae the day." He held out a cordial hand, which the youngman left unnoticed.

"I am happy to repay hospitality," he said. "You welcomed mesome weeks back at a wayside inn, and it is my turn now toprovide the entertainment. Let us sit down to supper, Mr Kyd.There are other guests," and he stretched a hand to thebell-rope.

"I confess I was expecting a wheen more," said Mr Kyd, andthere was just the faintest quiver of his eyelids.

"Sir John Norreys begged to be excused. He was summoned intoNottinghamshire somewhat suddenly--so suddenly that I fear hewill take a catarrh, for he has forgotten his hat and cloak. Theladies of the house are detained in their chamber, and themaster, as we know, has been bed-ridden these many years. Butthere are others to take their place." Again he stretched out hishand, but Kyd interrupted him.

"What is the meaning of it?" he asked in a low voice. "Whatdoes this pleasantry betoken, Captain Maclean?"

"It betokens thatMenelaus has come to Phaeacia to seehis old cronyAlcinous. The two will have much to say toeach other, but they will regret thatAchilles is not hereto make it a three-handed crack."

The mention ofAchilles seemed to perturb the other. Henarrowed his eyes, and into them came the shadow of that lookwhich Alastair had surprised on the evening at the inn. Then hestepped to the table, filled a glass of claret and drank it off,while Alastair rang the bell.

The Spainneach entered with Hay on his heels. Kyd regardedthem with puzzled eyes, as if striving to recapture a memory.

"I present to you Mr Charles Hay of Tinnis," said Alastair,"who commands a troop in His Highness's Lowland Horse. The othergentleman is of the Nameless Clan. Sit you down, sirs."

Kyd obeyed, but his eyes were not on the food and wine, for hewas thinking hard. He had a stout heart and had often facedperil, so he forced his mind to consider the situation'spossibilities, when a weaker man would have been a-flutter. Wouldthe horsemen he had asked for from Kingston arrive in time?--thatwas the main point. Beyond doubt they would, and meantime hewould confuse this Highland jackanapes, who seemed to havestumbled on some damaging truths. But the appearance of Alastair,whom he had utterly written off from his list of obstacles,worried him in spite of all his robust philosophy. He madepretence to eat, but he only crumbled his bread and toyed withhis meat, though he drank wine thirstily. The servants who movedabout the room, too, perturbed him. There was his own man Edomacting as butler, but the others were strange folk, outlandishlydressed and with dark secret faces, and one, a trooper of Hay's,had a belt with pistols round his middle and that at his shoulderwhich might be a white cockade.

Alastair read his thoughts.

"I fear, sir, that your entertainment is not what you hoped,but I have done my best to provide a recompense. Since his Graceof Kingston could not send a garrison, I have brought Mr Hay'sScots. Since Sir John Norreys is summoned elsewhere, I haveprovided Mr Hay in his stead. And since the ladies upstairscannot honour us, I have bidden another lady, who will shortlyarrive."

The news seemed to move Kyd to action. Hope from Kingston'shorse was over, and the only chance lay in carrying matters witha high hand, and bluffing his opponent who must be largely in thedark. His plans had been too deep-laid to be discovered by acasual moss-trooper.

"Most considerate, I'm sure," he said. "But let's have an endof these riddles. I come here to a well-kenned house, expectingto meet an old friend, and find him mysteriously departed, andyou in his place talking like an oracle. I venture to observethat it's strange conduct between gentlemen of the same nation.What's the meaning of it, sir?" He pushed back his chair, andlooked squarely at the young man.

"The meaning of it is that Judas has come to judgment."

Kyd laughed, with an excellent semblance of mirth, and indeedhe felt relieved. This was a mere random general charge, forwhich he could readily invent a defence. "Oh, sits the wind thatairt? It's most extraordinary the way we of the honest partyharbour suspicions. I've done it myself many's the time.Weel-a-weel, if I've to thole my assize, so be it. I've a quietconscience and a good answer to any charge. But who is to sit injudgment?"

The man's composure was restored. He filled himself a glass ofclaret, held it to the light, and savoured its bouquet before hesipped.

As if in answer to his question the door opened to admit twonewcomers. One was a small lady, with a black silk mask from herbrow to her lips, so that no part of her face was visible. Avelvet hood covered her hair, and her dress was hidden from sightby a long travelling-robe of fur. Behind her shambled a tall man,whose big hands strayed nervously to his dusty cravat and thethreadbare lapels of his coat.

"Here is your judge," said Alastair. "Madam, will you sit inthe seat of justice?"

He pulled forward a high-backed Restoration chair, and placedbefore it a footstool. Solemnly like a cardinal in conclave thelittle lady seated herself.

"Who is the prisoner?" she asked. "And what bill does thePrince's attorney present against him?"

The servants had moved to the back of the room, and stood inthe shadow like guards at attention. By a strange chance theplace seemed to have borrowed the similitude of a court--Kyd atone end of a table with the guards behind him, Mr Johnson like ajustice's clerk sprawling beside the lady's chair.

"His name, madam," said Alastair, "is Nicholas Kyd ofGreyhouses in the Merse, the principle doer of his Grace ofQueensberry, and likewise a noted Jacobite and a member of HisHighness's Council."

"And the charge?"

"That this Nicholas Kyd has for many months betrayed thesecrets of his master, and while professing to work for the Causehas striven to defeat it by withholding vital information.Further, that the same Nicholas Kyd has sought for his own gainto bring about the ruin of divers honest gentlemen, by inducingthem to pledge their support to His Highness and then handingsuch pledges to King George's Government."

"Heard you ever such havers?" said Kyd boisterously. This waswhat he had hoped for, a wild general accusation, the same he hadheard brought against Balhaldy and Traquair and a dozen others,but never substantiated. "You'll have a difficulty in provingyour case, Mr Attorney."

Then Alastair told his tale from that hour when in theale-house he met Kyd. He told of Kyd's advice to go by Flamburyand his troubles there, of the message given him in error, ofEdom and his mission, of Sir John Norreys and his suspecteddoings, of his own kidnapping and imprisonment and the confessionof Ben the Gypsy in the moorland farm.

"Your proofs, sir," said the judge.

"They are here," he replied, and drew from his breast a sheafof papers. "There, madam, is the full account of the Duke ofBeaufort's purpose in Wales, written out and inscribed to theDuke of Kingston, for transmission to Mr Pelham. There you haveanother document narrating conversations with the trustingJacobites of the Marches. There you have a letter from Beaufortto his Prince, which would appear from its superscription to bedirected afresh to the Duke of Cumberland."

The lady looked at the papers shown her, knitted her brows andreturned them. She glanced at Kyd, whose face was set in a maskwhich he strove to make impassive.

"Proceed with your second and graver charge, sir," shesaid.

Alastair told of his conversation with General Oglethorpe andof Kyd's visit to the General's room at midnight. He told of thetwo hags upstairs who were in partnership. "And for proof," hecried, "here are the rolls of three counties taken from the man'ssaddle-bags, giving a list of the gentlemen who are liable tofines for their political action, and noting the shares whichwill come to each of the conspirators. Do you require furtherevidence, madam?"

The room had grown very still, and no one of the companystirred, till Kyd brought his fist down on the table. His facehad whitened.

"What says the prisoner?" the lady asked.

"Lies, madam, devilish lies--and these papers a commonforgery. Some enemy--and God knows I have many--has put them inmy baggage."

"You are acquainted with the handwriting, madam?" Alastairasked.

She studied the papers again. "I have seen it a thousandtimes. It is a well-formed and capable style, clerkly and yetgentlemanlike. Nay, there can be no doubt. His hand wrote theselists and superscriptions."

Kyd's face from pallor flushed scarlet. "God's curse, but am Ito have my fame ruined by a play-acting wench! What daftness isthis? What knows this hussy of my hand of write?"

"Do you deny the authorship, sir?" Alastair asked.

The man had lost his temper. "I deny and affirm nothing beforea court that has no sort of competence. I will answer to thePrince, when he calls for an answer, and I can promise a certaingentleman his kail through the reek on that day."

"I should be happy to be proved in error. But if the papersshould happen to be genuine you will admit, sir, that they bearan ugly complexion."

"I'll admit nothing except that you're a bonny friend tolippen so readily to a clumsy fabrication. Ay, and you've thedamned insolence to bring in a baggage from the roads to testifyto my hand of write. You'll have to answer to me for that, myman."

There was a low laugh from the mask. He had not recognisedher, partly because of his discomposure and fear and partlybecause he had never dreamed of her presence in that countryside.When, therefore, she plucked the silk from her face and lookedsternly down on him, he seemed suddenly to collapse like apricked bladder. His stiff jaw dropped, his eyes stared, he madeas if to speak and only stammered.

"Your face condemns you, sir," she said gravely. "I have seenyour writing too often to mistake it, and I have lived longenough in the world to recognise the sudden confusion of crime ina man's eyes. I condemn you, sir, as guilty on both charges, andfouler and shamefuller were never proven."

Kyd's defence was broken; but there was a resolute impudencein the man which made him still show fight. He looked obstinatelyat the others, and attempted a laugh; then at the Duchess, withan effrontery as of a fellow-conspirator.

"It seems we're both in an ugly place," he said. "You ken mysecret, madam, which I had meant to impart to you when anoccasion offered. Here's the two of us honest folks at the mercyof the wild Jacobites and wishing sore that the Duke of Kingstonwould make better speed up the water."

"That is not my wish," she said, with stony eyes.

It was those eyes which finally unnerved him.

"But, madam," he cried, "your Grace--you are of the Governmentparty, the party I have served--I have letters from Mr Pelham . .. you winna suffer the rebels to take vengeance on me for loyaltyto King George."

"I am a Whig," said she, "and will not condemn you forpolitical conduct, base though I must judge it. The Prince'sAttorney must hale you to another court. You will take him toyour master--" this to Alastair--"and leave him to thattribunal."

"With your assent, madam, I do not ask for judgment on thefirst charge, and I do not propose that he should go to thePrince. The penalty for his treason is death, and I am unwillingto saddle His Highness before he has won his throne with the dutyof putting an end to a rascal."

She nodded. "I think you are wise, sir. But the second chargeis the more heinous, for it offends not against the law of men'shonour, but the law of human kindness and the law of God. There Ifind him the chief of sinners. What penalty do you ask for?"

"I ask that your Grace pronounce sentence of perpetualexile."

"But where--and how?"

"It matters not, so long as it is forth of Britain."

"But you cannot be eternally watching the ports."

"Nay, but he will not come back. There is a brotherhood whichhas already aided me--your Grace knows nothing of them, but theyknow everything of your Grace. It is the brotherhood of OldEngland, and is sure as the judgment of God. To that charge wewill commit him. They will see him forth of England, and theywill make certain that he does not return."

Kyd's face had lightened, as if he saw a prospect of avoidingthe full rigours of the sentence. The Duchess marked it andfrowned, but he misread her mood, which he thought one ofdispleasure at Alastair's plan. He adopted an air of humblecandour.

"Hear me, your Grace," he implored. "It's a queer story mine,but a juster than you think. I'm not claiming to be a perfectcharacter, and I'm not denying that I take a canny bit profitwhen I find it, like an eident body. The honest truth is that Idon't care a plack for politics one side or the other, and it'snothing to me which king sits on the throne. My job's to be atrusty servant of His Grace, and no man can say that I'm notzealous in that cause. Ay, and there's another cause I'm swornto, and that's Scotland. I'm like auld Lockhart o' Carnwath--myheart can hold just the one land at a time. I call God Almightyto witness that I never did ill to a kindly Scot, and if I'velaboured to put a spoke in the Chevalier's coach-wheels, it'sbecause him and his wild caterans are like to play hell with mypuir auld country. Show me what is best for Scotland, andNicholas Kyd will spend his last bodle and shed his last drop ofblood to compass it."

There was an odd earnestness, even a note of honesty, in theman's appeal, but it found no acceptance. The lady shivered.

"If you can get him abroad, sir," she addressed Alastair, andher voice was hard as granite, "I think I can promise you that hewill not return. My arm is a weak woman's, but it strikes far.His services will be soon forgotten by Mr Pelham, but Kitty ofQueensberry does not forget his offences. Though I live for fiftyyears more, I will make it my constant business to keep the roguein exile."

The man seemed to meditate. Doubtless he reflected that eventhe malice of a great lady could not keep him for ever out of thecountry. She might die, or her husband lose his power, andpolitics would be politics to a Whig Government. One of those wholooked on divined his thoughts, for a soft voice spoke.

"I do not think that Greyhouses will ever again be a pleasanthabitation for the gentleman. Has he forgotten the case of thelaird of Champertoun?"

Kyd started violently.

"Or the goodman of Heriotside?" The voice was gentle andsoothing, but it seemed to wake acute terror in one hearer.

"Men die and their memories, but when all of us are dust theBog-blitters will still cry on Lammermuir. I think that Mr Kydhas heard them before at Greyhouses. He will not desire to hearthem again."

The Spainneach had risen and stood beside Kyd, and from theback of the room two of the Spoonbills advanced like guardianshadows. The big man in the rich clothes had shrunk to ashapeless bundle in the chair, his face grey and his eyes hot andtragic. "Not that," he cried, "don't banish me from my nativeland. I'll go anywhere you please in the bounds o' Scotland--toSt Kilda, like Lady Grange, or to the wildest Hielands, but letme feel that I'm in my own country. I tell you my heart's buriedaneath Scots heather. I'll die if you twine the Lammermuirs andme. Anything you like, my lady, but let me bide at home."

He found only cold eyes and silence. Then he seemed to bracehimself to self-command. His face was turned to the Duchess, andhe sat up in his chair, settled his cravat, and with a shakinghand poured himself a glass of wine. His air was now ingratiatingand sentimental, and he wiped a tear from his eye.

"Nos patriae fines et dulcia liquimus arva," he said."I'll have to comfort myself with philosophy, for man's life ismore howes than heights. Heigho, but I'll miss Scotland. I'm likethe old ballad:

'Happy the craw
That biggs i' the Totten Shaw
And drinks o' the Water of Dye,
For nae mair may I.'"

The words, the tone, the broken air gave to Alastair a momentof compunction. But in Mr Johnson they roused another feeling.Half raising himself from his chair, he shook his fist at thespeaker.

"Sir," he cried, "you are worse than a rogue, you are acanting rogue. You would have driven twenty honest men intounmerited exile by your infamies and had no pity on them, but youcrave pity for yourself when you are justly banished. I havesympathy with many kinds of rascal, but none with yours. Yourcrimes are the greater because you pretend to sensibility. Withyou, sir, patriotism is the last refuge of thescoundrel."¹

¹ "Patriotism having become one of our topicks,Johnson suddenly uttered, in a strong determined tone, anapophthegm, at which many will start: 'Patriotism is the lastrefuge of a scoundrel.' But let it be considered, that he did notmean a real and generous love of our country, but that pretendedpatriotism which so many, in all ages and countries, have made acloak for self-interest."--Boswell'sLife of Johnson.

Alastair picked the saddle-bag from below the table, andemptied its remaining contents in the fire.

"Except what I keep for His Highness's eye, let ashes be thefate of this treason. There is your baggage, sir. You may want iton your long journey."

The hand that lifted it was Edom's.

"I'll get the other pockmantie ready, sir," he said to Kyd inthe grave tone of a good servant. "Your horse is no just in thebest fettle for the road, but I ride lichter nor you, and ye cantake mine."

"But you do not propose to continue in his service?" Alastaircried in astonishment. "See, man, you have saved my life, and Iwill take charge of your fortunes."

Edom halted at the door. "I thank ye, sir, for your guidwill.But I was born at Greyhouses, and my faither and his faitherafore him served the family. It's no a sma' thing like poaliticsthat'll gar a Kyd and a Lowrie take different roads."

Duchess Kitty descended from her chair of justice and came tothe fireside, where she let her furs slip from her and stood, afigure of white porcelain, warming her feet at the blaze.

"There was some word of a lady," she said.

Johnson, too, had risen, and though the man's cheeks weregaunt with hunger he had no eye for the food on the table. Hismind seemed to be in travail with difficult thoughts.

"The lady, madam," he groaned. "She is in her chamber,unsuspecting. Her husband should be here also. He may enter atany moment."

"He has fled," said Alastair. "Fled, as I take it, to the WhigDukes for his reward. The man is revealed at last, and his wifemust disown him or be tainted by his guilt."

The news seemed to affect Johnson painfully. He cast himselfinto a chair, which creaked under his weight, and covered hiseyes with his hands.

"Why in God's name did you suffer it?" he asked fiercely ofAlastair. "I had another plan. . . . I would have brought the dogto repentance."

"I will yet bring him to justice," said Alastair grimly. "Ihave a forewarning of it, and to-morrow or next week or next yearhe will stand up before my sword."

The words gave no comfort to Johnson. He rolled his melancholyeyes and groaned again. "'Twill break her heart," he lamented."She will know of his infamy--it cannot be hid from her. . . .Oh, why, why!"

Alastair spoke to the Duchess. "You will tell Lady Norreysthat her husband has gone to the Prince. No more. I will makecertain that he does not return to Weston, though I have to draghim with my own hands out of Cumberland's closet. . . . Forgiveme, madam, if I appear to command, but this is a tangled matter.Pray take her with you to Amesbury, and keep her out ofOxfordshire, till I send word that it is safe. She must not go toWeston or Chastlecote till she has the news of his death. I willcontrive that he die, and 'tis for you to contrive that shethinks his death a hero's."

The Duchess mused. "You are a singular pair of gentlemen, andwondrous tender to the child's feelings. I can see you are bothin love with her. Prithee lead me at once to this enchainer ofhearts."

The Spainneach's face appeared in the doorway, and his handbeckoned to Alastair.

"My lady's woman has descended and is distracted by the sightof strange servants. It seems her mistress desires Sir John'scompany, which was promised for this hour, and the maid will notreturn without a clear answer."

"Say that he is detained," said Alastair, "and add that theDuchess of Queensberry begs the lady's permission to wait uponher."

He turned to the two at the fireplace. "Madam, 'tis time foryour mission of charity."

"Repeat me my lesson," she said, standing before him as demureas a schoolgirl.

"You will inform the lady that Sir John Norreys has beensummoned in great haste to join his Prince, and has leftincontinent, trusting to her loyal heart to condone his seemingheartlessness. Say that he will find means to keep her informedof his welfare. Then press her to travel southward with you,pointing out to her that the war moves southward and she will betravelling the same way as Sir John."

"'Tis a parcel of lies," said the Duchess, "and I am a poordissembler."

Alastair shrugged his shoulders. "The cause is good and yourGrace is a finished actress, when you please."

"But is it not cruel kindness?" she asked. "Were it not betterthat she should know the truth of her husband, that she mightgrieve the less when she has news of his end, which I see writplain in your eyes, sir?"

Johnson broke in. "A thousand times no, madam. If she learnsthat her trust has been ill placed, her heart will break. She canbear sorrow but not shame. Believe me, I have studied that noblelady."

"So be it. Have the goodness, Captain Maclean, to escort me tothis paragon."

Alastair gave her his arm, and, instructed by Johnson--whofollowed in the wake--conducted the Duchess up the first flightof the staircase to a broad gallery from which the main bedroomsopened. At the end, where were Claudia's rooms, the maid, MrsPeckover, stood with a lighted candle to receive them.

But suddenly they halted and stood motionless, listening. Avoice was singing, the voice which had sung "Diana" at theSleeping Deer. The door must have been ajar, for the song roseclear in the corridor, sung low but with such a tension offeeling that every word and bar seemed to vibrate in the air. TheDuchess, clinging to Alastair's arm, stood rigid as a statue. "OLove," the voice sang--

"O Love, they wrong thee much
   That say thy sweet is bitter,
When thy rich fruit is such
   As nothing can be sweeter.
Fair house of joy and bliss,
Where truest treasure is,
   I do adore thee."

The voice hung on the lines for an instant in a tremor ofpassion. Then it continued to a falling close--

"I know thee what thou art,
I serve thee with my heart,
   And fall before thee."

"I think you do well to be tender of her," the Duchesswhispered. "Adieu! I will descend presently and report."

The heavy hand of Johnson clutched his arm before he hadreached the foot of the staircase.

"Did you hear that?" the tutor questioned savagely. "She singsof love like an angel of God, and her love is betrayed." Heforced Alastair before him, and shut the door of the dining-roombehind them. The candles still burned brightly amid the remainsof supper, but the logs on the hearth had smouldered low.

Johnson was become the strangest of figures, his sallow faceflushed, his eyes rolling like a man in a fit, and a nervousnesslike palsy affecting his hands and shoulders. But Alastair sawnone of these things, for his attention was held by somethingmasterful and noble in the man's face.

"Sit down, Alastair Maclean," he said, "and listen to one wholoves you as a brother. Sir, we are both servants of one lady andthat is a bond stricter than consanguinity. I am poor anddiseased and disconsidered, but I have a duty laid upon me whichcomes direct from Omnipotence. Sir, I command you to examine intoyour heart."

He laid a hand on the young man's arm, a hand that trembledviolently.

"What are your intentions toward Sir John Norreys?"

"I mean to find him, and, when found, to fight with him andkill him."

"For what reason?"

"Because he is a traitor to my Prince."

"And yet you did not press for the death of the man Kyd, whowas the principal whereas Sir John was but the tool. Come, sir,be honest with me; why is the extreme penalty decreed to the lessguilty?"

Alastair did not answer at first. Then he said--

"Because Sir John Norreys is the husband of a lady to whom theknowledge of his true nature would be death."

"That reply is nearer the truth, but still far from completehonesty."

Alastair had a sudden flame of wrath. "Do you accuse me oflying?" he asked angrily.

Johnson's face did not change. "Sir, all men are liars," hesaid. "I strive to make you speak truth to your own soul. Thedeath of Sir John is intended merely to save the lady from thepain of disgrace? On your honour, for no other purpose?"

Alastair did not reply. The other sank his harsh voice to agentler and kindlier pitch, and the hand on the young man's armfrom a menace became a caress.

"I will answer for you. You love the lady. Nay, I do not blameyou, for all the world must love her. I love her most deeply, butnot as you, for you love with hope, and look some day to make heryours. Therefore you would slay Sir John, and to yourself you saythat 'tis to save her from shame, but before God, you know that'tis to rid yourself of a rival."

The man's eyes were compelling, and his utter honesty was likea fire that burned all shamefastness from the air. Alastair'ssilence was assent.

"Sir, a lover seeks above all things the good of his mistress.If indeed you love her--and it is honourable that you should--Iimplore you to consider further in the matter. We are agreed thatit is necessary to save her from the shame of the knowledge ofher husband's treason, for it is a proud lady who would feeldisgrace sharper than death. If that were all, I would bid yougod-speed, for Sir John's death would serve that purpose, and youand she are fit mates, being alike young and highly born. Afterthe natural period of mourning was over, you might fairly look toespouse her. But ah, sir, that is not all."

He got to his feet in his eagerness and stood above the youngman, one hand splayed on the table, as he had stood thatafternoon at the Sleeping Deer.

"Listen, sir. I have watched that child in her going out andcoming in, in her joys and melancholies, in her every mood ofcaprice and earnestness--watched with the quick eye of one who ishalf lover, half parent. And I have formed most certainconclusions about that high nature. She trusts but once and thatwholly; she will love but once, and that with a passion like aconsuming fire. If she knew the truth about Sir John, she wouldnever trust mankind again. On that we are agreed. But I gofurther, sir. If she lost him, she would never love another, butgo inconsolable to her grave. It is the way of certain choicespirits."

Alastair made a gesture of dissent.

"Sir, did you not hear her singing?" Johnson asked. "Answerme, heard you ever such a joy of surrender in a mortalvoice?"

Alastair could not deny it, for the passionate trilling wasstill in his ear.

"But your reasoning is flawed," he said. "Granted that my LadyNorreys has given her love once and for all; yet if Sir Johnremain alive she will presently discover his shame, and for therest of her days be tormented with honour wounded throughaffection."

"It need not be," said Johnson, and his voice had sunk to thelevel of argument from the heights of appeal. "I have studiedboth of them during the past weeks, and this is my conclusion.She has made a false image of him which she adores, but unlessthe falsity be proved to the world by some violent revelation shewill not discover it. She is a happy self-deceiver, and to theend--unless forcibly enlightened--will take his common clay forgold. As for him--well, he is clay and not gunpowder. He has beenmoulded into infamy by a stronger man and by his ancestralgreed--for, judging by the family here, his race is one ofmisers. But let him be sufficiently alarmed and shown where hisinterest lies, and he will relapse to the paths of decorum. Goodhe will never be, little he must always be, but he may also berespectable. He will not lose his halo in his lady's eyes andthey may live out their time happily, and if God wills someportion of the mother's quality may descend to the children."

The thought to Alastair was hideously repellent. To whitewashsuch a rogue and delude such a lady! Better surely a painfulenlightenment than this deceit. He comforted himself with thereflection that it was impossible.

"But by this time Sir John Norreys is with his paymaster, andthe mischief is done."

"Not so," said Johnson. "Sir John does not ride to Kingston orto Richmond but to Cumberland himself, and he lies far in thesouth. He may yet be overtaken and dissuaded."

"By whom?"

"By you, sir."

Alastair laughed loud and bitterly.

"Are you mad, sir? I journey at once to the Prince's camp, forI have news for him that may determine his future conduct.Already I am late in starting. I must order my horse, and bidfarewell to the ladies." He moved to the door, and criedinstructions to the Spainneach, who smoked a cigarro by the hallfire.

Johnson seized him by the lapels of his coat. "I implore you,sir, by the mercy of God. Follow Sir John and persuade him,compel him, at the sword's point, if need be. The happiness of mydarling child depends on it. If you do not go, I must go myself.The Prince's news can wait, for it will be only a few hours'delay at the most. What does it matter whether or not he be inLondon a day earlier, compared to the well-being of an immortalsoul? I beseech you, sir, for the love of Christ Who redeemedus--"

"Tush, man, you are raving," Alastair broke in, and moved tothe half-open door. At that moment the Duchess's voice sounded onthe stairs.

"Come up, sir," she said. "My lady will receive you before yougo, and she bids you bring the other, the clumsy fellow whosename I know not."

Duchess Kitty met him at the door of Claudia's chamber.

"Oh, my dear, she is the very archangel of angels, and of aninnocence to make one weep. She will come with me to Amesbury.She dotes on her Sir John and will weary me, I fear, with herrhapsodies, but I am nobly complaisant and flatter her passion. Ifear you stand no chance, sir. Her heart is wholly in the rogue'skeeping. Enter, for she awaits you."

In the dim panelled room lit by many candles and a leapingfire the figure of the girl sitting up in the great four-posterbed stood out with a startling brilliance. Madam Claudia wasdressed to receive him, as she had been in the midnight colloquyat Flambury, in a furred bed-gown and a nightcap of lace and pinksatin. But her brown eyes were no longer pools of dancing light.She held out a hand to Alastair with a little sigh.

"I rejoice that you are free from your t-troubles, sir," shesaid. "'Twas a shameful charge, and I did not credit it, nortruly did Sir John. And justice, they tell me, has been done tothe traitor! Sir John was deceived like the rest of you, and 'tisa cunning rogue that can hoodwink Sir John. You are at the end ofyour mission, sir, and can now engage in the honest business ofwar."

"And for yourself, my lady?"

"I, too, take the road," she said. "You have heard of herG-grace's kindness. I am fortunate to travel in such g-gentlecompany. So it is farewell, sir. You ride this night to thePrince, who is at Derby? My dear Sir John has preceded you there.Oh, would that I could be with him!" And with a morsel of cambricshe dried a rising tear.

"And you, Puffin," she asked, catching sight of Johnson. "Doyou travel south with us?"

"Nay, madam, I go with Captain Maclean to the Prince'scamp."

"Bravo!" she cried. "You have declared yourself at last. Godprosper you, my gallant gentlemen. I will be there to cheer whenyou ride behind the Prince into London."

Alastair was scarcely conscious of her words. He saw only herwild wet eyes, compared to which those of the pretty Duchess werelike pebbles to stars. It was the child in her that overwhelmedhim, the appealing child, trusting utterly with no thought butthat all the world was well-disposed to her and her love. He hadknown many women in his time, though none had touched his coldfancy, but he had never before seen woman's face transfiguredwith so innocent an exaltation. The sadness in it was only theanxiety of a soul that trembled for the perpetuation of anunbelievable joy. He was nothing to her, nor was any man exceptthe one; the virgin garden of her heart was enclosed withimpenetrable defences. The truth moved him not to irritation, butto pity and a protecting care. He could not mar a thing so rare,and if its foundations were rotten he would be in league tostrengthen them. For the moment he was not the lover, but theguardian, who would perjure his soul to keep alive a childishparadise.

He raised her hand and kissed it. "I am your very humble anddevoted servant," he said. And then she did a thing for which hewas not prepared, for with a little cry she put her hands overher eyes and wept.

He hurried from the room without looking back. He had made adecision which he found was like a dry patch of ground in themidst of rising floods, for gathering from every corner of hissoul were dark and unplumbed tides.

*****

As he mounted, the Spainneach spoke: "He has gone by Milfordand the Ernshawbank. Likely he will sleep an hour or two at thePegtop. You might find him there if you haste."

Johnson's horse had also been brought, and its rider had sometrouble in mounting.

"You will delay me, sir, if you insist on keeping me company,"said Alastair.

"I am a strong rider when I am once in the saddle," said theother humbly. "But why this hurry? You will be in Derby long eredaybreak."

"I do not ride to Derby, but down the vale to overtake acertain gentleman."

He heard Johnson mutter a fervent "God be thanked" as heturned for a last look at the house. In an upper floor there wasa glow of firelight and candlelight through the curtains ofunshuttered windows. There lay Claudia, stammering her gentleconfidences to Duchess Kitty, but with her thoughts ranging thehill-roads in the wake of her worthless lover. And from one ofthose dark windows two grey beldams were peering into the nightand trembling for the riches that were the price of theirsouls.

The night was growing colder, and the moon in her firstquarter was sinking among heavy woolpack clouds. The Spainneach'swhisper had been enough for Alastair, who in his sojourn at theSleeping Deer had made himself familiar with the neighbourhood,after the fashion of a campaigner who may soon have to fight init. The road led them past the silent hostelry, and then left thevale and struck over a succession of low ridges to another, wherea parallel stream of the hills broadened as it neared thelowlands. The men did not spare their horses, and, as the hoovesclattered on the bare ribs of rock which crossed the track sparkslike wildfire flew behind them.

Alastair's mood was as dark as the weather. The sight ofClaudia, babbling of her lover, had for a moment converted him toJohnson's view. In a fine impulse of quixotry he had ridden fromBrightwell, his purpose vague towards Sir John Norreys butdetermined in the service of the lady. If her love was pledgedirrevocably to a knave and fool, then be it his business to keepthe said knave from greater folly, and see that disillusion didnot shatter a gentle heart. For a little he felt the glow ofself-conscious worth, and the pleasant melancholy which is bornof approving self-pity.

It did not last long. Visions of Claudia, dim-eyed,stammering, all russet and snow, returned to ravish his fancy,and the picture of a certain sharp-nosed gentleman to exacerbatehis temper. Before God he could not surrender such a darling, hewould be no party to flinging such a pearl before swine! Hisheart grew hot when he thought of Sir John, the mean visage andhedge-hog soul. To condone his infamy would be to sin againstHeaven--to foster his lady's blind fondness the task of a pander.Let the truth be told and the devil be shamed, for a woundedheart was better than a slow decay.

Presently his mind had swung round to a new resolution. Hewould go straight to Derby to the Prince, which was his directsoldierly duty. He knew the road; the next left-hand turningwould lead him there before morning. He was already weeks, monthslate; he dared not tarry another hour, for he alone knew thetruth about the West, and that truth might determine the Prince'sstrategy. True, His Highness was at Derby now, and the Rubiconhad been doubtless crossed, but in so great a matter noprecaution could be omitted. At that very moment Lochiel, withhis letter in his hand, might be looking in vain for the man whohad named Derby as the trysting-place. . . . He would sweepsouthward with the Army to conquest, and then in their hour oftriumph would root Sir John from his traitor's kennel. The manmust fight on his challenge, and he had no doubt as to the issueof that fight.

But would he? Would he not disappear overseas, taking with himhis wife under some false story? If she were deceived in onematter, she might be deceived in others. . . . No, by Heaven,there was no way of it but the one. The fox must be found beforehe reached his earth, and brought to account at a sword's point.Stone dead had no fellow.

The cross-roads lay before them where was the turning toDerby.

"There lies the Prince," said Alastair, his head over his leftshoulder. "My duty is to ride forthwith thither. I couldbreakfast in the camp."

Johnson, though lacking a riding-coat, had grown warm with theexercise, and both he and his mount were blowing.

"You would not falter in your most honourable resolve?" hepuffed.

Alastair clapped spurs to his beast. "No," he said, "I amresolved before all things to find Sir John Norreys. But when Ifind him I will kill him."

He heard a gasp which was more than Mr Johnson's chronicshortness of breath. As he cantered forward the slower andheavier beast of his companion was forced alongside of him, and ahand clutched his arm.

"I beseech you, sir," said a tragic voice, "I pray you, inGod's name, to turn aside to Derby."

"I will first meet Sir John," was the reply and the hand wasshaken off.

"But he will be safe at your hands?"

"That is as God may direct," said Alastair.

His resolution being now fixed, his spirits rose. He letthoughts of Claudia flush his mind with their sweet radiance. Hepictured her as he had last seen her--the light from the candlesmaking her slim white neck below the rosy nightcap take on thebloom of a peach, and the leaping flames of the hearth chequeringthe shadow of the bed-curtain. He saw her dim eyes, heard hermelting voice, felt the warm vigour of her body as she coweredbeside him in the dark of the Flambury galleries. Too young forwife, too old for child, but the ripe age for comrade--and such acomrade, for there was a boy's gallantry in her eyes andsomething of a child's confident fearlessness. He did not hearthe groans of Mr Johnson pounding dismally behind him, or theshuddering cry of owls from the woods. The world was a quietplace to him where a soft voice was speaking, the thick darknesswas all aglow with happy pictures. The man's soul was enrapturedby his dreams. He found himself suddenly laughing to think hownew and strange was this mood of his. Hitherto he had kept womenat arms' length, and set his heart on policy and war, till he hadearned the repute of one to be trusted and courted, but onealready at thirty middle-aged. Lord! but there had been a meltingof icebergs! And like a stab came the thought of yet anothermolten iceberg--Sir John--of the sharp nose and the high coatcollar! Alastair cried out like a man in pain.

They rode into Milford half an hour after midnight. There wasno light in any house, and the inn was a black wall. But the doorof the yard was open, and a hostler, ascending to his bed in thehayloft, accepted a shilling for his news. A man had riddenthrough Milford that night. He had not seen him, but he had heardthe clatter as he was bedding the post horses that had come inlate from Marlock. How long ago? Not more than an hour, maybeless, and the fellow checked his memory with a string of minuteproofs.

Alastair swung his horse's head back to the road. "Courage, myfriend," he cried. "We are gaining on him. We shall overtake himbefore morning."

Again Johnson caught his arm. "Bethink you, sir," hestammered. "You ride on an errand of murder."

"Nay," was the answer, "of love."

But the next miles were over roads like plough-lands, and therain blew up from the south-west and set the teeth chattering ofthe cloakless Mr Johnson. The night was very dark and the roadseemed to pass no villages, for not a light appeared in thewastes of wet ling and fern and plashing woods. The track couldbe discerned well enough, for it was the only possible routethrough the rugged land, and happily for the riders there were nocrossways. No other traveller met them or was overtaken--which,thought Alastair, was natural, for with the Prince at Derby theflight of the timid would be to the south, and not north or westinto the enemy's country.

Long before dawn he was far beyond the countryside of which hehad any knowledge. He had been given Ernshawbank by theSpainneach as the second point to make for, and had assumed thatthere, if not before, he would fall in with Sir John. Yet when hecame to a village about cockcrow, and learned from a sleepycarter that it was Ernshawbank, he did not find his quarry. Butat the inn he had news of him. A man answering his descriptionhad knocked up the landlord two hours before, drunk a gill ofbrandy, eaten a crust, and bought for a guinea the saidlandlord's cocked grey beaver, new a month ago at Leek Fair. Twohours! The man was gaining on him! It appeared that he had riddenthe path for lower Dovedale, as if he were making forStaffordshire and Trentside.

The two breakfasted at an ale house below Thorp Cloud, when agrey December morning was breaking over the leafless vale and theswollen waters of Dove. Their man had been seen, riding hard,with a face blue from cold and wet, and his fine clothespitifully draggled with the rain. He had crossed the river, andwas therefore bound for Staffordshire, and not Nottinghamshire,as Alastair had at first guessed. A minute's reflection convincedhim of the reason. Sir John was specially concerned with cuttingoff the help coming to the Prince from the West, and thereforewent to join those, like the Duke of Kingston, who were on thatflank, rather than the army which lay between Derby and London.The reflection gave him acute uneasiness. Nottinghamshire wasdistant, so there was a chance to overtake the fugitive on theway. But, as it now was, any hour might see the man in sanctuary.The next village might hold a patrol of the Duke's. . . . He cutshort the meal, which Mr Johnson had scarcely tasted, and the twowere again on their weary beasts pounding up the steep lanestowards Ershalton and my lord Shrewsbury's great house.

The mist cleared, a wintry sun shone, and the sky was mottledwith patches of watery blue. Mr Johnson's teeth began to chatterso violently that Alastair swung round and regarded him.

"You will without doubt catch an ague, sir," he said, and atthe next presentable inn he insisted on his toasting hissmall-clothes before the kitchen fire, drinking a jorum of hotrum, and borrowing a coat of the landlord's till his own was dry.For suddenly the panic of hurry was gone out of Alastair, and hesaw this business as something predestined and ultimate. Fate wasmoving the pieces, and her iron fingers did not fumble. If it waswritten that he and Sir John should meet, then stronger powersthan he would set the stage. He was amazed at his own calm.

The rum made his companion drowsy, and as they continued onthe road he ceased to groan, and at the next halting-place didnot stare at him with plaintive hang-dog eyes. As for Alastair hefound that his mind had changed again and that all his resolutionwas fluid.

His hatred of the pursued was ebbing, indeed had almostvanished, for with the sense of fatality which was growing uponhim he saw the man as no better than a pawn; a thing asimpersonal as sticks and stones. All the actors of thepiece--Kyd, Norreys, the Spoonbills, Edom, the sullen Johnson,grew in his picture small and stiff like marionettes, and Claudiaalone had the warmth of life. Once more she filled the stage ofhis memory, but it was not the russet and pearl of her and herwitching eyes that held him now, but a tragic muse who appealedfrom the brink of chasms. She implored his pity on all she loved,on the casket where she had hid her heart.

With a start he recognised that this casket was no other thanSir John Norreys.

He might shatter it and rescue the heart, but how would theprecious thing fare in the shattering? Her eyes rose before himwith their infinite surrender. Was Johnson right and was she ofthe race of women that give once in life and then utterly and forever? If so, his errand was not to succour, but to slay. Hissword would not cut the bonds of youth and innocence, it wouldpierce their heart.

He forced his mind to reconstruct the three occasions when shehad faced him--not for his delectation, but to satisfy a new-bornanxiety. He saw her at Flambury, a girl afire with zeal anddaring, sexless as a child, and yet always in her sweet stumblingphrases harping on her dear Sir John. He saw her in the BrownRoom at the Sleeping Deer, a tender muse of memories, butimperious towards dishonour, one whose slim grace might bebrittle but would not bend. Last he saw her set up in the greatbed at Brightwell, one arm round the neck of Duchess Kitty, theother stretched towards him in that woman's appeal which had heldhim from Derby and the path of duty.

There is that in hard riding and hard weather which refines aman's spirit, purging it of its grosser humours. The passion ofthe small hours had gone utterly from Alastair, and instead hissoul was filled with a tempestuous affection, not of a lover butof a kinsman and protector. The child must at all costs besheltered from sorrow, and if she pined for her toy it must befound for her, its cracks mended and its paint refurbished. Hismood was now the same as Johnson's, his resolution the same. Hefelt an odd pleasure in this access of tenderness, but he wasconscious, too, that the pleasure was like a thin drift offlowers over dark mires of longing and sorrow. For his world hadbeen tumbled down, and all the castles he had built. He hadalways been homeless, but now he was a thousandfold more anoutlaw, for the one thing on earth he desired was behind him andnot before him, and he was fleeing from hope.

In the afternoon the rain descended again and the road passedover a wide heath, which had been blackened by some autumn fireso that the shores of its leaden pools were like charcoal, andskeleton coverts shook their charred branches in the wind. Thescene was a desolation, but he viewed it with calm eyes, for astrange peace was creeping into his soul. He turned in thesaddle, and saw six yards behind him Johnson jogging wearilyalong, his heavy shoulders bowed and his eyes fixed dully on hishorse's neck. The man must be near the limits of his strength, hethought. . . . Once again he had one of his sudden premonitions.Sir John Norreys was close at hand, for he had not yet stoppedfor a meal and he had now been on the road for twelve hours. Theconviction grew upon him, and made him urge his tired beast to abetter pace. Somewhere just in front was the meeting-place wherethe ordeal was appointed which should decree the fate of twosouls. . . .

The drizzle changed into half a gale, and scouring blasts shutout the landscape. There came a moment's clearing, and lo! beforehim lay a bare space in the heath, where another road enteredfrom the west to join the highway. At their meeting, set in agrove of hornbeams, stood an inn.

It was a small place, ancient, long and low, and the signboardcould not be read in the dim weather. But beneath it,new-painted, was an open eye. He checked his horse, and turned tothe door, for he knew with utter certainty that he had reachedhis destination.

He dropped from the saddle, and since there was no stable-ladin sight, he tied the reins to a ring in the wall. Then he pushedopen the door and descended a step into the inn kitchen. A manwas busy about the hearth, a grizzled elderly fellow in leathernsmall-clothes. In front of the fire a fine coat hung drying ontwo chairs, and a pair of sodden boots steamed beside the logbasket.

The inn-keeper looked up, and something in the quiet eyes andweather-worn face awoke in Alastair a recollection. He had notseen the face before, but he had seen its like.

"You have a guest?" he said.

The man did not answer, and Alastair knew that no word or deedof his would compel an answer, if the man were unwilling.

"You have the sign," he said. "I, too, am of the Spoonbills. Iseek Master Midwinter."

The inn-keeper straightened himself. "He shall be found," hesaid. "What message do I carry?"

"Say that he to whom he promised help on Otmoor now claims it.And stay, there are two weary cattle outside. Have them fed andstabled."

The man turned to go, but Alastair checked him.

"You have a guest?" he asked.

"He is now upstairs at food," was the answer given readily."He feeds in his shirt, for he is all mucked and moiled with theroads."

"I have business with him, I and my friend. Let us be alonetill Master Midwinter comes."

The man stood aside to let Johnson stumble in. Then the doorwas shut, and to Alastair's ear there was the turning of akey.

Johnson's great figure seemed broken with weariness. Hestaggered across the uneven stone floor, and rolled into agrandfather's chair which stood to the left of the fire. Then hecaught sight of the coat drying in the glow and recognised it.Into his face, grey with fatigue, came a sudden panic. "It ishis," he cried. "He is here." He lifted his head and seemed tolisten like a stag at pause. Then he flung himself from thechair, and rushed on Alastair, who was staring abstractedly atthe blaze. "You will not harm him," he cried. "You will not breakmy lady's heart. Sooner, sir, I will choke you with my ownhands."

His voice was the scream of an animal in pain, his skin waslivid, his eyes were hot coals. Alastair, taken by surprise, wasall but swung off his feet by the fury of the assault. One greatarm was round his waist, one hand was clutching his throat. Thetwo staggered back, upsetting the chair before the fire; the handat the throat was shaken off, and in a second they were atwrestling-grips in the centre of the floor.

Both men were weary, and one was lately recovered of asickness. This latter, too, was the lighter, and for a momentAlastair found himself helpless in a grip which crushed in hissides and stopped his breath. But Johnson's passion was like thespouting of a volcano and soon died down. The fiery vigour wentout of his clutch, but it remained a compelling thing, holdingthe young man a close prisoner.

The noise of the scuffle had alarmed the gentleman above. Thestairs ran up in a steep flight direct from the kitchen, and asAlastair looked from below his antagonist's elbow, he saw a whiteface peer beneath the low roof of the stairway, and a littlefurther down three-quarters of the length of a sword blade. Hewas exerting the power of his younger arms against the deadstrength of Johnson, but all the while his eyes were held by thisnew apparition. It was something clad only in shirt and breechesand rough borrowed stockings, but the face was unmistakable andthe haggard eyes.

The apparition descended another step, and now Alastair sawthe hand which grasped the sword. Fear was in the man's face, andthen a deeper terror, for he had recognised one of thecombatants. There was perplexity there, too, for he was puzzledat the sight, and after that a spasm of hope. He hesitated for asecond till he grasped the situation. Then he shouted somethingwhich may have been an encouragement to Johnson, and leaped theremaining steps on to the kitchen floor.

Johnson had not seen him, for his head was turned the otherway and his sight and hearing were dimmed by his fury. The man inunderclothes danced round the wrestlers, babbling strangely."Hold him!" he cried. "Hold him, and I'll finish him!" His bladewas shortened for a thrust, but the movement of the wrestlersfrustrated him. He made a pass, but it only grazed the collar ofAlastair's coat.

Then he found a better chance, and again his arm wasshortened. A hot quiver went through Alastair's shoulder, for arapier had pinked the flesh and had cut into the flapping pouchof Johnson's coat.

It may have been Alastair's cry, or the fierce shout of theman in underclothes, but Johnson awoke suddenly to what washappening. He saw a white face with fiery eyes, he saw the rapierdrawn back for a new thrust with blood on its point. . . . With ashudder he loosened his grip and let Alastair go free.

"I have done murder," he cried, and staggered across the floortill he fell against the dresser. His hands were at his eyes andhe was shaken with a passion of sobbing.

The two remaining faced each other, one in his stocking-soles,dancing like a crazy thing in the glow of the wood-fire, triumphin his small eyes. Alastair, dazed and shaken, was striving todraw his blade, which, owing to the struggle, had becomeentangled in the skirts of his riding-coat. The other, awaking tothe new position of affairs, pressed on him wildly till he gaveground. . . . And then he halted, for a blade had crossedhis.

Both men had light travelling-swords, which in a well-matchedduello should have met with the tinkle of thin ice in a glass.But now there was the jar and whine of metal harshly used, forthe one lunged recklessly, and the other stood on a grimdefensive, parrying with a straight arm a point as disorderly aswildfire. Sir John Norreys had the skill in fence of an ordinaryEnglish squire, learned from an Oxfordmaîtred'escrime and polished by a lesson or two in CoventGarden--an art no better than ignorance when faced with oneperfected by Gérard and d'Aubigny, and tested in twentyaffairs against the best blades of France.

Alastair's wound was a mere scratch, and at this clearing ofissues his wits had recovered and his strength returned. As hefought, his eyes did not leave the other's face. He saw itschalky pallor, where the freckles showed like the scars ofsmallpox, the sharp arrogant nose, the weak mouth with the meanlines around it, the quick, hard eyes now beginning to waver fromtheir first fury. The man meant to kill him, and as he realisedthis, the atmosphere of the duello fled, and it was again the oldcombatà outrance of his clan--his left handreached instinctively for the auxiliary dagger which should havehung at his belt. And then he laughed, for whatever his enemy'spurposes, success was not likely to follow them.

The scene had to Alastair the spectral unreality of a dream.The kitchen was hushed save for the fall of ashes on the hearth,the strained sobbing of Johnson, and the rasp of the blades. Theface of Sir John Norreys was a mirror in which he read his ownpredominance. The eyes lost their heat, the pupils contractedtill they were two shining beads in the dead white of the skin,the wild lunging grew wilder, the breath came in short gasps. Butthe face was a mirror, too, in which he read something of thefuture. If his resolution to spare the man had not been alreadytaken, it must now have become irrevocable. This was a child, astripling, who confronted him, a mere amateur of vice, a thingwhich to slay would have been no better than common murder. Pityfor the man, even a strange kindness stole into Alastair's soul.He wondered how he could ever have hated anything so crude andweak.

He smiled again, and at that smile all the terrors of deathcrowded into the other's face. He seemed to nerve himself for alast effort, steadied the fury of his lunges and aimed a moreskilful thrust in tierce. Alastair had a mind to end the farce.His parry beat up the other's blade, and by an easy device of theschools he twitched the sword from his hand so that it clatteredat Johnson's feet.

Sir John Norreys stood stock-still for an instant, his mouthworking like a child about to weep. Then some share of manhoodreturned to him. He drew himself straight, swallowed what mayhave been a sob, and let his arms drop by his side.

"I am at your mercy," he stammered. "What do you purpose withme?"

Alastair returned his sword to its sheath. "I purpose to saveyour life," he said, "and if God be merciful, your soul."

He stripped off his riding-coat. "Take this," he said. "It iswintry weather, and may serve till your own garments are dry. Itis ill talking unclad, Sir John, and we have much to say to eachother."

Johnson had risen, and his face was heavy with an emotionwhich might have been sorrow or joy. He stood with arm upraisedlike a priest blessing his flock. "Now to Angels and Archangelsand all the Company of Heaven," he cried, and then he stopped,for the door opened softly and closed again.

It was Midwinter that entered. His shoulders filled thedoorway, and his eyes constrained all three to a tense silence.He walked to the fireplace, picking up Norreys's sword, which hebent into a half hoop against the jamb of the chimney. As hisquiet gaze fell on the company it seemed to exercise a peacefulmastery which made the weapon in his hand a mere trinket.

"You have summoned me, Captain Maclean," he said. "I am hereto make good my promise. Show me how I can serve you."

"We are constituted a court of honour," said Alastair. "Weseek your counsel."

He turned to Norreys.

"You are not two months married, Sir John. How many years haveyou to your age?"

The man answered like an automaton. "I am in my twenty-third,"he said. He was looking alternately to his antagonist and toMidwinter, still with the bewilderment of a dull child.

"Since when have you meddled in politics?"

"Since scarce two years."

"You were drawn to the Prince's side--by what? Was it familytradition?"

"No, damme, my father was a Hanover man when he lived. Iturned Jacobite to please Claudie. There was no welcome atChastlecote unless a man wore the white rose."

"And how came you into your recent business?"

"'Twas Kyd's doing. . . . No, curse it, I won't shelter behindanother, for I did it of my own free will. But 'twas Kyd showedme a way of improving my fortunes, for he knew I cared not astraw who had the governing of the land."

"And you were happy in the service?"

The baronet's face had lost its childishness, and had grownsullen.

"I was content." Then he broke out. "Rot him, I was notcontent--not of late. I thought the Prince and his adventure wasbut a Scotch craziness. But now, with him in the heart of EnglandI have been devilish anxious."

"For your own safety? Or was there perhaps anotherreason?"

Sir John's pale face flushed. "Let that be. Put it that Ifeared for my neck and my estate."

Alastair turned smiling to the others. "I begin to detect therudiments of honesty . . . I am going to unriddle your thoughts,Sir John. You were beginning to wonder how your wife would regardyour courses. Had the Prince shipwrecked beyond the Border, shewould never have known of them, and the Rising would have beenbetween you only a sad pleasing memory. But now she must learnthe truth, and you are afraid. Why? She is a lady of fortune, butyou did not marry her for her fortune."

"My God, no," he cried. "I loved her most damnably, and I evershall."

"And she loves you?"

The flush grew deeper. "She is but a child. She has scarcelyseen another man. I think she loves me."

"So you have betrayed the Prince's cause, because it did nottouch you deep and you favoured it only because of a lady's eyes.But the Prince looks like succeeding, Sir John. He is now southof Derby on the road to London, and his enemies do not abide him.What do you purpose in that event? Have you the purchase at hisCourt to get your misdoings overlooked?"

"I trusted to Kyd."

"Vain trust. Last night, after you left us so hastily, Kyd wasstripped to the bare bone."

"Was he sent to the Prince?" the man asked sharply.

"No. We preferred to administer our own justice, as we will dowith you. But he is gone into a long exile."

"Is he dead? . . . You promised me my life."

"He lives, as you shall live. Sir John, I will be frank withyou. You are a youth whom vanity and greed have brought deep intothe mire. I would get you out of it--not for your own sake, butfor that of a lady whom you love, I think, and who most assuredlyloves you. Your besetting sin is avarice. Well, let it beexercised upon your estates and not upon the fortunes of bettermen. I have a notion that you may grow with good luck into a verydecent sort of man--not much of a fellow at heart, perhaps, butreputable and reputed--at any rate enough to satisfy thelove-blinded eyes of your lady. Do you assent?"

The baronet reddened again at the contemptuous kindliness ofAlastair's words.

"I have no choice," he said gruffly.

"Then it is the sentence of this court that you retire to yourestates and live there without moving outside your parkpale."

"Alone?"

"Alone. Your wife has gone into Wiltshire with her Grace ofQueensberry. You will stay at Weston till she returns to you, andthat date depends upon the posture of affairs in the country. Youwill give me your oath to meddle no more in politics. And for thesafety of your person and the due observance of your promise youwill be given an escort on your journey south."

"Will you send Highlanders into Oxfordshire?" was theastonished question.

Midwinter answered. "Nay, young sir, you will have thebodyguard of Old England."

Sir John stared at Midwinter and saw something in that facewhich made him avert his gaze. He suddenly shivered, and adifferent look came into his eyes. "You have been merciful to me,sirs," he said, "merciful beyond my deserts. I owe you more thanI can repay."

"You owe it to your wife, sir," Alastair broke in. "Cherishher dearly and let that be your atonement. . . . If you will takemy advice, you will snatch a little sleep, for you have beenmoss-trooping for a round of the clock."

As the baronet's bare shanks disappeared up the stairwayAlastair turned wearily to the others. A haze seemed to cloud hiseyes, and the crackle of logs on the hearth sounded in his earslike the noise of the sea.

"You were right," he told Johnson. "There's the makings of asober husband in that man. No hero, but she may be trusted togild her idol. I think she will be happy."

"You have behaved as a good Christian should." Mr Johnson wasstill shaking as if from the ague. "Had I been in your case, I donot think I would have shown so just a mind."

"Call it philosophy, which makes a man know what it is not inhis power to gain," Alastair laughed. "I think I have learned thetrick of it from you."

He swayed and caught Midwinter's shoulder. "Forgive me, oldfriend. I have been riding for forty hours, and have fought andargued in between, and before that I rose off a sick-bed. . . .But I must on to Derby. Get a fresh horse, my brave one."

Midwinter drew him to an arm-chair, and seemed to fumble withhis hands for a second or two at his brow. When Johnson lookedagain Alastair was asleep, while the other dressed roughly thehole in his shoulder made by Sir John's sword.

"Festina lente, Mr Johnson. I can provide fresh beasts,but not fresh legs for the riders. The pair of you will sleep forfive hours and then sup, for Derby is a far cry and an ill road,and if you start as you are you will founder in the firstslough."

Fresh horses were found, and at four in the morning, fourhours before daylight in that murky weather, Alastair and Johnsonleft the inn. At the first cross-roads Midwinter joined them.

"Set your mind at ease about Sir John," he said. "He willtravel securely to the Cherwell side, and none but the Spoonbillswill know of his journey. I think you have read him right, sir,and that he is a prosy fellow who by accident has slipped intoroguery and will return gladly to his natural rut. But in caseyou are mistaken, he will be overlooked by my people, for we arestrong in that countryside. Be advised, sir, and ride gently, foryou have no bodily strength to spare, and your master will notwelcome a sick man."

"Do you ride to Derby with us?" Alastair asked.

"I have business on that road and will convey you thus far,"was the answer.

It was a morning when the whole earth and sky seemed suffusedin moisture. Fog strung its beads on their clothes, everyhedgerow tree dripped clammily, the roads were knee-deep in mud,flood-water lay in leaden streaks in the hollows of flat fields,each sluggish brook was a torrent, and at intervals the air woulddistil into a drenching shower. Alastair's body was still weary,but his heart was lightened. He had finished now with dallianceand was back at his old trade; and for the moment the memory ofClaudia made only a warm background to the hopes of a soldier.Little daggers of doubt stabbed his thoughts--he had sacrificedanother day and night in his chase of Sir John, and the Princehad now been at Derby the better part of forty hours without thatreport which he had promised. But surely, he consoled himself, soslight a delay could matter nothing; an army which had marchedtriumphant to the heart of England, and had already caused thesouls of its enemies to faint, could not falter when the goal waswithin sight. But the anxiety hung like amalaise aboutthe fringes of his temper and caused him now and then to spur hishorse fifty yards beyond his companion.

The road they travelled ran to Derby from the south-west, andits deep ruts showed the heavy traffic it had lately borne. By itcoaches, waggons and every variety of pack and riding horse hadcarried the timid folks of Derbyshire into sanctuaries beyond thetrack of the Highland army. To-day the traffic had shrunk to anoccasional horseman or a farmer's wife with panniers, and ajovial huntsman in red who, from his greeting, seemed thus earlyto have been powdering his wig. Already the country was settlingdown, thought Alastair, as folk learned of the Prince's clemencyand good-will. . . . The army would not delay at Derby, but wasprobably now on the move southward. It would go by Loughboroughand Leicester, but cavalry patrols might show themselves on theflank to the west. At any moment some of Elcho's or Pitsligo'shorse, perhaps young Tinnis himself, might canter out of themist.

He cried to Midwinter, asking whether it would not be betterto assume that the Prince had left the town, and to turn moresouthward so as to cut in on his march.

"Derby is the wiser goal," Midwinter answered. "It is unlikelythat His Highness himself will have gone, for he will travel withthe rear-guard. In three hours you will see All Saints'spire."

At eight they halted for food at a considerable village. Itwas Friday, and while the other two attacked a cold sirloin,Alastair broke his fast on a crust, resisting the landlord'soffer of carp or eels from the Trent on the ground that theywould take too long to dress. Then to pass the time while theothers finished their meal he wandered into the street, andstopped by the church door. The place was open, and he entered tofind a service proceeding and a thin man in a black gown holdingforth to an audience of women. No Jacobite this parson, for histext was from the 18th chapter of Second Chronicles. "Wilt thougo up with me to Ramoth-Gilead?" and the sermon figured thePrince as Ahab of Israel and Ramoth-Gilead as that (unspecified)spot where he was to meet his fate.

"A bold man the preacher," thought Alastair, as he slippedout, "to croak like a raven against a triumphing cause." But itappeared there were other bold men in the place. He stoppedopposite a tavern, from which came the sound of drunken mirth,and puzzled at its cause, when the day's work should bebeginning. Then he reflected that with war in the next parishmen's minds must be unsettled and their first disposition tostray towards ale-houses. Doubtless these honest fellows werecelebrating the deliverance of England.

But the words, thickly uttered, which disentangled themselvesfrom the tavern were other than he had expected:

"George is magnanimous,
Subjects unanimous,
   Peace to us bring."

ran the ditty, and the chorus called on God to save theusurper. He stood halted in a perplexity which was half anger,for he had a notion to give these louts the flat of his sword fortheir treason. Then someone started an air he knew too well:

"O Brother Sawney, hear you the news?
Twang 'em, we'll bang 'em and
   Hang 'em up all.
An array's just coming without any shoes,
Twang 'em, we'll bang 'em, and
   Hang 'em up all."

It was that accursed air "Lilibulero" which had drummed HisHighness's grandfather out of England. Surely the ale-housecompany must be a patrol of Kingston's or Richmond's, that hadgot perilously becalmed thus far north. He walked to the windowand cast a glance inside. No, they were heavy red-faced yokels,the men-folk of the village. He had a second of consternation atthe immensity of the task of changing this leaden England.

As they advanced the roads were better peopled, market folkfor the most part returning from Derby, and now and then partiesof young men who cried news to women who hung at the cornerswhere farm tracks debouched from the highway. In all these folkthere was an air of expectancy and tension natural in a land onthe confines of war. The three travellers bettered their pace."In an hour," Midwinter told them, "we reach the Ashbourne roadand so descend on Derby from the north." As the minutes passed,Alastair's excitement grew till he had hard work to conform hisspeed to that of his companions. He longed to hasten on--not fromanxiety, for that had left him, but from a passion to see hisPrince again, to be with comrades-in-arms, to share in thetriumph of these days of marvel. Somewhere in Derby His Highnesswould now be kneeling at mass; he longed to be at his side inthat sacrament of dedication.

Then as they topped a ridge in a sudden clearing of theweather a noble spire rose some miles ahead, and around it in theflat of a wide valley hung the low wisps of smoke which betokenedhuman dwellings. It did not need Midwinter's cry of "All Saints"to tell Alastair that he was looking at the place which held hismaster and the hope of the Cause. By tacit consent the three menspurred their beasts, and rode into a village, the long street ofwhich ran north and south. "'Tis the high road from Ashbourne toDerby," said Midwinter. "To the right, sirs, unless you are forManchester and Scotland."

But there was that about the village which made each pull onhis bridle rein. It was as still as a churchyard. Every housedoor was closed, and at the little windows could be seen whitefaces and timid eyes. The inn door had been smashed and the panesin its front windows, and a cask in the middle of the streetstill trickled beer from its spigot. It might have been the nightafter a fair, but instead it was broad daylight, and theafter-taste was less of revelry than of panic.

The three men slowly and silently moved down the street, andthe heart of one of them was the prey of a leaping terror. Scaredeyes, like those of rabbits in a snare, were watching them fromthe windows. In the inn-yard there was no sign of a soul, exceptthe village idiot who was playing ninepins with bottles.Midwinter hammered on a back door, but there was no answer. Butas they turned again towards the street they were aware of amottled face that watched them from a side window. Apparently theface was satisfied with their appearance, for the window wasslightly opened and a voice cried "Hist!" Alastair turned and sawa troubled fat countenance framed in the sash of a pantrycasement.

"Be the salvages gone, gen'lemen?" the voice asked. "Themurderin' heathen has blooded my best cow to make their beastlyporridge."

"We have but now arrived," said Alastair. "We are for Derby.Pray, sir, what pestilence has stricken this place?"

"For Derby," said the man. "Ye'll find a comfortable town,giving thanks to Almighty God and cleansin' the lousiness of itshabitation. What pestilence, says you? A pestilence, verily, goodsir, for since cockcrow the rebel army has been meltin' awaynorthwards like the hosts o' Sennacherib before the blast of theLord. Horse and foot and coaches, and the spawn o' Rome himselfin the midst o' them. Not but what he be a personable young man,with his white face and pretty white wig, and his sad smile, andwhere he was the rebels marched like an army. But there was acresof breechless rabbledom at his heels that thieved like pyots. Bethey all passed, think ye?"

The chill at Alastair's heart turned to ice.

"But the Prince is in Derby," he stammered. "He marchessouth."

"Not so, young sir," said the man. "I dunno the why of it, butsince cockcrow he and his rascality has been fleein' north. OldEngland's too warm for the vermin and they're hastin' back totheir bogs."

The head was suddenly withdrawn, since the man saw somethingwhich was still hid from the others. There was a sound of feet inthe road, the soft tread which deer make when they are changingtheir pasture. From his place in the alley Alastair saw figurescome into sight, a string of outlandish figures that withoutpause or word poured down the street. There were perhaps a scoreof them--barefoot Highlanders, their ragged kilts buckled high ontheir bodies, their legs blue with cold, their shirts unspeakablyfoul and tattered, their long hair matted into elf-locks. Eachman carried plunder, one a kitchen clock slung on his back by arope, another a brace of squalling hens, another some goodman'swraprascal. Their furtive eyes raked the houses, but they did notpause in the long loping trot with which of a moonlight nightthey had often slunk through the Lochaber passes. They wore theMacdonald tartan, and the familiar sight seemed to strip fromAlastair's eyes the last film of illusion.

So that was the end of the long song. Gone the velvet andsteel of a great crusade, the honourable hopes, the chivalry andthe high adventure, and what was left was this furtive bandittislinking through the mud like the riff-raff of a fair. . . . Itwas too hideous to envisage, and the young man's mind wasmercifully dulled after the first shattering certainty.Mechanically the three turned into the street.

The courage of the inhabitants was reviving. One or two menhad shown themselves, and one fellow with a flageolet wasstarting a tune. Another took it up, and began to sing.

"O Brother Sawney, hear you the news?"

and presently several joined in the chorus of

"Twang 'em, we'll bang 'em, and
   Hang 'em up all."

"Follow me," said Midwinter, and they followed him beyond thehouses, and presently turned off into a path that ran among woodsinto the dale. In Alastair's ears the accursed tune rang like thevoice of thousands, till it seemed that all England behind himwas singing it, a scornful valedictory to folly.

He dismounted in a dream and found himself set by the hearthin the well-scrubbed kitchen of a woodland inn. Midwinterdisappeared and returned with three tankards of home-brewed,which he distributed among them. No one spoke a word, Johnsonsprawling on a chair with his chin on his breast and his eyeshalf-closed, while his left hand beat an aimless tattoo,Midwinter back in the shadows, and Alastair in the eye of thefire, unseeing and absorbed. The palsy was passing from the youngman's mind, and he was enduring the bitterness of returningthought, like the pain of the blood flowing back to a frozenlimb. No agony ever endured before in his life, not even thepassion of disquiet when he had been prisoner in the hut and hadoverheard Sir John Norreys's talk, had so torn at the roots ofhis being.

For it was clear that on him and on him alone had the Causeshipwrecked. At some hour yesterday the fainthearts in theCouncil had won, and the tragic decision had been taken, thePrince protesting--he could see the bleached despair in his faceand hear the hopeless pleading in his voice. He imagined Lochieland others of the stalwarts pleading for a day's delay, delaywhich might bring the lost messenger, himself, with the proofsthat would convince the doubters. All was over now, for arebellion on the defensive was a rebellion lost. With London attheir mercy, with Cumberland and the Whig Dukes virtually inflight, and a dumb England careless which master was hers, theyhad turned their back on victory and gone northward to chaos anddefeat. And all because of their doubt of support, which was eventhen waiting in the West for their summons. Mr Nicholas Kyd hadconquered in his downfall, and in his exile would chuckle overthe discomfiture of his judges.

But it had been his own doing--his and none other's.Providence had provided an eleventh-hour chance, which he hadrefused. Had he ridden straight from Brightwell, he could havebeen with the Prince in the small hours of the morning, timeenough to rescind the crazy decision and set the army on the roadfor Loughborough and St James's. But he had put his duty behindhim for a whim. Not a whim of pleasure--for he had sacrificed hisdearest hopes--but of another and a lesser duty. A perverse duty,it seemed to him now, the service of a woman rather than of hisKing. Great God, what a tangle was life! He felt no bitternessagainst any mortal soul, not even against the oafs who were nowsinging "George is magnanimous." He and he alone must bear theblame, since in a high mission he had let his purpose be divided,and in a crisis had lacked that singleness of aim which is theshining virtue of the soldier. . . . His imagination, heated tofever point, made a panorama of tragic scenes. He saw thePrince's young face thin and haggard and drawn, looking withhopeless eyes into the northern mists, a Pretender now forevermore, when he might have been a King. He saw his comrades,condemned to lost battles with death or exile at the end of them.He saw his clan, which might have become great again, reduced tofamished vagrants, like the rabble of Macdonalds seen an hour agoscurrying at the tail of the army. . . . That knot of cateranswas the true comment on the tragedy. Plunderers of old wives'plenishing when they should have been a King's bodyguard in theproud courts of palaces!

The picture maddened him with its bitter futility. He droppedhis head on his breast and cried like a heartbroken child. "Ah,my grief, my grief! I have betrayed my Prince and undone mypeople. There is no comfort for me any more in the world."

At the cry Johnson lifted his head, and stared with eyes notless tragic than his own.

Midwinter had carried that day at his saddle-bow an oddlyshaped case which never left him. Back in the shadow he hadopened it and taken out his violin, and now drew from it the thinfine notes which were the prelude to his playing. Alastair didnot notice the music for a little, but gradually familiar chordsstruck in on his absorption and awoke their own memories. It wasthe air of "Diana," which was twined with every crisis of thepast weeks. The delicate melody filled the place like a vapour,and to the young man brought not peace, but a differentpassion.

A passion of tenderness was in it, a wayward wounded beauty.Claudia's face again filled his vision, the one face that in allhis life had brought love into his bustling soldierly moods andmoved his heart to impulses which aforetime he would have thoughtincredible. Love had come to him and he had passed it by, but notwithout making sacrifice, for to the goddess he had offered hismost cherished loyalties. Now it was all behind him--but by God,he did not, he would not regret it. He had taken the only way,and if it had pleased Fate to sport cruelly with him, that was nofault of his. He had sacrificed one loyalty to a more urgent, andwith the thought bitterness went out of his soul. Would Lochiel,would the Prince blame him? Assuredly no. Tragedy had ensued, butthe endeavour had been honest. He saw the ironic pattern of lifespread out beneath him, as a man views a campaign from amountain, and he came near to laughter--laughter with anundertone of tears.

Midwinter changed the tune, and the air was now that which hehad played that night on Otmoor in the camp of the moor-men.

"Three naked men we be,
Stark aneath the blackthorn tree."

He laid down his violin. "I bade you call me to your aid,Alastair Maclean, if all else failed you and your pridemiscarried. Maybe that moment has come. We in this place arethree naked men."

"I am bare to the bone," said Alastair, "I have given up mylady, and I have failed in duty to my Prince. I have no rag ofpride left on me, nor ambition, nor hope."

Johnson spoke. "I am naked enough, but I had little to lose. Iam a scholar and a Christian and, I trust, a gentleman, but I ambitter poor, and ill-favoured, and sore harassed by bodilyaffliction. Naked, ay, naked as when I came from the womb."

Midwinter moved into the firelight, with a crooked smile onhis broad face. "We be three men in like case," he said."Nakedness has its merits and its faults. A naked man travelsfast and light, for he has nothing that he can lose, and his mindis free from cares, so that it is better swept and garnished forthe reception of wisdom. But if he be naked he is alsodefenceless, and the shod feet of the world can hurt him. Youhave been sore trampled on, sirs. One has lost a lady whom heloved as a father, and the other a mistress and a Cause.Naturally your hearts are sore. Will you that I help in thehealing of them? Will you join me in Old England, which is therefuge of battered men?"

Alastair looked up and gently shook his head. "For me," hesaid, "I go up to Ramoth-Gilead, like the King of Israel I heardthe parson speak of this morning. It is fated that I go there andit is fated that I fail. Having done so much to wreck the Cause,the least I can do is to stand by it to the end. I am convincedthat the end is not far off, and if it be also the end of my daysI am content."

"And I," said Johnson, "have been minded since this morning toget me a sword and fight in His Highness's army."

Alastair looked at the speaker with eyes half affectionate,half amused.

"Nay, that I do not permit. In Scotland we strive on our ownground and in our own quarrel, and I would involve no Englishmanin what is condemned to defeat. You have not our sentiments, sir,and you shall not share our disasters. But I shall welcome yourcompany to within sight of Ramoth-Gilead."

"I offer the hospitality of Old England," said Midwinter.

There was no answer and he went on--

"It is balm for the wearied, sirs, and a wondrous opiate forthe unquiet. If you have lost all baggage, you retire to a worldwhere baggage is unknown. If you seek wisdom, you will find it,and you will forget alike the lust of life and the dread ofdeath."

"Can you teach me to forget the fear of death?" Johnson askedsharply. "Hark you, sir, I am a man of stout composition, forthere is something gusty and gross in my humour which makes mecareless of common fear. I will face an angry man, or mob, orbeast with equanimity, even with joy. But the unknown terrors ofdeath fill me, when I reflect on them, with the most painfulforebodings. I conjecture, and my imagination wanders inlabyrinths of dread. I most devoutly believe in the living God,and I stumblingly attempt to serve Him, but 'tis an awful thingto fall into His hand."

"In Old England," said Midwinter, "they look on death as notless natural and kindly than the shut of evening. They lay downtheir heads on the breast of earth as a flower dies in thefield."

Johnson was looking with abstracted eyes to the misty woodsbeyond a lozenged window, and he replied like a man thinking hisown thoughts aloud.

"The daedal earth!" he muttered. "Poets, many poets, have sungof it, and I have had glimpses of it. . . . A sweet and strangething when a man quits the servitude of society and goes to nursewith Gaea. I remember . . ."

Then a new reflection seemed to change his mood and bring himto his feet with his hands clenched.

"Tut, sir," he cried, "these are but brutish consolations. Ican find that philosophy in pagan writers, and it has smallcomfort for a Christian. I thank you, but I have no part in yourworld of woods and mountains. I am better fitted for a civillife, and must needs return to London and bear the burden of itin a garret. But I am not yet persuaded as to that matter oftaking arms. I have a notion that I am a good man of myhands."

Midwinter's eyes were on Alastair, who smiled and shook hishead.

"You offer me Old England, but I am of another race and land.I must follow the road of my fathers."

"That is your answer?"

"Nay, it is not all my answer. Could you understand theGaelic, or had I my fingers now on the chanter-reed, I could giveit more fully. You in England must keep strictly to the highroad, or flee to the woods--one or the other, for there is nothird way. We of the Highlands carry the woods with us to thehigh roads of life. We are natives of both worlds, wherefore weneed renounce neither. But my feet must tread the high road tillmy strength fails."

"It was the answer I looked for," said Midwinter, and he roseand slung his violin on his arm. "Now we part, gentlemen, and itis not likely that we shall meet again. But nevertheless you aresealed of our brotherhood, for you are of the Naked Men, sincethe film has gone from your sight and you have both looked intoyour own hearts. You can never again fear mortal face or thetricks of fortune, for you are men indeed, and can confront yourMaker with honest eyes. Farewell, brother." He embraced Alastairand kissed him on the cheek, and held for a second Johnson'sgreat hand in his greater. Then he left the room, and a minutelater a horse's hooves drummed on the stones of the littleyard.

For a little the two left behind sat in silence. Then Johnsonspoke:

"My dear young lady should by this time be across Trent. Itake it that she is safe from all perils of the road in HerGrace's carriage." Then he took up a poker and stirred the logs."Clear eyes are for men an honourable possession, but they do notmake for happiness. I pray God that those of my darling child mayto the end of a long life be happily blinded."

Three hours' hard riding should have brought them to the tailof the Highland army, but the horses were still in their stallswhen the night fell. For, as he sat by the fire with Johnson, thelatches of Alastair's strength were loosened and it fell fromhim. The clout on the head, the imperfect convalescence, theseasons of mental conflict and the many hours in the saddle hadbrought even his tough body to cracking-point. The room swambefore his eyes, there was burning pain in his head, anddizziness and nausea made him collapse in his chair. Johnson andthe hostess's son, a half-grown boy, carried him to bed, and allnight he was in an ague--the return, perhaps, of the low feverwhich had followed his wound at Fontenoy. There was a buzzing inhis brain which happily prevented thought, and next day, when thefever ebbed, he was so weak that his mind was content to bevacant. By such merciful interposition he escaped the bitterestpangs of reproach which would have followed his realisation offailure.

The first afternoon Johnson sat with him, giving him vinegarand water to sip, and changing the cool cloths on his brow.Alastair was drifting aimlessly on the tide of weakness, seeingfaces--Claudia, Kitty of Queensberry, Cornbury, very notably thehandsome periwigged head of the King's Solicitor--like the stonestatues in a garden. They had no cognisance of him, and he didnot wish to attract their notice, for they belonged to a worldthat had vanished, and concerned him less than the figures on astage. By and by his consciousness became clearer, and he wasaware of a heartbreak that enveloped him like an atmosphere, agreat cloud of grief that must shadow his path for ever. And yetthere were rifts in it where light as from a spring sky brokethrough, and he found himself melting at times in a sadtenderness. He had lost tragically, but he had learned that therewas more to prize than he had dreamed.

Johnson, his face like a bishop's, sat at the bed foot, sayingnothing, but gazing at the sick man with the eyes of an oldfriendly dog. When Alastair was able to drink the gruel thehostess produced, the tutor considered that he must assist hisrecovery by sprightly conversation. But the honest man's soul hadbeen so harassed in the past days that he found it hard to bejocose. He sprawled in his wooden chair, and the window whichfaced him revealed sundry rents in his small-clothes and theimmense shabbiness of his coat. Alastair on his bed watched theheavy pitted features, the blinking eyes, the perpetuallytwitching hands with a certainty that never in his days had heseen a man so uncouth or so wholly to be loved; and, as helooked, he seemed to discern that in the broad brow and the noblehead which was also to be revered.

The young man's gaze having after the fashion of sick folkfixed itself upon one spot, Johnson became conscious of it, andlooked down on his disreputable garments with distaste notunmixed with humour.

"My clothes are old and sorry," he said. "I lament the fact,sir, for I am no lover of negligence in dress. A wise man darenot go under-dressed till he is of consequence enough to forbearcarrying the badge of his rank upon his back. That is not mycase, and I would fain be more decent in my habiliments, which donot properly become even my modest situation in life. But Iconfess that at the moment I have but two guineas, given me by mydear young lady, and I have destined them for another purposethan haberdashery."

What this purpose was appeared before the next evening. Duringthe afternoon Johnson disappeared in company with the youth ofthe inn, and returned at the darkening with a face flushed andtriumphant. Alastair, whose strength was reviving, was sitting upwhen the door opened to admit a deeply self-conscious figure.

It was Johnson in a second-hand riding-coat of blue camlet,cut somewhat in the military fashion, and in all likelihood oncethe property of some dashing yeoman. But that was only half ofhis new magnificence, for below the riding-coat, beneath his drabcoat, and buckled above his waistcoat, was a great belt, and fromthe belt depended a long scabbard.

"I make you my compliments," said Alastair. "You have acquireda cloak."

"Nay, sir, but I have acquired a better thing. I have got me asword."

He struggled with his skirts and after some difficulty drewfrom its sheath a heavy old-fashioned cut-and-thrust blade, ofthe broadsword type. With it he made a pass or two, and thenbrought it down in a sweep which narrowly missed the bedpost.

"Now am I armed against all enemies," he cried, stamping hisfoot. "If Polyphemus comes, have at his eye," and he lungedtowards the window.

The mingled solemnity and triumph of his air checkedAlastair's laughter. "This place is somewhat confined forsword-play," he said. "Put it up, and tell me where youdiscovered the relic."

"I purchased it this very afternoon, through the good officesof the lad below. There was an honest or indifferent honestfellow in the neighbourhood who sold me cloak, belt and sword forthree half-guineas. It is an excellent weapon, and I trust toyou, sir, to give me a lesson or two in its use."

He flung off the riding-coat, unbuckled the belt and sathimself in his accustomed chair.

"Two men are better than one on the roads," he said, "the moreif both are armed. I would consult you, sir, on a point ofhonour. I have told you that I am reputably, though not highlyborn, and I have had a gentleman's education. I am confident thatbut for a single circumstance, no gentleman need scruple to crossswords with me or to draw his sword by my side. The singlecircumstance is this--I have reason to believe that a relativesuffered death by hanging, though for what cause I do not know,since the man disappeared utterly and his end is only a matter ofgossip. Yet I must take the supposition at its worst. Tell me,sir, does that unhappy connection in your view deprive me of thearmigerous rights of a gentleman?"

This time Alastair did not forbear to smile.

"Why no, sir. In my own land the gallows is reckoned anornament to a pedigree, and it has been the end of many apromising slip of my own house. Indeed it is not unlikely to bethe end of me. But why do you ask the question?"

"Because I purpose to go with you to the wars."

Johnson's face was as serious as a judge's, and his dull eyeshad kindled with a kind of shamefaced ardour. The young man feltso strong a tide of affection rising in him for this uncouthcrusader that he had to do violence to his own inclination inshaping his counsel.

"It cannot be, my dear sir," he cried. "I honour you, I loveyou, but I will not permit a futile sacrifice. Had England risenfor our Prince, your aid would have been most heartily welcome,but now the war will be in Scotland, and I tell you it is ashopeless as a battle of a single kestrel against a mob of ravens.I fight in it, for that is my trade and duty; I have been bred towar, and it is the quarrel of my house and my race. But for youit is none of these things. You would be a stranger in a foreignstrife. . . . Nay, sir, but you must listen to reason. You are ascholar and have your career to make in a far different world.God knows I would welcome your comradeship, for I respect yourcourage and I love your honest heart, but I cannot suffer you toride to certain ruin. Gladly I accept your convoy, but you willstop short of Ramoth-Gilead."

The other's face was a heavy mask of disappointment. "I mustbe the judge of my own path," he said sullenly.

"But you will be guided in that judgment by one who knowsbetter than you the certainties of the road. It is no part of aman's duty to walk aimlessly to death."

The last word seemed to make Johnson pause. But he recoveredhimself.

"I have counted the cost," he said. "I fear death, God knows,but not more than other men. I will be no stranger in your wars.I will change my name to MacIan, and be as fierce as anyHighlander."

"It cannot be. What you told Midwinter is the truth. If youare not fitted by nature for Old England, still less are youfitted for our wild long-memoried North. You will go back toLondon, Mr Johnson, and some day you will find fortune andhappiness. You will marry some day . . ."

At the word Johnson's face grew very red, and he turned hiseyes on the ground and rolled his head with an odd nervousmotion.

"I have misled you," he said. "I have been married these tenyears. My dear Tetty is now living in the vicinity of London. . .. I have not written to her for seven weeks.Mea culpa! Meamaxima culpa!"

He put his head in his hands and seemed to be absorbed in apassion of remorse.

"You must surely return to her," said Alastair gently.

Johnson raised his head. "I would not have you think that Ihad forgotten her. She has her own small fortune, which sufficesfor one, though scant enough for two. I earn so little that I amrather an encumbrance than an aid, and she is more prosperous inmy absence."

"Yet she must miss you, and if you fall she will bewidowed."

"True, true. I have no clearness in the matter. I will seeklight in prayer and sleep." He marched from the room, leaving hisnew accoutrements lying neglected in a corner.

Next day Alastair was sufficiently recovered to travel, andthe two set out shortly after daylight. The woman of the inn, whohad been instructed by Midwinter, had counsel to give. TheAshbourne road was too dangerous, for already the pursuit hadbegun and patrols of Government horse were on the trail of theHighlanders; two gentlemen such as they might be taken for thetail of the rebels and suffer accordingly. She advised that theroad should be followed by Chesterfield and the east side of thecounty, which would avoid the high hills of the Peak and bringthem to Manchester and the Lancashire levels by an easier if alonger route. It was agreed that the two should pass as masterand man--Mr Andrew Watson, the coal-merchant of Newcastle, andhis secretary.

The secretary, ere they started, drew his sword and fingeredit lovingly. "I must tell you," he whispered to Alastair, "thatthe reflections of the night have not shaken my purpose. I amstill resolved to accompany you to the wars."

But there was no gusto in his air. All that day among theshallow vales he hardly spoke, and now and then would groanlamentably. The weather was mist and driving rain, and thetravellers' prospect was little beyond the puddles of the roadand the wet glistening stone of the roadside dykes. That nightthey had risen into the hills, where the snow lay in the hollowsand at the dyke-backs, and slept at a wretched hovel of a smithyon a bed of bracken. The smith, a fellow with a week's beard andred-rimmed eyes, gave the news of the place. The Scots, he hadheard, had passed Macclesfield the night before, and all day themilitia, horsed by the local squires, had been scouting the moorspicking up breechless stragglers. He did not appear to suspecthis sullen visitors, who proclaimed their hurry to reachManchester on an errand of trade.

Thereafter to both men the journey was a nightmare. InManchester, where they slept a night, the mob was burning Charlesin effigy and hiccuping "George is magnanimous"--that mob whichsome weeks before had worn white favours and drunk damnation toHanover. They saw a few miserable Highlanders, plucked from thetail of the army, in the hands of the town guard, and amountebank in a booth had got himself up in a parody of a kiltand sang ribaldry to a screaming crowd. They heard, too, of theGovernment troops hard on the trail, Wade cutting in from theeast by the hill roads, Cumberland hastening from the south,Bland's and Cobham's regiments already north of the town, mountedyeomen to guard the fords and bridges, and beacons blazing onevery hill to raise the country.

"The Prince must halt and fight," Alastair told his companionas they rode out of Manchester next morning. "With this hell'spack after him he will be smothered unless he turn and tear them.Lord George will command the rear-guard, and I am positive hewill stand at Preston. Ribble ford is the place. You may yetwitness a battle, and have the chance of fleshing that blade ofyours."

But when they came to Preston--by circuitous ways, for theyhad to keep up the pretence of timid travellers, and the mainroad was too thick with alarums--they found the bridge held bydragoons. Here they were much catechised, and, having givenNewcastle as their destination, were warned that the northernroads into Yorkshire were not for travellers and bidden go backto Manchester. The Prince, it seemed, was at Lancaster, and LordGeorge and the Glengarry men and the Appin Stewarts half-waybetween that town and Preston.

That night Alastair implored Johnson to return. "We are on theedge of battle," he told him, "and I beseech you to keep awayfrom what can only bring you ruin." But the other was obstinate."I will see you at any rate on the eve of joining your friends,"he said, "We have yet to reach Ramoth-Gilead."

The Preston dragoons were too busy on their own affairs togive much heed to two prosaic travellers. Alastair and Johnsonstole out of the town easily enough next morning, and making awide circuit to the west joined the Lancaster road near Garstang.To their surprise the highway was almost deserted, and they rodeinto Lancaster without hindrance. There they found the town in ahubbub, windows shuttered, entries barricaded, the watch makingtimid patrols about the streets, and one half the people lookinganxiously south, the other fearfully north to the Kendal road.The Prince had been there no later than yesterday, and therear-guard had left at dawn. News had come that the Duke ofCumberland was recalled, because of a French landing, and therewere some who said that now the Scots would turn south again andravage their way to London.

The news, which he did not believe, encouraged Alastair tomend his pace. There had been some kind of check in the pursuit,and the Prince might yet cross the Border without a battle. Hebelieved that this would be Lord George's aim, who knew his armyand would not risk it, if he could, in a weary defensive action.The speed of march would therefore be increased, and he mustquicken if he would catch them up. The two waited in Lancasteronly to snatch a meal, and then set out by the Hornby road,intending to fetch a circuit towards Kendal, where it seemedlikely the Prince would lie.

The afternoon was foggy and biting cold, so that Alastairlooked for snow and called on Johnson to hurry before the stormbroke. But the fall was delayed, and up to the darkening theyrode in an icy haze through the confused foothills. The mountainswere beginning again, the hills of bent and heather that he knew;the streams swirled in grey rock-rimmed pools, the air had thesour, bleak, yet invigorating tang of his own country. But now hedid not welcome it, for it was the earnest of defeat. He wasreturning after failure. Nay, he was leaving his heart buried inthe soft South country, which once he had despised. A wildlonging, the perversion of homesickness, filled him for the smokybrown champaigns and the mossy woodlands which now enshrined thejewel of Claudia. He had thought that regrets were put away forever and that he had turned his eyes stonily to a cold future,but he had forgotten that he was young.

In the thick weather they came from the lanes into a broaderhigh road, and suddenly found their progress stayed. A knot oftroopers bade them halt, and unslung their muskets. They werefellows in green jackets, mounted on shaggy country horses, andthey spoke with the accent of the Midlands. Alastair repeated histale, and was informed that their orders were to let no man passthat road and to take any armed and mounted travellers before theGeneral. He asked their regiment and was told that it was theRangers, a corps of gentlemen volunteers. The men were cloddishbut not unfriendly, and, suspecting that the corps was some rawlevy of yokels commanded by some thickskulled squire, Alastairbowed to discretion and bade them show the way to the General'squarters.

But the moorland farmhouse to which they were led awoke hisdoubts. The sentries had the trimness of a headquarters guard,and the horses he had a glimpse of in the yard were not thescrews or carthorses of the ordinary yeoman. While they waited inthe low-ceiled kitchen he had reached the conclusion that in theGeneral he would find some regular officer of Wade's orCumberland's command, and as he bowed his head to enter theparlour he had resolved on his line of conduct.

But he was not prepared for the sight of Oglethorpe; grim,aquiline, neat as a Sunday burgess, who raised his head from amass of papers, stared for a second and then smiled.

"You have brought me a friend, Roger," he told the younglieutenant. "These gentlemen will be quartered here this night,for the weather is too thick to travel further; likewise theywill sup with me."

When the young man had gone, he held out his hand toAlastair.

"We seem fated to cross each other's path, Mr Maclean."

"I would present to you my friend, Mr Samuel Johnson, sir.This is General Oglethorpe."

Johnson stared at him and then thrust forward a greathand.

"I am honoured, sir, deeply honoured. Every honest man hasheard the name." And he repeated:

"One, driven by strong benevolence of soul,
Shall fly like Oglethorpe from pole to pole."

The General smiled. "Mr Pope was over-kind to my modestdeserts. But, gentlemen, I am in command of a part of HisMajesty's forces, and at this moment we are in the region of war.I must request from you some account of your recent doings andyour present purpose. Come forward to the fire, for it is wintryweather. And stay! Your Prince's steward has been scouring thecountry for cherry brandy, to which it seems His Highness ispartial. But all has not been taken." He filled two glasses froma decanter at his elbow.

Looking at the rugged face and the grave kindly eyes, Alastairresolved that it was a case for a full confession. He told of hisdoings at Brightwell after the meeting with Oglethorpe at theSleeping Deer, and of the fate of Mr Nicholas Kyd, but he made nomention of Sir John Norreys. He told of his ride to Derby, andwhat he had found on the Ashbourne road. It is possible thatthere was a break in his voice, for Oglethorpe averted his eyesand shook his head.

"I cannot profess to regret a failure which it is my duty toensure," he said, "but I can pity a brave man who sees his hopesdestroyed. And now, sir? What course do you shape?"

"I must pursue the poor remains of my duty. I go to join myPrince."

"And it is my business to prevent you!"

Alastair looked at him composedly. "Nay, sir, I do not thinkthat such can be your duty. It might be Cumberland's or Wade's,but not Oglethorpe's, for you can understand another loyalty thanyour own, and I do not think you will interfere with mine. I askonly to go back to my own country. I will give you my word that Iwill not strike a blow in England."

Again Oglethorpe smiled. "You read my heart with someconfidence, sir. If I were to detain you, what would be thecharge? You have not yet taken arms against His Majesty. Of yourpolitical doings I have no experience: to me you are a gentlemantravelling to Scotland, who has on one occasion rendered goodservice to myself and so to His Majesty. That is all which, as asoldier, I am concerned to know. You will have quarters for thenight, and tomorrow, if you desire it, continue your journey. ButI must stipulate that the road you follow is not that of thePrince's march. You will not join his army till it is north ofEsk."

Alastair bowed. "I am content."

"But your friend," Oglethorpe continued. "This Mr SamuelJohnson who quotes so appositely the lines of Mr Pope. He is anEnglishman, and is in another case. I cannot permit Mr Johnson tocross the Border."

"He purposes to keep me company," said Alastair, "till I havejoined the Prince."

"Nay, sir," cried Johnson. "You have been honest with us, andI will be honest with you. My desire is to join the Prince andfight by my friend's side."

Oglethorpe looked at the strange figure, below the skirts ofwhose old brown coat peeped a scabbard. "You seem," he said, "tohave fulfilled the scriptural injunction 'He that hath no sword,let him sell his garment and buy one.' But, sir, it may not be. Iwould not part two friends before it is necessary, but you willgive me your parole that you will not enter Scotland, or I musthold you prisoner and send you to Manchester."

Johnson turned to Alastair and put a hand on his shoulder.

"It seems that Providence is on your side, my friend, and hasintervened to separate us. That was your counsel, but it wasnever mine. . . . So be it, then." He walked to the window andseemed to be in trouble with his dingy cravat.

*****

Next morning when Oglethorpe's Rangers began their marchtowards Shap, the two travellers set out by an easterly road,forded the Lune and made for the Eden valley. The rains filledthe streams and mosses, and their progress was slow, so that fordays they were entangled among the high Cumbrian hills. News ofthe affair at Clifton, where Lord George beat off Cumberland'svan and saved the retreat, came to them by a packman in a herd'ssheiling on Cross Fell, and after that their journey was cleardown the Eden, till the time came to avoid Carlisle and makestraight across country for Esk. The last night they lay at anale-house on the Lyneside, and Alastair counted thirty guineasfrom his purse.

"With this I think you may reach London," he told Johnson, andwhen the latter expostulated, he bade him consider it a loan. "IfI fall, it is my bequest to you; and if I live, then we shallassuredly meet again and you can repay me. I would fain make itmore, but money is likely to be a scarce commodity in yonderarmy."

"You have a duty clear before you," said the other dismally."For me, I have none such; I would I had. But I will seek noopiates in a life of barbarism. I am resolved to spend what daysthe Almighty may still allot me on the broad highway of humanity.When I have found my task I will adhere to it like asoldier."

Next morning they rode to a ridge beneath which the swollenEsk poured through the haughlands. It was a day of flyingsqualls, and the great dales of Esk and Annan lay mottled withsun-gleams and purple shadows up to the dark hills, which,chequered with snow, defended the way to the north. Further downAlastair's quick eye noted a commotion on the river banks, anddark objects bobbing in the stream.

"See," he cried, "His Highness is crossing. We have steeredskilfully, for I enter Scotland by his side."

"Is that Scotland?" Johnson asked, his shortsighted eyespeering at the wide vista.

"Scotland it is, and somewhere over yon hills liesRamoth-Gilead."

Alastair's mind had in these last days won a certain peace,and now at the sight of the army something quickened in him thathad been dead since the morning on the Ashbourne road. Youth waswaking from its winter sleep. The world had become colouredagain, barriers were down, roads ran into the future. Hazardseemed only hazard now and not despair. Suddenly came the soundof wild music, as the pipers struck up the air of "Bundle andgo." The strain rose far and faint and elfin, like a wanderingwind, and put fire into his veins.

"That is the march for the road," Alastair cried. "Now I amfor my own country."

"And I for mine," said Johnson, but there was no spring in hisvoice. He rubbed his eyes, peered in the direction of the music,and made as if to unbuckle his sword. Then he thought better ofit. "Nay, I will keep the thing to nurse my memory," he said.

The two men joined hands; and Alastair, in his foreignfashion, kissed the other on the cheek. As they mounted, a showerenveloped them, and the landscape was blotted out, so that thetwo were isolated in a world of their own.

"We are naked men," said Johnson. "Each must go up to his ownRamoth-Gilead, but I would that yours and mine had been thesame."

Then he turned his horse and rode slowly southward into therain.

Thus far Mr Derwent's papers.

With the farewell on the Cumberland moor Alastair Maclean islost to us in the mist. Of the nature of Ramoth-Gilead lethistory tell; it is too sad a tale for the romancer. But one isrelieved to know that he did not fall at Culloden, or swing likeso many on Haribee outside the walls of Carlisle. For the Editorhas been so fortunate as to discover a further document, after asecond search among Mr Derwent's archives, a document in thehandwriting of Mr Samuel Johnson himself; and there seems to bethe strongest presumption that it was addressed to Alastair atsome town in France, for there is a mention of hospitality shownone Alan Maclean who had crossed the Channel with a message andwas on the eve of returning. There is no superscription, theletter begins "My dear Sir," and the end is lost; but since it isheaded "Gough Square," and contains a reference to the writer'sbeginning work on his great dictionary, the date may beconjectured to be 1748. Unfortunately the paper is much torn anddiscoloured, and only one passage can be given with any certaintyof correctness. I transcribe it as a memorial of a friendshipwhich was to colour the thoughts of a great man to his dying dayand which, we may be assured, left an impress no less indelibleupon the mind of the young Highlander.

". . . I send by your kinsman the second moiety of the loanwhich you made me at our last meeting, for I assume that, like somany of your race and politics now in France, you are somewhat instraits for money. I do assure you that I can well afford to makethe repayment, for I have concluded a profitable arrangement withthe booksellers for the publication of an English dictionary, andhave already received a considerable sum in advance. . . .

"I will confess to you, my dear sir, that often in moments ofleisure and in quiet places, my memory traverses our briefOdyssey, and I am moved again with fear and hope and the sadnessof renunciation. You say, and I welcome your generosity, thatfrom me you acquired something of philosophy; from you I am boundto reply that I learned weighty lessons in the conduct of ourmortal life. You taught me that a man can be gay and yet mostresolute, and that a Christian is not less capable of fortitudethan an ancient Stoic. The recollection of that which weencountered together lives in me to warm my heart when it iscold, and to restore in dark seasons my trust in my fellow men.The end was a proof, if proof were wanted, of the vanity of humanwishes, but sorrow does not imply failure, and my memory of itwill not fade till the hour of death and the day of judgment. . ..

"I have been at some pains to collect from my friends inOxford news of my lady N--. You will rejoice to hear that shedoes well. Her husband, who has now a better name in the shire,is an ensample of marital decorum and treats her kindly, and shehas been lately blessed with a male child. That, I am confident,is the tidings which you desire to hear, for your affection forthat lady has long been purged of any taint of selfishness, andyou can rejoice in her welfare as in that of a sister. But I donot forget that you have buried your heart in that monument todomestic felicity. Our Master did not place us in this world towin even honest happiness, but to shape and purify our immortalsouls, and sorrow must be the companion of the noblest endeavour.Like the shepherd in Virgil you grew at last acquainted withLove, and found him a native of the rocks. . . ."

THE END

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