"'KIDNAPPED\n BEING\n MEMOIRS OF THE ADVENTURES OF\n DAVID BALFOUR\n IN THE YEAR 1751\n\n\n\n HOW HE WAS KIDNAPPED AND CAST AWAY; HIS SUFFERINGS IN\n A DESERT ISLE; HIS JOURNEY IN THE WILD HIGHLANDS;\n HIS ACQUAINTANCE WITH ALAN BRECK STEWART\n AND OTHER NOTORIOUS HIGHLAND JACOBITES;\n WITH ALL THAT HE SUFFERED AT THE\n HANDS OF HIS UNCLE, EBENEZER\n BALFOUR OF SHAWS, FALSELY\n SO CALLED\n\n WRITTEN BY HIMSELF AND NOW SET FORTH BY\n ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON\n WITH A PREFACE BY MRS. STEVENSON\n\n\n\nPREFACE TO THE BIOGRAPHICAL EDITION\n\nWhile my husband and Mr. Henley were engaged in writing plays in\nBournemouth they made a number of titles, hoping to use them in the\nfuture. Dramatic composition was not what my husband preferred, but\nthe torrent of Mr. Henley\'s enthusiasm swept him off his feet. However,\nafter several plays had been finished, and his health seriously impaired\nby his endeavours to keep up with Mr. Henley, play writing was abandoned\nforever, and my husband returned to his legitimate vocation. Having\nadded one of the titles, The Hanging Judge, to the list of projected\nplays, now thrown aside, and emboldened by my husband\'s offer to give me\nany help needed, I concluded to try and write it myself.\n\nAs I wanted a trial scene in the Old Bailey, I chose the period of 1700\nfor my purpose; but being shamefully ignorant of my subject, and my\nhusband confessing to little more knowledge than I possessed, a London\nbookseller was commissioned to send us everything he could procure\nbearing on Old Bailey trials. A great package came in response to our\norder, and very soon we were both absorbed, not so much in the trials\nas in following the brilliant career of a Mr. Garrow, who appeared as\ncounsel in many of the cases. We sent for more books, and yet more,\nstill intent on Mr. Garrow, whose subtle cross-examination of witnesses\nand masterly, if sometimes startling, methods of arriving at the truth\nseemed more thrilling to us than any novel.\n\nOccasionally other trials than those of the Old Bailey would be included\nin the package of books we received from London; among these my husband\nfound and read with avidity:--\n\n THE\n TRIAL\n OF\n JAMES STEWART\n in Aucharn in Duror of Appin\n FOR THE\n Murder of COLIN CAMPBELL of Glenure, Efq;\n Factor for His Majefty on the forfeited\n Estate of Ardfhiel.\n\nMy husband was always interested in this period of his country\'s\nhistory, and had already the intention of writing a story that should\nturn on the Appin murder. The tale was to be of a boy, David Balfour,\nsupposed to belong to my husband\'s own family, who should travel in\nScotland as though it were a foreign country, meeting with various\nadventures and misadventures by the way. From the trial of James Stewart\nmy husband gleaned much valuable material for his novel, the most\nimportant being the character of Alan Breck. Aside from having described\nhim as \"smallish in stature,\" my husband seems to have taken Alan\nBreck\'s personal appearance, even to his clothing, from the book.\n\nA letter from James Stewart to Mr. John Macfarlane, introduced as\nevidence in the trial, says: \"There is one Alan Stewart, a distant\nfriend of the late Ardshiel\'s, who is in the French service, and came\nover in March last, as he said to some, in order to settle at home; to\nothers, that he was to go soon back; and was, as I hear, the day that\nthe murder was committed, seen not far from the place where it happened,\nand is not now to be seen; by which it is believed he was the actor. He\nis a desperate foolish fellow; and if he is guilty, came to the country\nfor that very purpose. He is a tall, pock-pitted lad, very black hair,\nand wore a blue coat and metal buttons, an old red vest, and breeches of\nthe same colour.\" A second witness testified to having seen him wearing\n\"a blue coat with silver buttons, a red waistcoat, black shag breeches,\ntartan hose, and a feathered hat, with a big coat, dun coloured,\" a\ncostume referred to by one of the counsel as \"French cloathes which were\nremarkable.\"\n\nThere are many incidents given in the trial that point to Alan\'s fiery\nspirit and Highland quickness to take offence. One witness \"declared\nalso That the said Alan Breck threatened that he would challenge\nBallieveolan and his sons to fight because of his removing the\ndeclarant last year from Glenduror.\" On another page: \"Duncan Campbell,\nchange-keeper at Annat, aged thirty-five years, married, witness cited,\nsworn, purged and examined ut supra, depones, That, in the month of\nApril last, the deponent met with Alan Breck Stewart, with whom he was\nnot acquainted, and John Stewart, in Auchnacoan, in the house of the\nwalk miller of Auchofragan, and went on with them to the house: Alan\nBreck Stewart said, that he hated all the name of Campbell; and the\ndeponent said, he had no reason for doing so: But Alan said, he had very\ngood reason for it: that thereafter they left that house; and, after\ndrinking a dram at another house, came to the deponent\'s house, where\nthey went in, and drunk some drams, and Alan Breck renewed the former\nConversation; and the deponent, making the same answer, Alan said, that,\nif the deponent had any respect for his friends, he would tell them,\nthat if they offered to turn out the possessors of Ardshiel\'s estate, he\nwould make black cocks of them, before they entered into possession by\nwhich the deponent understood shooting them, it being a common phrase in\nthe country.\"\n\nSome time after the publication of Kidnapped we stopped for a short\nwhile in the Appin country, where we were surprised and interested to\ndiscover that the feeling concerning the murder of Glenure (the \"Red\nFox,\" also called \"Colin Roy\") was almost as keen as though the tragedy\nhad taken place the day before. For several years my husband received\nletters of expostulation or commendation from members of the Campbell\nand Stewart clans. I have in my possession a paper, yellow with age,\nthat was sent soon after the novel appeared, containing \"The Pedigree of\nthe Family of Appine,\" wherein it is said that \"Alan 3rd Baron of Appine\nwas not killed at Flowdoun, tho there, but lived to a great old age. He\nmarried Cameron Daughter to Ewen Cameron of Lochiel.\" Following this\nis a paragraph stating that \"John Stewart 1st of Ardsheall of his\ndescendants Alan Breck had better be omitted. Duncan Baan Stewart in\nAchindarroch his father was a Bastard.\"\n\nOne day, while my husband was busily at work, I sat beside him reading\nan old cookery book called The Compleat Housewife: or Accomplish\'d\nGentlewoman\'s Companion. In the midst of receipts for \"Rabbits, and\nChickens mumbled, Pickled Samphire, Skirret Pye, Baked Tansy,\" and\nother forgotten delicacies, there were directions for the preparation\nof several lotions for the preservation of beauty. One of these was so\ncharming that I interrupted my husband to read it aloud. \"Just what\nI wanted!\" he exclaimed; and the receipt for the \"Lily of the Valley\nWater\" was instantly incorporated into Kidnapped.\n\nF. V. DE G. S.\n\n\n\n\nDEDICATION\n\nMY DEAR CHARLES BAXTER:\n\n\nIf you ever read this tale, you will likely ask yourself more questions\nthan I should care to answer: as for instance how the Appin murder has\ncome to fall in the year 1751, how the Torran rocks have crept so near\nto Earraid, or why the printed trial is silent as to all that touches\nDavid Balfour. These are nuts beyond my ability to crack. But if you\ntried me on the point of Alan\'s guilt or innocence, I think I could\ndefend the reading of the text. To this day you will find the tradition\nof Appin clear in Alan\'s favour. If you inquire, you may even hear that\nthe descendants of \"the other man\" who fired the shot are in the country\nto this day. But that other man\'s name, inquire as you please, you shall\nnot hear; for the Highlander values a secret for itself and for the\ncongenial exercise of keeping it. I might go on for long to justify one\npoint and own another indefensible; it is more honest to confess at once\nhow little I am touched by the desire of accuracy. This is no furniture\nfor the scholar\'s library, but a book for the winter evening school-room\nwhen the tasks are over and the hour for bed draws near; and honest\nAlan, who was a grim old fire-eater in his day has in this new avatar\nno more desperate purpose than to steal some young gentleman\'s attention\nfrom his Ovid, carry him awhile into the Highlands and the last century,\nand pack him to bed with some engaging images to mingle with his dreams.\n\nAs for you, my dear Charles, I do not even ask you to like this tale.\nBut perhaps when he is older, your son will; he may then be pleased to\nfind his father\'s name on the fly-leaf; and in the meanwhile it pleases\nme to set it there, in memory of many days that were happy and some (now\nperhaps as pleasant to remember) that were sad. If it is strange for\nme to look back from a distance both in time and space on these bygone\nadventures of our youth, it must be stranger for you who tread the same\nstreets--who may to-morrow open the door of the old Speculative,\nwhere we begin to rank with Scott and Robert Emmet and the beloved and\ninglorious Macbean--or may pass the corner of the close where that great\nsociety, the L. J. R., held its meetings and drank its beer, sitting in\nthe seats of Burns and his companions. I think I see you, moving there\nby plain daylight, beholding with your natural eyes those places that\nhave now become for your companion a part of the scenery of dreams. How,\nin the intervals of present business, the past must echo in your memory!\nLet it not echo often without some kind thoughts of your friend,\n\nR.L.S. SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH.\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n CHAPTER\n\n I I SET OFF UPON MY JOURNEY TO THE HOUSE OF SHAWS\n II I COME TO MY JOURNEY\'S END\n III I MAKE ACQUAINTANCE OF MY UNCLE\n IV I RUN A GREAT DANGER IN THE HOUSE OF SHAWS\n V I GO TO THE QUEEN\'S FERRY\n VI WHAT BEFELL AT THE QUEEN\'S FERRY\n VII I GO TO SEA IN THE BRIG \"COVENANT\" OF DYSART\n VIII THE ROUND-HOUSE\n IX THE MAN WITH THE BELT OF GOLD\n X THE SIEGE OF THE ROUND-HOUSE\n XI THE CAPTAIN KNUCKLES UNDER\n XII I HEAR OF THE \"RED FOX\"\n XIII THE LOSS OF THE BRIG\n XIV THE ISLET\n XV THE LAD WITH THE SILVER BUTTON: THROUGH THE ISLE OF MULL\n XVI THE LAD WITH THE SILVER BUTTON: ACROSS MORVEN\n XVII THE DEATH OF THE RED FOX\n XVIIII TALK WITH ALAN IN THE WOOD OF LETTERMORE\n XIX THE HOUSE OF FEAR\n XX THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE ROCKS\n XXI THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE HEUGH OF CORRYNAKIEGH\n XXII THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE MOOR\n XXIII CLUNY\'S CAGE\n XXIV THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE QUARREL IN BALQUHIDDER\n XXVI END OF THE FLIGHT: WE PASS THE FORTH\n XXVII I COME TO MR. RANKEILLOR\n XXVIII I GO IN QUEST OF MY INHERITANCE\n XXIX I COME INTO MY KINGDOM\n XXX GOOD-BYE\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nI SET OFF UPON MY JOURNEY TO THE HOUSE OF SHAWS\n\nI will begin the story of my adventures with a certain morning early in\nthe month of June, the year of grace 1751, when I took the key for the\nlast time out of the door of my father\'s house. The sun began to shine\nupon the summit of the hills as I went down the road; and by the time\nI had come as far as the manse, the blackbirds were whistling in the\ngarden lilacs, and the mist that hung around the valley in the time of\nthe dawn was beginning to arise and die away.\n\nMr. Campbell, the minister of Essendean, was waiting for me by the\ngarden gate, good man! He asked me if I had breakfasted; and hearing\nthat I lacked for nothing, he took my hand in both of his and clapped it\nkindly under his arm.\n\n\"Well, Davie, lad,\" said he, \"I will go with you as far as the ford, to\nset you on the way.\" And we began to walk forward in silence.\n\n\"Are ye sorry to leave Essendean?\" said he, after awhile.\n\n\"Why, sir,\" said I, \"if I knew where I was going, or what was likely\nto become of me, I would tell you candidly. Essendean is a good place\nindeed, and I have been very happy there; but then I have never been\nanywhere else. My father and mother, since they are both dead, I shall\nbe no nearer to in Essendean than in the Kingdom of Hungary, and, to\nspeak truth, if I thought I had a chance to better myself where I was\ngoing I would go with a good will.\"\n\n\"Ay?\" said Mr. Campbell. \"Very well, Davie. Then it behoves me to tell\nyour fortune; or so far as I may. When your mother was gone, and your\nfather (the worthy, Christian man) began to sicken for his end, he gave\nme in charge a certain letter, which he said was your inheritance. \'So\nsoon,\' says he, \'as I am gone, and the house is redd up and the gear\ndisposed of\' (all which, Davie, hath been done), \'give my boy this\nletter into his hand, and start him off to the house of Shaws, not far\nfrom Cramond. That is the place I came from,\' he said, \'and it\'s where\nit befits that my boy should return. He is a steady lad,\' your father\nsaid, \'and a canny goer; and I doubt not he will come safe, and be well\nlived where he goes.\'\"\n\n\"The house of Shaws!\" I cried. \"What had my poor father to do with the\nhouse of Shaws?\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said Mr. Campbell, \"who can tell that for a surety? But the name\nof that family, Davie, boy, is the name you bear--Balfours of Shaws:\nan ancient, honest, reputable house, peradventure in these latter\ndays decayed. Your father, too, was a man of learning as befitted his\nposition; no man more plausibly conducted school; nor had he the manner\nor the speech of a common dominie; but (as ye will yourself remember)\nI took aye a pleasure to have him to the manse to meet the gentry; and\nthose of my own house, Campbell of Kilrennet, Campbell of Dunswire,\nCampbell of Minch, and others, all well-kenned gentlemen, had pleasure\nin his society. Lastly, to put all the elements of this affair before\nyou, here is the testamentary letter itself, superscrived by the own\nhand of our departed brother.\"\n\nHe gave me the letter, which was addressed in these words: \"To the hands\nof Ebenezer Balfour, Esquire, of Shaws, in his house of Shaws, these\nwill be delivered by my son, David Balfour.\" My heart was beating hard\nat this great prospect now suddenly opening before a lad of seventeen\nyears of age, the son of a poor country dominie in the Forest of\nEttrick.\n\n\"Mr. Campbell,\" I stammered, \"and if you were in my shoes, would you\ngo?\"\n\n\"Of a surety,\" said the minister, \"that would I, and without pause.\nA pretty lad like you should get to Cramond (which is near in by\nEdinburgh) in two days of walk. If the worst came to the worst, and\nyour high relations (as I cannot but suppose them to be somewhat of your\nblood) should put you to the door, ye can but walk the two days back\nagain and risp at the manse door. But I would rather hope that ye shall\nbe well received, as your poor father forecast for you, and for anything\nthat I ken come to be a great man in time. And here, Davie, laddie,\" he\nresumed, \"it lies near upon my conscience to improve this parting, and\nset you on the right guard against the dangers of the world.\"\n\nHere he cast about for a comfortable seat, lighted on a big boulder\nunder a birch by the trackside, sate down upon it with a very long,\nserious upper lip, and the sun now shining in upon us between two peaks,\nput his pocket-handkerchief over his cocked hat to shelter him. There,\nthen, with uplifted forefinger, he first put me on my guard against a\nconsiderable number of heresies, to which I had no temptation, and urged\nupon me to be instant in my prayers and reading of the Bible. That done,\nhe drew a picture of the great house that I was bound to, and how I\nshould conduct myself with its inhabitants.\n\n\"Be soople, Davie, in things immaterial,\" said he. \"Bear ye this in\nmind, that, though gentle born, ye have had a country rearing. Dinnae\nshame us, Davie, dinnae shame us! In yon great, muckle house, with all\nthese domestics, upper and under, show yourself as nice, as circumspect,\nas quick at the conception, and as slow of speech as any. As for the\nlaird--remember he\'s the laird; I say no more: honour to whom honour.\nIt\'s a pleasure to obey a laird; or should be, to the young.\"\n\n\"Well, sir,\" said I, \"it may be; and I\'ll promise you I\'ll try to make\nit so.\"\n\n\"Why, very well said,\" replied Mr. Campbell, heartily. \"And now to come\nto the material, or (to make a quibble) to the immaterial. I have here\na little packet which contains four things.\" He tugged it, as he spoke,\nand with some great difficulty, from the skirt pocket of his coat. \"Of\nthese four things, the first is your legal due: the little pickle money\nfor your father\'s books and plenishing, which I have bought (as I have\nexplained from the first) in the design of re-selling at a profit to\nthe incoming dominie. The other three are gifties that Mrs. Campbell and\nmyself would be blithe of your acceptance. The first, which is round,\nwill likely please ye best at the first off-go; but, O Davie, laddie,\nit\'s but a drop of water in the sea; it\'ll help you but a step, and\nvanish like the morning. The second, which is flat and square and\nwritten upon, will stand by you through life, like a good staff for the\nroad, and a good pillow to your head in sickness. And as for the last,\nwhich is cubical, that\'ll see you, it\'s my prayerful wish, into a better\nland.\"\n\nWith that he got upon his feet, took off his hat, and prayed a little\nwhile aloud, and in affecting terms, for a young man setting out into\nthe world; then suddenly took me in his arms and embraced me very hard;\nthen held me at arm\'s length, looking at me with his face all working\nwith sorrow; and then whipped about, and crying good-bye to me, set off\nbackward by the way that we had come at a sort of jogging run. It might\nhave been laughable to another; but I was in no mind to laugh. I watched\nhim as long as he was in sight; and he never stopped hurrying, nor once\nlooked back. Then it came in upon my mind that this was all his sorrow\nat my departure; and my conscience smote me hard and fast, because I,\nfor my part, was overjoyed to get away out of that quiet country-side,\nand go to a great, busy house, among rich and respected gentlefolk of my\nown name and blood.\n\n\"Davie, Davie,\" I thought, \"was ever seen such black ingratitude? Can\nyou forget old favours and old friends at the mere whistle of a name?\nFie, fie; think shame.\"\n\nAnd I sat down on the boulder the good man had just left, and opened the\nparcel to see the nature of my gifts. That which he had called cubical,\nI had never had much doubt of; sure enough it was a little Bible, to\ncarry in a plaid-neuk. That which he had called round, I found to be a\nshilling piece; and the third, which was to help me so wonderfully both\nin health and sickness all the days of my life, was a little piece of\ncoarse yellow paper, written upon thus in red ink:\n\n\n\"TO MAKE LILLY OF THE VALLEY WATER.--Take the flowers of lilly of the\nvalley and distil them in sack, and drink a spooneful or two as there is\noccasion. It restores speech to those that have the dumb palsey. It is\ngood against the Gout; it comforts the heart and strengthens the memory;\nand the flowers, put into a Glasse, close stopt, and set into ane hill\nof ants for a month, then take it out, and you will find a liquor which\ncomes from the flowers, which keep in a vial; it is good, ill or well,\nand whether man or woman.\"\n\n\n\nAnd then, in the minister\'s own hand, was added:\n\n\"Likewise for sprains, rub it in; and for the cholic, a great spooneful\nin the hour.\"\n\n\nTo be sure, I laughed over this; but it was rather tremulous laughter;\nand I was glad to get my bundle on my staff\'s end and set out over the\nford and up the hill upon the farther side; till, just as I came on the\ngreen drove-road running wide through the heather, I took my last look\nof Kirk Essendean, the trees about the manse, and the big rowans in the\nkirkyard where my father and my mother lay.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nI COME TO MY JOURNEY\'S END\n\nOn the forenoon of the second day, coming to the top of a hill, I saw\nall the country fall away before me down to the sea; and in the midst\nof this descent, on a long ridge, the city of Edinburgh smoking like\na kiln. There was a flag upon the castle, and ships moving or lying\nanchored in the firth; both of which, for as far away as they were, I\ncould distinguish clearly; and both brought my country heart into my\nmouth.\n\nPresently after, I came by a house where a shepherd lived, and got a\nrough direction for the neighbourhood of Cramond; and so, from one to\nanother, worked my way to the westward of the capital by Colinton, till\nI came out upon the Glasgow road. And there, to my great pleasure and\nwonder, I beheld a regiment marching to the fifes, every foot in time;\nan old red-faced general on a grey horse at the one end, and at the\nother the company of Grenadiers, with their Pope\'s-hats. The pride of\nlife seemed to mount into my brain at the sight of the red coats and the\nhearing of that merry music.\n\nA little farther on, and I was told I was in Cramond parish, and began\nto substitute in my inquiries the name of the house of Shaws. It was a\nword that seemed to surprise those of whom I sought my way. At first I\nthought the plainness of my appearance, in my country habit, and that\nall dusty from the road, consorted ill with the greatness of the place\nto which I was bound. But after two, or maybe three, had given me the\nsame look and the same answer, I began to take it in my head there was\nsomething strange about the Shaws itself.\n\nThe better to set this fear at rest, I changed the form of my inquiries;\nand spying an honest fellow coming along a lane on the shaft of his\ncart, I asked him if he had ever heard tell of a house they called the\nhouse of Shaws.\n\nHe stopped his cart and looked at me, like the others.\n\n\"Ay\" said he. \"What for?\"\n\n\"It\'s a great house?\" I asked.\n\n\"Doubtless,\" says he. \"The house is a big, muckle house.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said I, \"but the folk that are in it?\"\n\n\"Folk?\" cried he. \"Are ye daft? There\'s nae folk there--to call folk.\"\n\n\"What?\" say I; \"not Mr. Ebenezer?\"\n\n\"Ou, ay\" says the man; \"there\'s the laird, to be sure, if it\'s him\nyou\'re wanting. What\'ll like be your business, mannie?\"\n\n\"I was led to think that I would get a situation,\" I said, looking as\nmodest as I could.\n\n\"What?\" cries the carter, in so sharp a note that his very horse\nstarted; and then, \"Well, mannie,\" he added, \"it\'s nane of my affairs;\nbut ye seem a decent-spoken lad; and if ye\'ll take a word from me, ye\'ll\nkeep clear of the Shaws.\"\n\nThe next person I came across was a dapper little man in a beautiful\nwhite wig, whom I saw to be a barber on his rounds; and knowing well\nthat barbers were great gossips, I asked him plainly what sort of a man\nwas Mr. Balfour of the Shaws.\n\n\"Hoot, hoot, hoot,\" said the barber, \"nae kind of a man, nae kind of a\nman at all;\" and began to ask me very shrewdly what my business was;\nbut I was more than a match for him at that, and he went on to his next\ncustomer no wiser than he came.\n\nI cannot well describe the blow this dealt to my illusions. The more\nindistinct the accusations were, the less I liked them, for they left\nthe wider field to fancy. What kind of a great house was this, that all\nthe parish should start and stare to be asked the way to it? or what\nsort of a gentleman, that his ill-fame should be thus current on the\nwayside? If an hour\'s walking would have brought me back to Essendean, I\nhad left my adventure then and there, and returned to Mr. Campbell\'s.\nBut when I had come so far a way already, mere shame would not suffer me\nto desist till I had put the matter to the touch of proof; I was bound,\nout of mere self-respect, to carry it through; and little as I liked\nthe sound of what I heard, and slow as I began to travel, I still kept\nasking my way and still kept advancing.\n\nIt was drawing on to sundown when I met a stout, dark, sour-looking\nwoman coming trudging down a hill; and she, when I had put my usual\nquestion, turned sharp about, accompanied me back to the summit she had\njust left, and pointed to a great bulk of building standing very bare\nupon a green in the bottom of the next valley. The country was pleasant\nround about, running in low hills, pleasantly watered and wooded, and\nthe crops, to my eyes, wonderfully good; but the house itself appeared\nto be a kind of ruin; no road led up to it; no smoke arose from any of\nthe chimneys; nor was there any semblance of a garden. My heart sank.\n\"That!\" I cried.\n\nThe woman\'s face lit up with a malignant anger. \"That is the house of\nShaws!\" she cried. \"Blood built it; blood stopped the building of it;\nblood shall bring it down. See here!\" she cried again--\"I spit upon\nthe ground, and crack my thumb at it! Black be its fall! If ye see the\nlaird, tell him what ye hear; tell him this makes the twelve hunner and\nnineteen time that Jennet Clouston has called down the curse on him\nand his house, byre and stable, man, guest, and master, wife, miss, or\nbairn--black, black be their fall!\"\n\nAnd the woman, whose voice had risen to a kind of eldritch sing-song,\nturned with a skip, and was gone. I stood where she left me, with my\nhair on end. In those days folk still believed in witches and trembled\nat a curse; and this one, falling so pat, like a wayside omen, to arrest\nme ere I carried out my purpose, took the pith out of my legs.\n\nI sat me down and stared at the house of Shaws. The more I looked,\nthe pleasanter that country-side appeared; being all set with hawthorn\nbushes full of flowers; the fields dotted with sheep; a fine flight of\nrooks in the sky; and every sign of a kind soil and climate; and yet the\nbarrack in the midst of it went sore against my fancy.\n\nCountry folk went by from the fields as I sat there on the side of the\nditch, but I lacked the spirit to give them a good-e\'en. At last the sun\nwent down, and then, right up against the yellow sky, I saw a scroll of\nsmoke go mounting, not much thicker, as it seemed to me, than the smoke\nof a candle; but still there it was, and meant a fire, and warmth, and\ncookery, and some living inhabitant that must have lit it; and this\ncomforted my heart.\n\nSo I set forward by a little faint track in the grass that led in my\ndirection. It was very faint indeed to be the only way to a place\nof habitation; yet I saw no other. Presently it brought me to stone\nuprights, with an unroofed lodge beside them, and coats of arms upon\nthe top. A main entrance it was plainly meant to be, but never finished;\ninstead of gates of wrought iron, a pair of hurdles were tied across\nwith a straw rope; and as there were no park walls, nor any sign of\navenue, the track that I was following passed on the right hand of the\npillars, and went wandering on toward the house.\n\nThe nearer I got to that, the drearier it appeared. It seemed like the\none wing of a house that had never been finished. What should have been\nthe inner end stood open on the upper floors, and showed against the sky\nwith steps and stairs of uncompleted masonry. Many of the windows were\nunglazed, and bats flew in and out like doves out of a dove-cote.\n\nThe night had begun to fall as I got close; and in three of the lower\nwindows, which were very high up and narrow, and well barred, the\nchanging light of a little fire began to glimmer. Was this the palace\nI had been coming to? Was it within these walls that I was to seek\nnew friends and begin great fortunes? Why, in my father\'s house on\nEssen-Waterside, the fire and the bright lights would show a mile away,\nand the door open to a beggar\'s knock!\n\nI came forward cautiously, and giving ear as I came, heard some one\nrattling with dishes, and a little dry, eager cough that came in fits;\nbut there was no sound of speech, and not a dog barked.\n\nThe door, as well as I could see it in the dim light, was a great piece\nof wood all studded with nails; and I lifted my hand with a faint heart\nunder my jacket, and knocked once. Then I stood and waited. The house\nhad fallen into a dead silence; a whole minute passed away, and nothing\nstirred but the bats overhead. I knocked again, and hearkened again.\nBy this time my ears had grown so accustomed to the quiet, that I\ncould hear the ticking of the clock inside as it slowly counted out the\nseconds; but whoever was in that house kept deadly still, and must have\nheld his breath.\n\nI was in two minds whether to run away; but anger got the upper hand,\nand I began instead to rain kicks and buffets on the door, and to shout\nout aloud for Mr. Balfour. I was in full career, when I heard the cough\nright overhead, and jumping back and looking up, beheld a man\'s head\nin a tall nightcap, and the bell mouth of a blunderbuss, at one of the\nfirst-storey windows.\n\n\"It\'s loaded,\" said a voice.\n\n\"I have come here with a letter,\" I said, \"to Mr. Ebenezer Balfour of\nShaws. Is he here?\"\n\n\"From whom is it?\" asked the man with the blunderbuss.\n\n\"That is neither here nor there,\" said I, for I was growing very wroth.\n\n\"Well,\" was the reply, \"ye can put it down upon the doorstep, and be off\nwith ye.\"\n\n\"I will do no such thing,\" I cried. \"I will deliver it into Mr.\nBalfour\'s hands, as it was meant I should. It is a letter of\nintroduction.\"\n\n\"A what?\" cried the voice, sharply.\n\nI repeated what I had said.\n\n\"Who are ye, yourself?\" was the next question, after a considerable\npause.\n\n\"I am not ashamed of my name,\" said I. \"They call me David Balfour.\"\n\nAt that, I made sure the man started, for I heard the blunderbuss rattle\non the window-sill; and it was after quite a long pause, and with a\ncurious change of voice, that the next question followed:\n\n\"Is your father dead?\"\n\nI was so much surprised at this, that I could find no voice to answer,\nbut stood staring.\n\n\"Ay,\" the man resumed, \"he\'ll be dead, no doubt; and that\'ll be what\nbrings ye chapping to my door.\" Another pause, and then defiantly,\n\"Well, man,\" he said, \"I\'ll let ye in;\" and he disappeared from the\nwindow.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nI MAKE ACQUAINTANCE OF MY UNCLE\n\nPresently there came a great rattling of chains and bolts, and the\ndoor was cautiously opened and shut to again behind me as soon as I had\npassed.\n\n\"Go into the kitchen and touch naething,\" said the voice; and while the\nperson of the house set himself to replacing the defences of the door, I\ngroped my way forward and entered the kitchen.\n\nThe fire had burned up fairly bright, and showed me the barest room I\nthink I ever put my eyes on. Half-a-dozen dishes stood upon the shelves;\nthe table was laid for supper with a bowl of porridge, a horn spoon, and\na cup of small beer. Besides what I have named, there was not another\nthing in that great, stone-vaulted, empty chamber but lockfast chests\narranged along the wall and a corner cupboard with a padlock.\n\nAs soon as the last chain was up, the man rejoined me. He was a mean,\nstooping, narrow-shouldered, clay-faced creature; and his age might have\nbeen anything between fifty and seventy. His nightcap was of flannel,\nand so was the nightgown that he wore, instead of coat and waistcoat,\nover his ragged shirt. He was long unshaved; but what most distressed\nand even daunted me, he would neither take his eyes away from me nor\nlook me fairly in the face. What he was, whether by trade or birth, was\nmore than I could fathom; but he seemed most like an old, unprofitable\nserving-man, who should have been left in charge of that big house upon\nboard wages.\n\n\"Are ye sharp-set?\" he asked, glancing at about the level of my knee.\n\"Ye can eat that drop parritch?\"\n\nI said I feared it was his own supper.\n\n\"O,\" said he, \"I can do fine wanting it. I\'ll take the ale, though, for\nit slockens (moistens) my cough.\" He drank the cup about half out, still\nkeeping an eye upon me as he drank; and then suddenly held out his hand.\n\"Let\'s see the letter,\" said he.\n\nI told him the letter was for Mr. Balfour; not for him.\n\n\"And who do ye think I am?\" says he. \"Give me Alexander\'s letter.\"\n\n\"You know my father\'s name?\"\n\n\"It would be strange if I didnae,\" he returned, \"for he was my born\nbrother; and little as ye seem to like either me or my house, or my good\nparritch, I\'m your born uncle, Davie, my man, and you my born nephew. So\ngive us the letter, and sit down and fill your kyte.\"\n\nIf I had been some years younger, what with shame, weariness, and\ndisappointment, I believe I had burst into tears. As it was, I could\nfind no words, neither black nor white, but handed him the letter, and\nsat down to the porridge with as little appetite for meat as ever a\nyoung man had.\n\nMeanwhile, my uncle, stooping over the fire, turned the letter over and\nover in his hands.\n\n\"Do ye ken what\'s in it?\" he asked, suddenly.\n\n\"You see for yourself, sir,\" said I, \"that the seal has not been\nbroken.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said he, \"but what brought you here?\"\n\n\"To give the letter,\" said I.\n\n\"No,\" says he, cunningly, \"but ye\'ll have had some hopes, nae doubt?\"\n\n\"I confess, sir,\" said I, \"when I was told that I had kinsfolk\nwell-to-do, I did indeed indulge the hope that they might help me in\nmy life. But I am no beggar; I look for no favours at your hands, and\nI want none that are not freely given. For as poor as I appear, I have\nfriends of my own that will be blithe to help me.\"\n\n\"Hoot-toot!\" said Uncle Ebenezer, \"dinnae fly up in the snuff at me.\nWe\'ll agree fine yet. And, Davie, my man, if you\'re done with that bit\nparritch, I could just take a sup of it myself. Ay,\" he continued,\nas soon as he had ousted me from the stool and spoon, \"they\'re fine,\nhalesome food--they\'re grand food, parritch.\" He murmured a little grace\nto himself and fell to. \"Your father was very fond of his meat, I mind;\nhe was a hearty, if not a great eater; but as for me, I could never\ndo mair than pyke at food.\" He took a pull at the small beer, which\nprobably reminded him of hospitable duties, for his next speech ran\nthus: \"If ye\'re dry ye\'ll find water behind the door.\"\n\nTo this I returned no answer, standing stiffly on my two feet, and\nlooking down upon my uncle with a mighty angry heart. He, on his part,\ncontinued to eat like a man under some pressure of time, and to throw\nout little darting glances now at my shoes and now at my home-spun\nstockings. Once only, when he had ventured to look a little higher, our\neyes met; and no thief taken with a hand in a man\'s pocket could have\nshown more lively signals of distress. This set me in a muse, whether\nhis timidity arose from too long a disuse of any human company; and\nwhether perhaps, upon a little trial, it might pass off, and my uncle\nchange into an altogether different man. From this I was awakened by his\nsharp voice.\n\n\"Your father\'s been long dead?\" he asked.\n\n\"Three weeks, sir,\" said I.\n\n\"He was a secret man, Alexander--a secret, silent man,\" he continued.\n\"He never said muckle when he was young. He\'ll never have spoken muckle\nof me?\"\n\n\"I never knew, sir, till you told it me yourself, that he had any\nbrother.\"\n\n\"Dear me, dear me!\" said Ebenezer. \"Nor yet of Shaws, I dare say?\"\n\n\"Not so much as the name, sir,\" said I.\n\n\"To think o\' that!\" said he. \"A strange nature of a man!\" For all that,\nhe seemed singularly satisfied, but whether with himself, or me, or\nwith this conduct of my father\'s, was more than I could read. Certainly,\nhowever, he seemed to be outgrowing that distaste, or ill-will, that he\nhad conceived at first against my person; for presently he jumped up,\ncame across the room behind me, and hit me a smack upon the shoulder.\n\"We\'ll agree fine yet!\" he cried. \"I\'m just as glad I let you in. And\nnow come awa\' to your bed.\"\n\nTo my surprise, he lit no lamp or candle, but set forth into the dark\npassage, groped his way, breathing deeply, up a flight of steps, and\npaused before a door, which he unlocked. I was close upon his heels,\nhaving stumbled after him as best I might; and then he bade me go in,\nfor that was my chamber. I did as he bid, but paused after a few steps,\nand begged a light to go to bed with.\n\n\"Hoot-toot!\" said Uncle Ebenezer, \"there\'s a fine moon.\"\n\n\"Neither moon nor star, sir, and pit-mirk,\"* said I. \"I cannae see the\nbed.\"\n\n * Dark as the pit.\n\n\"Hoot-toot, hoot-toot!\" said he. \"Lights in a house is a thing I dinnae\nagree with. I\'m unco feared of fires. Good-night to ye, Davie, my man.\"\nAnd before I had time to add a further protest, he pulled the door to,\nand I heard him lock me in from the outside.\n\nI did not know whether to laugh or cry. The room was as cold as a well,\nand the bed, when I had found my way to it, as damp as a peat-hag; but\nby good fortune I had caught up my bundle and my plaid, and rolling\nmyself in the latter, I lay down upon the floor under lee of the big\nbedstead, and fell speedily asleep.\n\nWith the first peep of day I opened my eyes, to find myself in a great\nchamber, hung with stamped leather, furnished with fine embroidered\nfurniture, and lit by three fair windows. Ten years ago, or perhaps\ntwenty, it must have been as pleasant a room to lie down or to awake in\nas a man could wish; but damp, dirt, disuse, and the mice and spiders\nhad done their worst since then. Many of the window-panes, besides, were\nbroken; and indeed this was so common a feature in that house, that I\nbelieve my uncle must at some time have stood a siege from his indignant\nneighbours--perhaps with Jennet Clouston at their head.\n\nMeanwhile the sun was shining outside; and being very cold in that\nmiserable room, I knocked and shouted till my gaoler came and let me\nout. He carried me to the back of the house, where was a draw-well, and\ntold me to \"wash my face there, if I wanted;\" and when that was done,\nI made the best of my own way back to the kitchen, where he had lit the\nfire and was making the porridge. The table was laid with two bowls and\ntwo horn spoons, but the same single measure of small beer. Perhaps my\neye rested on this particular with some surprise, and perhaps my uncle\nobserved it; for he spoke up as if in answer to my thought, asking me if\nI would like to drink ale--for so he called it.\n\nI told him such was my habit, but not to put himself about.\n\n\"Na, na,\" said he; \"I\'ll deny you nothing in reason.\"\n\nHe fetched another cup from the shelf; and then, to my great surprise,\ninstead of drawing more beer, he poured an accurate half from one cup\nto the other. There was a kind of nobleness in this that took my breath\naway; if my uncle was certainly a miser, he was one of that thorough\nbreed that goes near to make the vice respectable.\n\nWhen we had made an end of our meal, my uncle Ebenezer unlocked a\ndrawer, and drew out of it a clay pipe and a lump of tobacco, from which\nhe cut one fill before he locked it up again. Then he sat down in the\nsun at one of the windows and silently smoked. From time to time his\neyes came coasting round to me, and he shot out one of his questions.\nOnce it was, \"And your mother?\" and when I had told him that she, too,\nwas dead, \"Ay, she was a bonnie lassie!\" Then, after another long pause,\n\"Whae were these friends o\' yours?\"\n\nI told him they were different gentlemen of the name of Campbell;\nthough, indeed, there was only one, and that the minister, that had ever\ntaken the least note of me; but I began to think my uncle made too light\nof my position, and finding myself all alone with him, I did not wish\nhim to suppose me helpless.\n\nHe seemed to turn this over in his mind; and then, \"Davie, my man,\" said\nhe, \"ye\'ve come to the right bit when ye came to your uncle Ebenezer.\nI\'ve a great notion of the family, and I mean to do the right by you;\nbut while I\'m taking a bit think to mysel\' of what\'s the best thing to\nput you to--whether the law, or the meenistry, or maybe the army, whilk\nis what boys are fondest of--I wouldnae like the Balfours to be humbled\nbefore a wheen Hieland Campbells, and I\'ll ask you to keep your tongue\nwithin your teeth. Nae letters; nae messages; no kind of word to\nonybody; or else--there\'s my door.\"\n\n\"Uncle Ebenezer,\" said I, \"I\'ve no manner of reason to suppose you mean\nanything but well by me. For all that, I would have you to know that I\nhave a pride of my own. It was by no will of mine that I came seeking\nyou; and if you show me your door again, I\'ll take you at the word.\"\n\nHe seemed grievously put out. \"Hoots-toots,\" said he, \"ca\' cannie,\nman--ca\' cannie! Bide a day or two. I\'m nae warlock, to find a fortune\nfor you in the bottom of a parritch bowl; but just you give me a day or\ntwo, and say naething to naebody, and as sure as sure, I\'ll do the right\nby you.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said I, \"enough said. If you want to help me, there\'s no\ndoubt but I\'ll be glad of it, and none but I\'ll be grateful.\"\n\nIt seemed to me (too soon, I dare say) that I was getting the upper\nhand of my uncle; and I began next to say that I must have the bed and\nbedclothes aired and put to sun-dry; for nothing would make me sleep in\nsuch a pickle.\n\n\"Is this my house or yours?\" said he, in his keen voice, and then all of\na sudden broke off. \"Na, na,\" said he, \"I didnae mean that. What\'s mine\nis yours, Davie, my man, and what\'s yours is mine. Blood\'s thicker than\nwater; and there\'s naebody but you and me that ought the name.\" And\nthen on he rambled about the family, and its ancient greatness, and his\nfather that began to enlarge the house, and himself that stopped the\nbuilding as a sinful waste; and this put it in my head to give him\nJennet Clouston\'s message.\n\n\"The limmer!\" he cried. \"Twelve hunner and fifteen--that\'s every day\nsince I had the limmer rowpit!* Dod, David, I\'ll have her roasted on red\npeats before I\'m by with it! A witch--a proclaimed witch! I\'ll aff and\nsee the session clerk.\"\n\n * Sold up.\n\nAnd with that he opened a chest, and got out a very old and\nwell-preserved blue coat and waistcoat, and a good enough beaver hat,\nboth without lace. These he threw on any way, and taking a staff from\nthe cupboard, locked all up again, and was for setting out, when a\nthought arrested him.\n\n\"I cannae leave you by yoursel\' in the house,\" said he. \"I\'ll have to\nlock you out.\"\n\nThe blood came to my face. \"If you lock me out,\" I said, \"it\'ll be the\nlast you\'ll see of me in friendship.\"\n\nHe turned very pale, and sucked his mouth in.\n\n\"This is no the way,\" he said, looking wickedly at a corner of the\nfloor--\"this is no the way to win my favour, David.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" says I, \"with a proper reverence for your age and our common\nblood, I do not value your favour at a boddle\'s purchase. I was brought\nup to have a good conceit of myself; and if you were all the uncle, and\nall the family, I had in the world ten times over, I wouldn\'t buy your\nliking at such prices.\"\n\nUncle Ebenezer went and looked out of the window for awhile. I could\nsee him all trembling and twitching, like a man with palsy. But when he\nturned round, he had a smile upon his face.\n\n\"Well, well,\" said he, \"we must bear and forbear. I\'ll no go; that\'s all\nthat\'s to be said of it.\"\n\n\"Uncle Ebenezer,\" I said, \"I can make nothing out of this. You use me\nlike a thief; you hate to have me in this house; you let me see it,\nevery word and every minute: it\'s not possible that you can like me; and\nas for me, I\'ve spoken to you as I never thought to speak to any man.\nWhy do you seek to keep me, then? Let me gang back--let me gang back to\nthe friends I have, and that like me!\"\n\n\"Na, na; na, na,\" he said, very earnestly. \"I like you fine; we\'ll agree\nfine yet; and for the honour of the house I couldnae let you leave the\nway ye came. Bide here quiet, there\'s a good lad; just you bide here\nquiet a bittie, and ye\'ll find that we agree.\"\n\n\"Well, sir,\" said I, after I had thought the matter out in silence,\n\"I\'ll stay awhile. It\'s more just I should be helped by my own blood\nthan strangers; and if we don\'t agree, I\'ll do my best it shall be\nthrough no fault of mine.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nI RUN A GREAT DANGER IN THE HOUSE OF SHAWS\n\nFor a day that was begun so ill, the day passed fairly well. We had the\nporridge cold again at noon, and hot porridge at night; porridge and\nsmall beer was my uncle\'s diet. He spoke but little, and that in the\nsame way as before, shooting a question at me after a long silence; and\nwhen I sought to lead him to talk about my future, slipped out of it\nagain. In a room next door to the kitchen, where he suffered me to go,\nI found a great number of books, both Latin and English, in which I took\ngreat pleasure all the afternoon. Indeed, the time passed so lightly in\nthis good company, that I began to be almost reconciled to my residence\nat Shaws; and nothing but the sight of my uncle, and his eyes playing\nhide and seek with mine, revived the force of my distrust.\n\nOne thing I discovered, which put me in some doubt. This was an entry on\nthe fly-leaf of a chap-book (one of Patrick Walker\'s) plainly written\nby my father\'s hand and thus conceived: \"To my brother Ebenezer on his\nfifth birthday.\" Now, what puzzled me was this: That, as my father was of\ncourse the younger brother, he must either have made some strange error,\nor he must have written, before he was yet five, an excellent, clear\nmanly hand of writing.\n\nI tried to get this out of my head; but though I took down many\ninteresting authors, old and new, history, poetry, and story-book, this\nnotion of my father\'s hand of writing stuck to me; and when at length I\nwent back into the kitchen, and sat down once more to porridge and small\nbeer, the first thing I said to Uncle Ebenezer was to ask him if my\nfather had not been very quick at his book.\n\n\"Alexander? No him!\" was the reply. \"I was far quicker mysel\'; I was a\nclever chappie when I was young. Why, I could read as soon as he could.\"\n\nThis puzzled me yet more; and a thought coming into my head, I asked if\nhe and my father had been twins.\n\nHe jumped upon his stool, and the horn spoon fell out of his hand upon\nthe floor. \"What gars ye ask that?\" he said, and he caught me by the\nbreast of the jacket, and looked this time straight into my eyes:\nhis own were little and light, and bright like a bird\'s, blinking and\nwinking strangely.\n\n\"What do you mean?\" I asked, very calmly, for I was far stronger than\nhe, and not easily frightened. \"Take your hand from my jacket. This is\nno way to behave.\"\n\nMy uncle seemed to make a great effort upon himself. \"Dod man, David,\"\nhe said, \"ye should-nae speak to me about your father. That\'s where the\nmistake is.\" He sat awhile and shook, blinking in his plate: \"He was all\nthe brother that ever I had,\" he added, but with no heart in his voice;\nand then he caught up his spoon and fell to supper again, but still\nshaking.\n\nNow this last passage, this laying of hands upon my person and\nsudden profession of love for my dead father, went so clean beyond my\ncomprehension that it put me into both fear and hope. On the one hand,\nI began to think my uncle was perhaps insane and might be dangerous;\non the other, there came up into my mind (quite unbidden by me and even\ndiscouraged) a story like some ballad I had heard folk singing, of a\npoor lad that was a rightful heir and a wicked kinsman that tried\nto keep him from his own. For why should my uncle play a part with a\nrelative that came, almost a beggar, to his door, unless in his heart he\nhad some cause to fear him?\n\nWith this notion, all unacknowledged, but nevertheless getting firmly\nsettled in my head, I now began to imitate his covert looks; so that\nwe sat at table like a cat and a mouse, each stealthily observing the\nother. Not another word had he to say to me, black or white, but was\nbusy turning something secretly over in his mind; and the longer we\nsat and the more I looked at him, the more certain I became that the\nsomething was unfriendly to myself.\n\nWhen he had cleared the platter, he got out a single pipeful of tobacco,\njust as in the morning, turned round a stool into the chimney corner,\nand sat awhile smoking, with his back to me.\n\n\"Davie,\" he said, at length, \"I\'ve been thinking;\" then he paused, and\nsaid it again. \"There\'s a wee bit siller that I half promised ye before\nye were born,\" he continued; \"promised it to your father. O, naething\nlegal, ye understand; just gentlemen daffing at their wine. Well, I\nkeepit that bit money separate--it was a great expense, but a promise\nis a promise--and it has grown by now to be a matter of just\nprecisely--just exactly\"--and here he paused and stumbled--\"of just\nexactly forty pounds!\" This last he rapped out with a sidelong glance\nover his shoulder; and the next moment added, almost with a scream,\n\"Scots!\"\n\nThe pound Scots being the same thing as an English shilling, the\ndifference made by this second thought was considerable; I could see,\nbesides, that the whole story was a lie, invented with some end which\nit puzzled me to guess; and I made no attempt to conceal the tone of\nraillery in which I answered--\n\n\"O, think again, sir! Pounds sterling, I believe!\"\n\n\"That\'s what I said,\" returned my uncle: \"pounds sterling! And if you\'ll\nstep out-by to the door a minute, just to see what kind of a night it\nis, I\'ll get it out to ye and call ye in again.\"\n\nI did his will, smiling to myself in my contempt that he should think I\nwas so easily to be deceived. It was a dark night, with a few stars low\ndown; and as I stood just outside the door, I heard a hollow moaning\nof wind far off among the hills. I said to myself there was something\nthundery and changeful in the weather, and little knew of what a vast\nimportance that should prove to me before the evening passed.\n\nWhen I was called in again, my uncle counted out into my hand seven and\nthirty golden guinea pieces; the rest was in his hand, in small gold and\nsilver; but his heart failed him there, and he crammed the change into\nhis pocket.\n\n\"There,\" said he, \"that\'ll show you! I\'m a queer man, and strange wi\'\nstrangers; but my word is my bond, and there\'s the proof of it.\"\n\nNow, my uncle seemed so miserly that I was struck dumb by this sudden\ngenerosity, and could find no words in which to thank him.\n\n\"No a word!\" said he. \"Nae thanks; I want nae thanks. I do my duty. I\'m\nno saying that everybody would have done it; but for my part (though\nI\'m a careful body, too) it\'s a pleasure to me to do the right by my\nbrother\'s son; and it\'s a pleasure to me to think that now we\'ll agree\nas such near friends should.\"\n\nI spoke him in return as handsomely as I was able; but all the while\nI was wondering what would come next, and why he had parted with his\nprecious guineas; for as to the reason he had given, a baby would have\nrefused it.\n\nPresently he looked towards me sideways.\n\n\"And see here,\" says he, \"tit for tat.\"\n\nI told him I was ready to prove my gratitude in any reasonable degree,\nand then waited, looking for some monstrous demand. And yet, when\nat last he plucked up courage to speak, it was only to tell me (very\nproperly, as I thought) that he was growing old and a little broken, and\nthat he would expect me to help him with the house and the bit garden.\n\nI answered, and expressed my readiness to serve.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"let\'s begin.\" He pulled out of his pocket a rusty key.\n\"There,\" says he, \"there\'s the key of the stair-tower at the far end of\nthe house. Ye can only win into it from the outside, for that part of\nthe house is no finished. Gang ye in there, and up the stairs, and bring\nme down the chest that\'s at the top. There\'s papers in\'t,\" he added.\n\n\"Can I have a light, sir?\" said I.\n\n\"Na,\" said he, very cunningly. \"Nae lights in my house.\"\n\n\"Very well, sir,\" said I. \"Are the stairs good?\"\n\n\"They\'re grand,\" said he; and then, as I was going, \"Keep to the wall,\"\nhe added; \"there\'s nae bannisters. But the stairs are grand underfoot.\"\n\nOut I went into the night. The wind was still moaning in the distance,\nthough never a breath of it came near the house of Shaws. It had fallen\nblacker than ever; and I was glad to feel along the wall, till I came\nthe length of the stairtower door at the far end of the unfinished wing.\nI had got the key into the keyhole and had just turned it, when all upon\na sudden, without sound of wind or thunder, the whole sky lighted up\nwith wild fire and went black again. I had to put my hand over my eyes\nto get back to the colour of the darkness; and indeed I was already half\nblinded when I stepped into the tower.\n\nIt was so dark inside, it seemed a body could scarce breathe; but I\npushed out with foot and hand, and presently struck the wall with the\none, and the lowermost round of the stair with the other. The wall, by\nthe touch, was of fine hewn stone; the steps too, though somewhat steep\nand narrow, were of polished masonwork, and regular and solid underfoot.\nMinding my uncle\'s word about the bannisters, I kept close to the tower\nside, and felt my way in the pitch darkness with a beating heart.\n\nThe house of Shaws stood some five full storeys high, not counting\nlofts. Well, as I advanced, it seemed to me the stair grew airier and a\nthought more lightsome; and I was wondering what might be the cause of\nthis change, when a second blink of the summer lightning came and went.\nIf I did not cry out, it was because fear had me by the throat; and if I\ndid not fall, it was more by Heaven\'s mercy than my own strength. It was\nnot only that the flash shone in on every side through breaches in the\nwall, so that I seemed to be clambering aloft upon an open scaffold, but\nthe same passing brightness showed me the steps were of unequal length,\nand that one of my feet rested that moment within two inches of the\nwell.\n\nThis was the grand stair! I thought; and with the thought, a gust of\na kind of angry courage came into my heart. My uncle had sent me here,\ncertainly to run great risks, perhaps to die. I swore I would settle\nthat \"perhaps,\" if I should break my neck for it; got me down upon my\nhands and knees; and as slowly as a snail, feeling before me every\ninch, and testing the solidity of every stone, I continued to ascend\nthe stair. The darkness, by contrast with the flash, appeared to have\nredoubled; nor was that all, for my ears were now troubled and my mind\nconfounded by a great stir of bats in the top part of the tower, and the\nfoul beasts, flying downwards, sometimes beat about my face and body.\n\nThe tower, I should have said, was square; and in every corner the step\nwas made of a great stone of a different shape to join the flights.\nWell, I had come close to one of these turns, when, feeling forward\nas usual, my hand slipped upon an edge and found nothing but emptiness\nbeyond it. The stair had been carried no higher; to set a stranger\nmounting it in the darkness was to send him straight to his death; and\n(although, thanks to the lightning and my own precautions, I was safe\nenough) the mere thought of the peril in which I might have stood, and\nthe dreadful height I might have fallen from, brought out the sweat upon\nmy body and relaxed my joints.\n\nBut I knew what I wanted now, and turned and groped my way down again,\nwith a wonderful anger in my heart. About half-way down, the wind sprang\nup in a clap and shook the tower, and died again; the rain followed; and\nbefore I had reached the ground level it fell in buckets. I put out my\nhead into the storm, and looked along towards the kitchen. The door,\nwhich I had shut behind me when I left, now stood open, and shed a\nlittle glimmer of light; and I thought I could see a figure standing\nin the rain, quite still, like a man hearkening. And then there came\na blinding flash, which showed me my uncle plainly, just where I had\nfancied him to stand; and hard upon the heels of it, a great tow-row of\nthunder.\n\nNow, whether my uncle thought the crash to be the sound of my fall, or\nwhether he heard in it God\'s voice denouncing murder, I will leave you\nto guess. Certain it is, at least, that he was seized on by a kind of\npanic fear, and that he ran into the house and left the door open behind\nhim. I followed as softly as I could, and, coming unheard into the\nkitchen, stood and watched him.\n\nHe had found time to open the corner cupboard and bring out a great case\nbottle of aqua vitae, and now sat with his back towards me at the table.\nEver and again he would be seized with a fit of deadly shuddering and\ngroan aloud, and carrying the bottle to his lips, drink down the raw\nspirits by the mouthful.\n\nI stepped forward, came close behind him where he sat, and suddenly\nclapping my two hands down upon his shoulders--\"Ah!\" cried I.\n\nMy uncle gave a kind of broken cry like a sheep\'s bleat, flung up his\narms, and tumbled to the floor like a dead man. I was somewhat shocked\nat this; but I had myself to look to first of all, and did not hesitate\nto let him lie as he had fallen. The keys were hanging in the cupboard;\nand it was my design to furnish myself with arms before my uncle should\ncome again to his senses and the power of devising evil. In the cupboard\nwere a few bottles, some apparently of medicine; a great many bills and\nother papers, which I should willingly enough have rummaged, had I had\nthe time; and a few necessaries that were nothing to my purpose. Thence\nI turned to the chests. The first was full of meal; the second of\nmoneybags and papers tied into sheaves; in the third, with many\nother things (and these for the most part clothes) I found a rusty,\nugly-looking Highland dirk without the scabbard. This, then, I concealed\ninside my waistcoat, and turned to my uncle.\n\nHe lay as he had fallen, all huddled, with one knee up and one arm\nsprawling abroad; his face had a strange colour of blue, and he seemed\nto have ceased breathing. Fear came on me that he was dead; then I\ngot water and dashed it in his face; and with that he seemed to come a\nlittle to himself, working his mouth and fluttering his eyelids. At last\nhe looked up and saw me, and there came into his eyes a terror that was\nnot of this world.\n\n\"Come, come,\" said I; \"sit up.\"\n\n\"Are ye alive?\" he sobbed. \"O man, are ye alive?\"\n\n\"That am I,\" said I. \"Small thanks to you!\"\n\nHe had begun to seek for his breath with deep sighs. \"The blue phial,\"\nsaid he--\"in the aumry--the blue phial.\" His breath came slower still.\n\nI ran to the cupboard, and, sure enough, found there a blue phial\nof medicine, with the dose written on it on a paper, and this I\nadministered to him with what speed I might.\n\n\"It\'s the trouble,\" said he, reviving a little; \"I have a trouble,\nDavie. It\'s the heart.\"\n\nI set him on a chair and looked at him. It is true I felt some pity for\na man that looked so sick, but I was full besides of righteous anger;\nand I numbered over before him the points on which I wanted explanation:\nwhy he lied to me at every word; why he feared that I should leave him;\nwhy he disliked it to be hinted that he and my father were twins--\"Is\nthat because it is true?\" I asked; why he had given me money to which I\nwas convinced I had no claim; and, last of all, why he had tried to kill\nme. He heard me all through in silence; and then, in a broken voice,\nbegged me to let him go to bed.\n\n\"I\'ll tell ye the morn,\" he said; \"as sure as death I will.\"\n\nAnd so weak was he that I could do nothing but consent. I locked him\ninto his room, however, and pocketed the key, and then returning to\nthe kitchen, made up such a blaze as had not shone there for many a long\nyear, and wrapping myself in my plaid, lay down upon the chests and fell\nasleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nI GO TO THE QUEEN\'S FERRY\n\nMuch rain fell in the night; and the next morning there blew a bitter\nwintry wind out of the north-west, driving scattered clouds. For all\nthat, and before the sun began to peep or the last of the stars had\nvanished, I made my way to the side of the burn, and had a plunge in a\ndeep whirling pool. All aglow from my bath, I sat down once more\nbeside the fire, which I replenished, and began gravely to consider my\nposition.\n\nThere was now no doubt about my uncle\'s enmity; there was no doubt I\ncarried my life in my hand, and he would leave no stone unturned that\nhe might compass my destruction. But I was young and spirited, and\nlike most lads that have been country-bred, I had a great opinion of my\nshrewdness. I had come to his door no better than a beggar and little\nmore than a child; he had met me with treachery and violence; it would\nbe a fine consummation to take the upper hand, and drive him like a herd\nof sheep.\n\nI sat there nursing my knee and smiling at the fire; and I saw myself in\nfancy smell out his secrets one after another, and grow to be that man\'s\nking and ruler. The warlock of Essendean, they say, had made a mirror in\nwhich men could read the future; it must have been of other stuff than\nburning coal; for in all the shapes and pictures that I sat and gazed\nat, there was never a ship, never a seaman with a hairy cap, never a big\nbludgeon for my silly head, or the least sign of all those tribulations\nthat were ripe to fall on me.\n\nPresently, all swollen with conceit, I went up-stairs and gave my\nprisoner his liberty. He gave me good-morning civilly; and I gave the\nsame to him, smiling down upon him, from the heights of my sufficiency.\nSoon we were set to breakfast, as it might have been the day before.\n\n\"Well, sir,\" said I, with a jeering tone, \"have you nothing more to say\nto me?\" And then, as he made no articulate reply, \"It will be time,\nI think, to understand each other,\" I continued. \"You took me for\na country Johnnie Raw, with no more mother-wit or courage than a\nporridge-stick. I took you for a good man, or no worse than others at\nthe least. It seems we were both wrong. What cause you have to fear me,\nto cheat me, and to attempt my life--\"\n\nHe murmured something about a jest, and that he liked a bit of fun; and\nthen, seeing me smile, changed his tone, and assured me he would make\nall clear as soon as we had breakfasted. I saw by his face that he had\nno lie ready for me, though he was hard at work preparing one; and I\nthink I was about to tell him so, when we were interrupted by a knocking\nat the door.\n\nBidding my uncle sit where he was, I went to open it, and found on the\ndoorstep a half-grown boy in sea-clothes. He had no sooner seen me than\nhe began to dance some steps of the sea-hornpipe (which I had never\nbefore heard of far less seen), snapping his fingers in the air and\nfooting it right cleverly. For all that, he was blue with the cold; and\nthere was something in his face, a look between tears and laughter, that\nwas highly pathetic and consisted ill with this gaiety of manner.\n\n\"What cheer, mate?\" says he, with a cracked voice.\n\nI asked him soberly to name his pleasure.\n\n\"O, pleasure!\" says he; and then began to sing:\n\n \"For it\'s my delight, of a shiny night,\n In the season of the year.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said I, \"if you have no business at all, I will even be so\nunmannerly as to shut you out.\"\n\n\"Stay, brother!\" he cried. \"Have you no fun about you? or do you want\nto get me thrashed? I\'ve brought a letter from old Heasyoasy to Mr.\nBelflower.\" He showed me a letter as he spoke. \"And I say, mate,\" he\nadded, \"I\'m mortal hungry.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said I, \"come into the house, and you shall have a bite if I go\nempty for it.\"\n\nWith that I brought him in and set him down to my own place, where he\nfell-to greedily on the remains of breakfast, winking to me between\nwhiles, and making many faces, which I think the poor soul considered\nmanly. Meanwhile, my uncle had read the letter and sat thinking; then,\nsuddenly, he got to his feet with a great air of liveliness, and pulled\nme apart into the farthest corner of the room.\n\n\"Read that,\" said he, and put the letter in my hand.\n\nHere it is, lying before me as I write:\n\n\"The Hawes Inn, at the Queen\'s Ferry.\n\n\"Sir,--I lie here with my hawser up and down, and send my cabin-boy to\ninforme. If you have any further commands for over-seas, to-day will be\nthe last occasion, as the wind will serve us well out of the firth.\nI will not seek to deny that I have had crosses with your doer,* Mr.\nRankeillor; of which, if not speedily redd up, you may looke to see some\nlosses follow. I have drawn a bill upon you, as per margin, and am, sir,\n your most obedt., humble servant, \"ELIAS HOSEASON.\"* Agent.\n\n\"You see, Davie,\" resumed my uncle, as soon as he saw that I had done,\n\"I have a venture with this man Hoseason, the captain of a trading brig,\nthe Covenant, of Dysart. Now, if you and me was to walk over with\nyon lad, I could see the captain at the Hawes, or maybe on board the\nCovenant if there was papers to be signed; and so far from a loss of\ntime, we can jog on to the lawyer, Mr. Rankeillor\'s. After a\' that\'s\ncome and gone, ye would be swier* to believe me upon my naked word; but\nye\'ll believe Rankeillor. He\'s factor to half the gentry in these parts;\nan auld man, forby: highly respeckit, and he kenned your father.\"\n\n * Unwilling.\n\nI stood awhile and thought. I was going to some place of shipping, which\nwas doubtless populous, and where my uncle durst attempt no violence,\nand, indeed, even the society of the cabin-boy so far protected me. Once\nthere, I believed I could force on the visit to the lawyer, even if my\nuncle were now insincere in proposing it; and, perhaps, in the bottom\nof my heart, I wished a nearer view of the sea and ships. You are to\nremember I had lived all my life in the inland hills, and just two days\nbefore had my first sight of the firth lying like a blue floor, and the\nsailed ships moving on the face of it, no bigger than toys. One thing\nwith another, I made up my mind.\n\n\"Very well,\" says I, \"let us go to the Ferry.\"\n\nMy uncle got into his hat and coat, and buckled an old rusty cutlass on;\nand then we trod the fire out, locked the door, and set forth upon our\nwalk.\n\nThe wind, being in that cold quarter the north-west, blew nearly in our\nfaces as we went. It was the month of June; the grass was all white with\ndaisies, and the trees with blossom; but, to judge by our blue nails\nand aching wrists, the time might have been winter and the whiteness a\nDecember frost.\n\nUncle Ebenezer trudged in the ditch, jogging from side to side like an\nold ploughman coming home from work. He never said a word the whole\nway; and I was thrown for talk on the cabin-boy. He told me his name was\nRansome, and that he had followed the sea since he was nine, but could\nnot say how old he was, as he had lost his reckoning. He showed me\ntattoo marks, baring his breast in the teeth of the wind and in spite\nof my remonstrances, for I thought it was enough to kill him; he swore\nhorribly whenever he remembered, but more like a silly schoolboy than a\nman; and boasted of many wild and bad things that he had done: stealthy\nthefts, false accusations, ay, and even murder; but all with such a\ndearth of likelihood in the details, and such a weak and crazy swagger\nin the delivery, as disposed me rather to pity than to believe him.\n\nI asked him of the brig (which he declared was the finest ship that\nsailed) and of Captain Hoseason, in whose praises he was equally loud.\nHeasyoasy (for so he still named the skipper) was a man, by his account,\nthat minded for nothing either in heaven or earth; one that, as people\nsaid, would \"crack on all sail into the day of judgment;\" rough, fierce,\nunscrupulous, and brutal; and all this my poor cabin-boy had taught\nhimself to admire as something seamanlike and manly. He would only admit\none flaw in his idol. \"He ain\'t no seaman,\" he admitted. \"That\'s Mr.\nShuan that navigates the brig; he\'s the finest seaman in the trade, only\nfor drink; and I tell you I believe it! Why, look\'ere;\" and turning down\nhis stocking he showed me a great, raw, red wound that made my blood run\ncold. \"He done that--Mr. Shuan done it,\" he said, with an air of pride.\n\n\"What!\" I cried, \"do you take such savage usage at his hands? Why, you\nare no slave, to be so handled!\"\n\n\"No,\" said the poor moon-calf, changing his tune at once, \"and so he\'ll\nfind. See\'ere;\" and he showed me a great case-knife, which he told me\nwas stolen. \"O,\" says he, \"let me see him try; I dare him to; I\'ll do\nfor him! O, he ain\'t the first!\" And he confirmed it with a poor, silly,\nugly oath.\n\nI have never felt such pity for any one in this wide world as I felt for\nthat half-witted creature, and it began to come over me that the brig\nCovenant (for all her pious name) was little better than a hell upon the\nseas.\n\n\"Have you no friends?\" said I.\n\nHe said he had a father in some English seaport, I forget which.\n\n\"He was a fine man, too,\" he said, \"but he\'s dead.\"\n\n\"In Heaven\'s name,\" cried I, \"can you find no reputable life on shore?\"\n\n\"O, no,\" says he, winking and looking very sly, \"they would put me to a\ntrade. I know a trick worth two of that, I do!\"\n\nI asked him what trade could be so dreadful as the one he followed,\nwhere he ran the continual peril of his life, not alone from wind and\nsea, but by the horrid cruelty of those who were his masters. He said\nit was very true; and then began to praise the life, and tell what a\npleasure it was to get on shore with money in his pocket, and spend it\nlike a man, and buy apples, and swagger, and surprise what he called\nstick-in-the-mud boys. \"And then it\'s not all as bad as that,\" says he;\n\"there\'s worse off than me: there\'s the twenty-pounders. O, laws!\nyou should see them taking on. Why, I\'ve seen a man as old as you, I\ndessay\"--(to him I seemed old)--\"ah, and he had a beard, too--well, and\nas soon as we cleared out of the river, and he had the drug out of his\nhead--my! how he cried and carried on! I made a fine fool of him, I tell\nyou! And then there\'s little uns, too: oh, little by me! I tell you, I\nkeep them in order. When we carry little uns, I have a rope\'s end of\nmy own to wollop\'em.\" And so he ran on, until it came in on me what\nhe meant by twenty-pounders were those unhappy criminals who were\nsent over-seas to slavery in North America, or the still more unhappy\ninnocents who were kidnapped or trepanned (as the word went) for private\ninterest or vengeance.\n\nJust then we came to the top of the hill, and looked down on the Ferry\nand the Hope. The Firth of Forth (as is very well known) narrows at this\npoint to the width of a good-sized river, which makes a convenient ferry\ngoing north, and turns the upper reach into a landlocked haven for all\nmanner of ships. Right in the midst of the narrows lies an islet with\nsome ruins; on the south shore they have built a pier for the service\nof the Ferry; and at the end of the pier, on the other side of the road,\nand backed against a pretty garden of holly-trees and hawthorns, I could\nsee the building which they called the Hawes Inn.\n\nThe town of Queensferry lies farther west, and the neighbourhood of the\ninn looked pretty lonely at that time of day, for the boat had just gone\nnorth with passengers. A skiff, however, lay beside the pier, with some\nseamen sleeping on the thwarts; this, as Ransome told me, was the brig\'s\nboat waiting for the captain; and about half a mile off, and all\nalone in the anchorage, he showed me the Covenant herself. There was a\nsea-going bustle on board; yards were swinging into place; and as the\nwind blew from that quarter, I could hear the song of the sailors as\nthey pulled upon the ropes. After all I had listened to upon the way, I\nlooked at that ship with an extreme abhorrence; and from the bottom of\nmy heart I pitied all poor souls that were condemned to sail in her.\n\nWe had all three pulled up on the brow of the hill; and now I marched\nacross the road and addressed my uncle. \"I think it right to tell\nyou, sir,\" says I, \"there\'s nothing that will bring me on board that\nCovenant.\"\n\nHe seemed to waken from a dream. \"Eh?\" he said. \"What\'s that?\"\n\nI told him over again.\n\n\"Well, well,\" he said, \"we\'ll have to please ye, I suppose. But what\nare we standing here for? It\'s perishing cold; and if I\'m no mistaken,\nthey\'re busking the Covenant for sea.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nWHAT BEFELL AT THE QUEEN\'S FERRY\n\nAs soon as we came to the inn, Ransome led us up the stair to a small\nroom, with a bed in it, and heated like an oven by a great fire of coal.\nAt a table hard by the chimney, a tall, dark, sober-looking man sat\nwriting. In spite of the heat of the room, he wore a thick sea-jacket,\nbuttoned to the neck, and a tall hairy cap drawn down over his ears; yet\nI never saw any man, not even a judge upon the bench, look cooler, or\nmore studious and self-possessed, than this ship-captain.\n\nHe got to his feet at once, and coming forward, offered his large hand\nto Ebenezer. \"I am proud to see you, Mr. Balfour,\" said he, in a fine\ndeep voice, \"and glad that ye are here in time. The wind\'s fair, and the\ntide upon the turn; we\'ll see the old coal-bucket burning on the Isle of\nMay before to-night.\"\n\n\"Captain Hoseason,\" returned my uncle, \"you keep your room unco hot.\"\n\n\"It\'s a habit I have, Mr. Balfour,\" said the skipper. \"I\'m a cold-rife\nman by my nature; I have a cold blood, sir. There\'s neither fur,\nnor flannel--no, sir, nor hot rum, will warm up what they call\nthe temperature. Sir, it\'s the same with most men that have been\ncarbonadoed, as they call it, in the tropic seas.\"\n\n\"Well, well, captain,\" replied my uncle, \"we must all be the way we\'re\nmade.\"\n\nBut it chanced that this fancy of the captain\'s had a great share in my\nmisfortunes. For though I had promised myself not to let my kinsman out\nof sight, I was both so impatient for a nearer look of the sea, and\nso sickened by the closeness of the room, that when he told me to \"run\ndown-stairs and play myself awhile,\" I was fool enough to take him at\nhis word.\n\nAway I went, therefore, leaving the two men sitting down to a bottle\nand a great mass of papers; and crossing the road in front of the inn,\nwalked down upon the beach. With the wind in that quarter, only little\nwavelets, not much bigger than I had seen upon a lake, beat upon the\nshore. But the weeds were new to me--some green, some brown and long,\nand some with little bladders that crackled between my fingers. Even so\nfar up the firth, the smell of the sea-water was exceedingly salt and\nstirring; the Covenant, besides, was beginning to shake out her sails,\nwhich hung upon the yards in clusters; and the spirit of all that I\nbeheld put me in thoughts of far voyages and foreign places.\n\nI looked, too, at the seamen with the skiff--big brown fellows, some in\nshirts, some with jackets, some with coloured handkerchiefs about their\nthroats, one with a brace of pistols stuck into his pockets, two or\nthree with knotty bludgeons, and all with their case-knives. I passed\nthe time of day with one that looked less desperate than his fellows,\nand asked him of the sailing of the brig. He said they would get under\nway as soon as the ebb set, and expressed his gladness to be out of\na port where there were no taverns and fiddlers; but all with such\nhorrifying oaths, that I made haste to get away from him.\n\nThis threw me back on Ransome, who seemed the least wicked of that gang,\nand who soon came out of the inn and ran to me, crying for a bowl of\npunch. I told him I would give him no such thing, for neither he nor I\nwas of an age for such indulgences. \"But a glass of ale you may have,\nand welcome,\" said I. He mopped and mowed at me, and called me names;\nbut he was glad to get the ale, for all that; and presently we were\nset down at a table in the front room of the inn, and both eating and\ndrinking with a good appetite.\n\nHere it occurred to me that, as the landlord was a man of that county,\nI might do well to make a friend of him. I offered him a share, as was\nmuch the custom in those days; but he was far too great a man to sit\nwith such poor customers as Ransome and myself, and he was leaving the\nroom, when I called him back to ask if he knew Mr. Rankeillor.\n\n\"Hoot, ay,\" says he, \"and a very honest man. And, O, by-the-by,\" says\nhe, \"was it you that came in with Ebenezer?\" And when I had told him\nyes, \"Ye\'ll be no friend of his?\" he asked, meaning, in the Scottish\nway, that I would be no relative.\n\nI told him no, none.\n\n\"I thought not,\" said he, \"and yet ye have a kind of gliff* of Mr.\nAlexander.\"\n\n * Look.\n\nI said it seemed that Ebenezer was ill-seen in the country.\n\n\"Nae doubt,\" said the landlord. \"He\'s a wicked auld man, and there\'s\nmany would like to see him girning in the tow*. Jennet Clouston and mony\nmair that he has harried out of house and hame. And yet he was ance\na fine young fellow, too. But that was before the sough** gaed abroad\nabout Mr. Alexander, that was like the death of him.\"\n\n * Rope.\n\n ** Report.\n\n\"And what was it?\" I asked.\n\n\"Ou, just that he had killed him,\" said the landlord. \"Did ye never hear\nthat?\"\n\n\"And what would he kill him for?\" said I.\n\n\"And what for, but just to get the place,\" said he.\n\n\"The place?\" said I. \"The Shaws?\"\n\n\"Nae other place that I ken,\" said he.\n\n\"Ay, man?\" said I. \"Is that so? Was my--was Alexander the eldest son?\"\n\n\"\'Deed was he,\" said the landlord. \"What else would he have killed him\nfor?\"\n\nAnd with that he went away, as he had been impatient to do from the\nbeginning.\n\nOf course, I had guessed it a long while ago; but it is one thing to\nguess, another to know; and I sat stunned with my good fortune, and\ncould scarce grow to believe that the same poor lad who had trudged in\nthe dust from Ettrick Forest not two days ago, was now one of the rich\nof the earth, and had a house and broad lands, and might mount his horse\ntomorrow. All these pleasant things, and a thousand others, crowded into\nmy mind, as I sat staring before me out of the inn window, and paying\nno heed to what I saw; only I remember that my eye lighted on Captain\nHoseason down on the pier among his seamen, and speaking with some\nauthority. And presently he came marching back towards the house, with\nno mark of a sailor\'s clumsiness, but carrying his fine, tall figure\nwith a manly bearing, and still with the same sober, grave expression on\nhis face. I wondered if it was possible that Ransome\'s stories could\nbe true, and half disbelieved them; they fitted so ill with the man\'s\nlooks. But indeed, he was neither so good as I supposed him, nor quite\nso bad as Ransome did; for, in fact, he was two men, and left the better\none behind as soon as he set foot on board his vessel.\n\nThe next thing, I heard my uncle calling me, and found the pair in the\nroad together. It was the captain who addressed me, and that with an air\n(very flattering to a young lad) of grave equality.\n\n\"Sir,\" said he, \"Mr. Balfour tells me great things of you; and for my\nown part, I like your looks. I wish I was for longer here, that we might\nmake the better friends; but we\'ll make the most of what we have. Ye\nshall come on board my brig for half an hour, till the ebb sets, and\ndrink a bowl with me.\"\n\nNow, I longed to see the inside of a ship more than words can tell; but\nI was not going to put myself in jeopardy, and I told him my uncle and I\nhad an appointment with a lawyer.\n\n\"Ay, ay,\" said he, \"he passed me word of that. But, ye see, the boat\'ll\nset ye ashore at the town pier, and that\'s but a penny stonecast from\nRankeillor\'s house.\" And here he suddenly leaned down and whispered in\nmy ear: \"Take care of the old tod;* he means mischief. Come aboard till\nI can get a word with ye.\" And then, passing his arm through mine, he\ncontinued aloud, as he set off towards his boat: \"But, come, what can I\nbring ye from the Carolinas? Any friend of Mr. Balfour\'s can command.\nA roll of tobacco? Indian feather-work? a skin of a wild beast? a stone\npipe? the mocking-bird that mews for all the world like a cat? the\ncardinal bird that is as red as blood?--take your pick and say your\npleasure.\"\n\n * Fox.\n\nBy this time we were at the boat-side, and he was handing me in. I did\nnot dream of hanging back; I thought (the poor fool!) that I had found\na good friend and helper, and I was rejoiced to see the ship. As soon as\nwe were all set in our places, the boat was thrust off from the pier\nand began to move over the waters: and what with my pleasure in this new\nmovement and my surprise at our low position, and the appearance of the\nshores, and the growing bigness of the brig as we drew near to it, I\ncould hardly understand what the captain said, and must have answered\nhim at random.\n\nAs soon as we were alongside (where I sat fairly gaping at the ship\'s\nheight, the strong humming of the tide against its sides, and the\npleasant cries of the seamen at their work) Hoseason, declaring that he\nand I must be the first aboard, ordered a tackle to be sent down from\nthe main-yard. In this I was whipped into the air and set down again on\nthe deck, where the captain stood ready waiting for me, and instantly\nslipped back his arm under mine. There I stood some while, a little\ndizzy with the unsteadiness of all around me, perhaps a little afraid,\nand yet vastly pleased with these strange sights; the captain meanwhile\npointing out the strangest, and telling me their names and uses.\n\n\"But where is my uncle?\" said I suddenly.\n\n\"Ay,\" said Hoseason, with a sudden grimness, \"that\'s the point.\"\n\nI felt I was lost. With all my strength, I plucked myself clear of him\nand ran to the bulwarks. Sure enough, there was the boat pulling for the\ntown, with my uncle sitting in the stern. I gave a piercing cry--\"Help,\nhelp! Murder!\"--so that both sides of the anchorage rang with it, and\nmy uncle turned round where he was sitting, and showed me a face full of\ncruelty and terror.\n\nIt was the last I saw. Already strong hands had been plucking me back\nfrom the ship\'s side; and now a thunderbolt seemed to strike me; I saw a\ngreat flash of fire, and fell senseless.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nI GO TO SEA IN THE BRIG \"COVENANT\" OF DYSART\n\nI came to myself in darkness, in great pain, bound hand and foot, and\ndeafened by many unfamiliar noises. There sounded in my ears a roaring\nof water as of a huge mill-dam, the thrashing of heavy sprays, the\nthundering of the sails, and the shrill cries of seamen. The whole world\nnow heaved giddily up, and now rushed giddily downward; and so sick and\nhurt was I in body, and my mind so much confounded, that it took me a\nlong while, chasing my thoughts up and down, and ever stunned again by\na fresh stab of pain, to realise that I must be lying somewhere bound in\nthe belly of that unlucky ship, and that the wind must have strengthened\nto a gale. With the clear perception of my plight, there fell upon me a\nblackness of despair, a horror of remorse at my own folly, and a passion\nof anger at my uncle, that once more bereft me of my senses.\n\nWhen I returned again to life, the same uproar, the same confused and\nviolent movements, shook and deafened me; and presently, to my other\npains and distresses, there was added the sickness of an unused landsman\non the sea. In that time of my adventurous youth, I suffered many\nhardships; but none that was so crushing to my mind and body, or lit by\nso few hopes, as these first hours aboard the brig.\n\nI heard a gun fire, and supposed the storm had proved too strong for us,\nand we were firing signals of distress. The thought of deliverance, even\nby death in the deep sea, was welcome to me. Yet it was no such matter;\nbut (as I was afterwards told) a common habit of the captain\'s, which\nI here set down to show that even the worst man may have his kindlier\nside. We were then passing, it appeared, within some miles of Dysart,\nwhere the brig was built, and where old Mrs. Hoseason, the captain\'s\nmother, had come some years before to live; and whether outward or\ninward bound, the Covenant was never suffered to go by that place by\nday, without a gun fired and colours shown.\n\nI had no measure of time; day and night were alike in that ill-smelling\ncavern of the ship\'s bowels where I lay; and the misery of my situation\ndrew out the hours to double. How long, therefore, I lay waiting to hear\nthe ship split upon some rock, or to feel her reel head foremost into\nthe depths of the sea, I have not the means of computation. But sleep at\nlength stole from me the consciousness of sorrow.\n\nI was awakened by the light of a hand-lantern shining in my face. A\nsmall man of about thirty, with green eyes and a tangle of fair hair,\nstood looking down at me.\n\n\"Well,\" said he, \"how goes it?\"\n\nI answered by a sob; and my visitor then felt my pulse and temples, and\nset himself to wash and dress the wound upon my scalp.\n\n\"Ay,\" said he, \"a sore dunt*. What, man? Cheer up! The world\'s no done;\nyou\'ve made a bad start of it but you\'ll make a better. Have you had any\nmeat?\"\n\n * Stroke.\n\nI said I could not look at it: and thereupon he gave me some brandy and\nwater in a tin pannikin, and left me once more to myself.\n\nThe next time he came to see me, I was lying betwixt sleep and waking,\nmy eyes wide open in the darkness, the sickness quite departed, but\nsucceeded by a horrid giddiness and swimming that was almost worse\nto bear. I ached, besides, in every limb, and the cords that bound me\nseemed to be of fire. The smell of the hole in which I lay seemed to\nhave become a part of me; and during the long interval since his last\nvisit I had suffered tortures of fear, now from the scurrying of the\nship\'s rats, that sometimes pattered on my very face, and now from the\ndismal imaginings that haunt the bed of fever.\n\nThe glimmer of the lantern, as a trap opened, shone in like the heaven\'s\nsunlight; and though it only showed me the strong, dark beams of the\nship that was my prison, I could have cried aloud for gladness. The man\nwith the green eyes was the first to descend the ladder, and I noticed\nthat he came somewhat unsteadily. He was followed by the captain.\nNeither said a word; but the first set to and examined me, and dressed\nmy wound as before, while Hoseason looked me in my face with an odd,\nblack look.\n\n\"Now, sir, you see for yourself,\" said the first: \"a high fever, no\nappetite, no light, no meat: you see for yourself what that means.\"\n\n\"I am no conjurer, Mr. Riach,\" said the captain.\n\n\"Give me leave, sir,\" said Riach; \"you\'ve a good head upon your\nshoulders, and a good Scotch tongue to ask with; but I will leave you no\nmanner of excuse; I want that boy taken out of this hole and put in the\nforecastle.\"\n\n\"What ye may want, sir, is a matter of concern to nobody but yoursel\',\"\nreturned the captain; \"but I can tell ye that which is to be. Here he\nis; here he shall bide.\"\n\n\"Admitting that you have been paid in a proportion,\" said the other, \"I\nwill crave leave humbly to say that I have not. Paid I am, and none too\nmuch, to be the second officer of this old tub, and you ken very well if\nI do my best to earn it. But I was paid for nothing more.\"\n\n\"If ye could hold back your hand from the tin-pan, Mr. Riach, I would\nhave no complaint to make of ye,\" returned the skipper; \"and instead\nof asking riddles, I make bold to say that ye would keep your breath to\ncool your porridge. We\'ll be required on deck,\" he added, in a sharper\nnote, and set one foot upon the ladder.\n\nBut Mr. Riach caught him by the sleeve.\n\n\"Admitting that you have been paid to do a murder----\" he began.\n\nHoseason turned upon him with a flash.\n\n\"What\'s that?\" he cried. \"What kind of talk is that?\"\n\n\"It seems it is the talk that you can understand,\" said Mr. Riach,\nlooking him steadily in the face.\n\n\"Mr. Riach, I have sailed with ye three cruises,\" replied the captain.\n\"In all that time, sir, ye should have learned to know me: I\'m a stiff\nman, and a dour man; but for what ye say the now--fie, fie!--it comes\nfrom a bad heart and a black conscience. If ye say the lad will die----\"\n\n\"Ay, will he!\" said Mr. Riach.\n\n\"Well, sir, is not that enough?\" said Hoseason. \"Flit him where ye\nplease!\"\n\nThereupon the captain ascended the ladder; and I, who had lain silent\nthroughout this strange conversation, beheld Mr. Riach turn after him\nand bow as low as to his knees in what was plainly a spirit of derision.\nEven in my then state of sickness, I perceived two things: that the\nmate was touched with liquor, as the captain hinted, and that (drunk or\nsober) he was like to prove a valuable friend.\n\nFive minutes afterwards my bonds were cut, I was hoisted on a man\'s\nback, carried up to the forecastle, and laid in a bunk on some\nsea-blankets; where the first thing that I did was to lose my senses.\n\nIt was a blessed thing indeed to open my eyes again upon the daylight,\nand to find myself in the society of men. The forecastle was a roomy\nplace enough, set all about with berths, in which the men of the watch\nbelow were seated smoking, or lying down asleep. The day being calm and\nthe wind fair, the scuttle was open, and not only the good daylight, but\nfrom time to time (as the ship rolled) a dusty beam of sunlight shone\nin, and dazzled and delighted me. I had no sooner moved, moreover, than\none of the men brought me a drink of something healing which Mr. Riach\nhad prepared, and bade me lie still and I should soon be well again.\nThere were no bones broken, he explained: \"A clour* on the head was\nnaething. Man,\" said he, \"it was me that gave it ye!\"\n\n * Blow.\n\nHere I lay for the space of many days a close prisoner, and not only got\nmy health again, but came to know my companions. They were a rough lot\nindeed, as sailors mostly are: being men rooted out of all the kindly\nparts of life, and condemned to toss together on the rough seas, with\nmasters no less cruel. There were some among them that had sailed with\nthe pirates and seen things it would be a shame even to speak of; some\nwere men that had run from the king\'s ships, and went with a halter\nround their necks, of which they made no secret; and all, as the saying\ngoes, were \"at a word and a blow\" with their best friends. Yet I had\nnot been many days shut up with them before I began to be ashamed of my\nfirst judgment, when I had drawn away from them at the Ferry pier, as\nthough they had been unclean beasts. No class of man is altogether bad,\nbut each has its own faults and virtues; and these shipmates of mine\nwere no exception to the rule. Rough they were, sure enough; and bad, I\nsuppose; but they had many virtues. They were kind when it occurred to\nthem, simple even beyond the simplicity of a country lad like me, and\nhad some glimmerings of honesty.\n\nThere was one man, of maybe forty, that would sit on my berthside for\nhours and tell me of his wife and child. He was a fisher that had lost\nhis boat, and thus been driven to the deep-sea voyaging. Well, it is\nyears ago now: but I have never forgotten him. His wife (who was \"young\nby him,\" as he often told me) waited in vain to see her man return; he\nwould never again make the fire for her in the morning, nor yet keep\nthe bairn when she was sick. Indeed, many of these poor fellows (as the\nevent proved) were upon their last cruise; the deep seas and cannibal\nfish received them; and it is a thankless business to speak ill of the\ndead.\n\nAmong other good deeds that they did, they returned my money, which had\nbeen shared among them; and though it was about a third short, I was\nvery glad to get it, and hoped great good from it in the land I was\ngoing to. The ship was bound for the Carolinas; and you must not suppose\nthat I was going to that place merely as an exile. The trade was even\nthen much depressed; since that, and with the rebellion of the colonies\nand the formation of the United States, it has, of course, come to\nan end; but in those days of my youth, white men were still sold into\nslavery on the plantations, and that was the destiny to which my wicked\nuncle had condemned me.\n\nThe cabin-boy Ransome (from whom I had first heard of these atrocities)\ncame in at times from the round-house, where he berthed and served, now\nnursing a bruised limb in silent agony, now raving against the cruelty\nof Mr. Shuan. It made my heart bleed; but the men had a great respect\nfor the chief mate, who was, as they said, \"the only seaman of the whole\njing-bang, and none such a bad man when he was sober.\" Indeed, I found\nthere was a strange peculiarity about our two mates: that Mr. Riach was\nsullen, unkind, and harsh when he was sober, and Mr. Shuan would not\nhurt a fly except when he was drinking. I asked about the captain; but I\nwas told drink made no difference upon that man of iron.\n\nI did my best in the small time allowed me to make some thing like a\nman, or rather I should say something like a boy, of the poor creature,\nRansome. But his mind was scarce truly human. He could remember nothing\nof the time before he came to sea; only that his father had made clocks,\nand had a starling in the parlour, which could whistle \"The North\nCountrie;\" all else had been blotted out in these years of hardship\nand cruelties. He had a strange notion of the dry land, picked up from\nsailor\'s stories: that it was a place where lads were put to some kind\nof slavery called a trade, and where apprentices were continually lashed\nand clapped into foul prisons. In a town, he thought every second person\na decoy, and every third house a place in which seamen would be drugged\nand murdered. To be sure, I would tell him how kindly I had myself been\nused upon that dry land he was so much afraid of, and how well fed and\ncarefully taught both by my friends and my parents: and if he had been\nrecently hurt, he would weep bitterly and swear to run away; but if\nhe was in his usual crackbrain humour, or (still more) if he had had a\nglass of spirits in the roundhouse, he would deride the notion.\n\nIt was Mr. Riach (Heaven forgive him!) who gave the boy drink; and\nit was, doubtless, kindly meant; but besides that it was ruin to his\nhealth, it was the pitifullest thing in life to see this unhappy,\nunfriended creature staggering, and dancing, and talking he knew not\nwhat. Some of the men laughed, but not all; others would grow as black\nas thunder (thinking, perhaps, of their own childhood or their own\nchildren) and bid him stop that nonsense, and think what he was doing.\nAs for me, I felt ashamed to look at him, and the poor child still comes\nabout me in my dreams.\n\nAll this time, you should know, the Covenant was meeting continual\nhead-winds and tumbling up and down against head-seas, so that the\nscuttle was almost constantly shut, and the forecastle lighted only by a\nswinging lantern on a beam. There was constant labour for all hands; the\nsails had to be made and shortened every hour; the strain told on the\nmen\'s temper; there was a growl of quarrelling all day long from berth\nto berth; and as I was never allowed to set my foot on deck, you\ncan picture to yourselves how weary of my life I grew to be, and how\nimpatient for a change.\n\nAnd a change I was to get, as you shall hear; but I must first tell of\na conversation I had with Mr. Riach, which put a little heart in me to\nbear my troubles. Getting him in a favourable stage of drink (for indeed\nhe never looked near me when he was sober), I pledged him to secrecy,\nand told him my whole story.\n\nHe declared it was like a ballad; that he would do his best to help\nme; that I should have paper, pen, and ink, and write one line to Mr.\nCampbell and another to Mr. Rankeillor; and that if I had told the\ntruth, ten to one he would be able (with their help) to pull me through\nand set me in my rights.\n\n\"And in the meantime,\" says he, \"keep your heart up. You\'re not the only\none, I\'ll tell you that. There\'s many a man hoeing tobacco over-seas\nthat should be mounting his horse at his own door at home; many and\nmany! And life is all a variorum, at the best. Look at me: I\'m a laird\'s\nson and more than half a doctor, and here I am, man-Jack to Hoseason!\"\n\nI thought it would be civil to ask him for his story.\n\nHe whistled loud.\n\n\"Never had one,\" said he. \"I like fun, that\'s all.\" And he skipped out\nof the forecastle.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nTHE ROUND-HOUSE\n\nOne night, about eleven o\'clock, a man of Mr. Riach\'s watch (which was\non deck) came below for his jacket; and instantly there began to go\na whisper about the forecastle that \"Shuan had done for him at last.\"\nThere was no need of a name; we all knew who was meant; but we had\nscarce time to get the idea rightly in our heads, far less to speak of\nit, when the scuttle was again flung open, and Captain Hoseason came\ndown the ladder. He looked sharply round the bunks in the tossing light\nof the lantern; and then, walking straight up to me, he addressed me, to\nmy surprise, in tones of kindness.\n\n\"My man,\" said he, \"we want ye to serve in the round-house. You and\nRansome are to change berths. Run away aft with ye.\"\n\nEven as he spoke, two seamen appeared in the scuttle, carrying Ransome\nin their arms; and the ship at that moment giving a great sheer into the\nsea, and the lantern swinging, the light fell direct on the boy\'s face.\nIt was as white as wax, and had a look upon it like a dreadful smile.\nThe blood in me ran cold, and I drew in my breath as if I had been\nstruck.\n\n\"Run away aft; run away aft with ye!\" cried Hoseason.\n\nAnd at that I brushed by the sailors and the boy (who neither spoke nor\nmoved), and ran up the ladder on deck.\n\nThe brig was sheering swiftly and giddily through a long, cresting\nswell. She was on the starboard tack, and on the left hand, under the\narched foot of the foresail, I could see the sunset still quite bright.\nThis, at such an hour of the night, surprised me greatly; but I was too\nignorant to draw the true conclusion--that we were going north-about\nround Scotland, and were now on the high sea between the Orkney and\nShetland Islands, having avoided the dangerous currents of the Pentland\nFirth. For my part, who had been so long shut in the dark and knew\nnothing of head-winds, I thought we might be half-way or more across the\nAtlantic. And indeed (beyond that I wondered a little at the lateness of\nthe sunset light) I gave no heed to it, and pushed on across the decks,\nrunning between the seas, catching at ropes, and only saved from going\noverboard by one of the hands on deck, who had been always kind to me.\n\nThe round-house, for which I was bound, and where I was now to sleep and\nserve, stood some six feet above the decks, and considering the size of\nthe brig, was of good dimensions. Inside were a fixed table and bench,\nand two berths, one for the captain and the other for the two mates,\nturn and turn about. It was all fitted with lockers from top to bottom,\nso as to stow away the officers\' belongings and a part of the ship\'s\nstores; there was a second store-room underneath, which you entered by a\nhatchway in the middle of the deck; indeed, all the best of the meat and\ndrink and the whole of the powder were collected in this place; and all\nthe firearms, except the two pieces of brass ordnance, were set in a\nrack in the aftermost wall of the round-house. The most of the cutlasses\nwere in another place.\n\nA small window with a shutter on each side, and a skylight in the roof,\ngave it light by day; and after dark there was a lamp always burning.\nIt was burning when I entered, not brightly, but enough to show Mr.\nShuan sitting at the table, with the brandy bottle and a tin pannikin\nin front of him. He was a tall man, strongly made and very black; and he\nstared before him on the table like one stupid.\n\nHe took no notice of my coming in; nor did he move when the captain\nfollowed and leant on the berth beside me, looking darkly at the mate.\nI stood in great fear of Hoseason, and had my reasons for it; but\nsomething told me I need not be afraid of him just then; and I whispered\nin his ear: \"How is he?\" He shook his head like one that does not know\nand does not wish to think, and his face was very stern.\n\nPresently Mr. Riach came in. He gave the captain a glance that meant the\nboy was dead as plain as speaking, and took his place like the rest\nof us; so that we all three stood without a word, staring down at Mr.\nShuan, and Mr. Shuan (on his side) sat without a word, looking hard upon\nthe table.\n\nAll of a sudden he put out his hand to take the bottle; and at that Mr.\nRiach started forward and caught it away from him, rather by surprise\nthan violence, crying out, with an oath, that there had been too much of\nthis work altogether, and that a judgment would fall upon the ship.\nAnd as he spoke (the weather sliding-doors standing open) he tossed the\nbottle into the sea.\n\nMr. Shuan was on his feet in a trice; he still looked dazed, but he\nmeant murder, ay, and would have done it, for the second time that\nnight, had not the captain stepped in between him and his victim.\n\n\"Sit down!\" roars the captain. \"Ye sot and swine, do ye know what ye\'ve\ndone? Ye\'ve murdered the boy!\"\n\nMr. Shuan seemed to understand; for he sat down again, and put up his\nhand to his brow.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"he brought me a dirty pannikin!\"\n\nAt that word, the captain and I and Mr. Riach all looked at each other\nfor a second with a kind of frightened look; and then Hoseason walked\nup to his chief officer, took him by the shoulder, led him across to his\nbunk, and bade him lie down and go to sleep, as you might speak to a bad\nchild. The murderer cried a little, but he took off his sea-boots and\nobeyed.\n\n\"Ah!\" cried Mr. Riach, with a dreadful voice, \"ye should have interfered\nlong syne. It\'s too late now.\"\n\n\"Mr. Riach,\" said the captain, \"this night\'s work must never be kennt\nin Dysart. The boy went overboard, sir; that\'s what the story is; and I\nwould give five pounds out of my pocket it was true!\" He turned to the\ntable. \"What made ye throw the good bottle away?\" he added. \"There was\nnae sense in that, sir. Here, David, draw me another. They\'re in the\nbottom locker;\" and he tossed me a key. \"Ye\'ll need a glass yourself,\nsir,\" he added to Riach. \"Yon was an ugly thing to see.\"\n\nSo the pair sat down and hob-a-nobbed; and while they did so, the\nmurderer, who had been lying and whimpering in his berth, raised himself\nupon his elbow and looked at them and at me.\n\nThat was the first night of my new duties; and in the course of the next\nday I had got well into the run of them. I had to serve at the meals,\nwhich the captain took at regular hours, sitting down with the officer\nwho was off duty; all the day through I would be running with a dram\nto one or other of my three masters; and at night I slept on a blanket\nthrown on the deck boards at the aftermost end of the round-house, and\nright in the draught of the two doors. It was a hard and a cold bed;\nnor was I suffered to sleep without interruption; for some one would be\nalways coming in from deck to get a dram, and when a fresh watch was\nto be set, two and sometimes all three would sit down and brew a bowl\ntogether. How they kept their health, I know not, any more than how I\nkept my own.\n\nAnd yet in other ways it was an easy service. There was no cloth to lay;\nthe meals were either of oatmeal porridge or salt junk, except twice a\nweek, when there was duff: and though I was clumsy enough and (not being\nfirm on my sealegs) sometimes fell with what I was bringing them, both\nMr. Riach and the captain were singularly patient. I could not but fancy\nthey were making up lee-way with their consciences, and that they\nwould scarce have been so good with me if they had not been worse with\nRansome.\n\nAs for Mr. Shuan, the drink or his crime, or the two together, had\ncertainly troubled his mind. I cannot say I ever saw him in his proper\nwits. He never grew used to my being there, stared at me continually\n(sometimes, I could have thought, with terror), and more than once drew\nback from my hand when I was serving him. I was pretty sure from the\nfirst that he had no clear mind of what he had done, and on my second\nday in the round-house I had the proof of it. We were alone, and he had\nbeen staring at me a long time, when all at once, up he got, as pale as\ndeath, and came close up to me, to my great terror. But I had no cause\nto be afraid of him.\n\n\"You were not here before?\" he asked.\n\n\"No, sir,\" said I.\"\n\n\"There was another boy?\" he asked again; and when I had answered him,\n\"Ah!\" says he, \"I thought that,\" and went and sat down, without another\nword, except to call for brandy.\n\nYou may think it strange, but for all the horror I had, I was still\nsorry for him. He was a married man, with a wife in Leith; but whether\nor no he had a family, I have now forgotten; I hope not.\n\nAltogether it was no very hard life for the time it lasted, which (as\nyou are to hear) was not long. I was as well fed as the best of them;\neven their pickles, which were the great dainty, I was allowed my share\nof; and had I liked I might have been drunk from morning to night, like\nMr. Shuan. I had company, too, and good company of its sort. Mr. Riach,\nwho had been to the college, spoke to me like a friend when he was not\nsulking, and told me many curious things, and some that were informing;\nand even the captain, though he kept me at the stick\'s end the most part\nof the time, would sometimes unbuckle a bit, and tell me of the fine\ncountries he had visited.\n\nThe shadow of poor Ransome, to be sure, lay on all four of us, and on\nme and Mr. Shuan in particular, most heavily. And then I had another\ntrouble of my own. Here I was, doing dirty work for three men that I\nlooked down upon, and one of whom, at least, should have hung upon a\ngallows; that was for the present; and as for the future, I could only\nsee myself slaving alongside of negroes in the tobacco fields. Mr.\nRiach, perhaps from caution, would never suffer me to say another word\nabout my story; the captain, whom I tried to approach, rebuffed me like\na dog and would not hear a word; and as the days came and went, my heart\nsank lower and lower, till I was even glad of the work which kept me\nfrom thinking.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nTHE MAN WITH THE BELT OF GOLD\n\nMore than a week went by, in which the ill-luck that had hitherto\npursued the Covenant upon this voyage grew yet more strongly marked.\nSome days she made a little way; others, she was driven actually back.\nAt last we were beaten so far to the south that we tossed and tacked to\nand fro the whole of the ninth day, within sight of Cape Wrath and the\nwild, rocky coast on either hand of it. There followed on that a council\nof the officers, and some decision which I did not rightly understand,\nseeing only the result: that we had made a fair wind of a foul one and\nwere running south.\n\nThe tenth afternoon there was a falling swell and a thick, wet, white\nfog that hid one end of the brig from the other. All afternoon, when\nI went on deck, I saw men and officers listening hard over the\nbulwarks--\"for breakers,\" they said; and though I did not so much as\nunderstand the word, I felt danger in the air, and was excited.\n\nMaybe about ten at night, I was serving Mr. Riach and the captain at\ntheir supper, when the ship struck something with a great sound, and we\nheard voices singing out. My two masters leaped to their feet.\n\n\"She\'s struck!\" said Mr. Riach.\n\n\"No, sir,\" said the captain. \"We\'ve only run a boat down.\"\n\nAnd they hurried out.\n\nThe captain was in the right of it. We had run down a boat in the fog,\nand she had parted in the midst and gone to the bottom with all her crew\nbut one. This man (as I heard afterwards) had been sitting in the stern\nas a passenger, while the rest were on the benches rowing. At the moment\nof the blow, the stern had been thrown into the air, and the man (having\nhis hands free, and for all he was encumbered with a frieze overcoat\nthat came below his knees) had leaped up and caught hold of the brig\'s\nbowsprit. It showed he had luck and much agility and unusual strength,\nthat he should have thus saved himself from such a pass. And yet, when\nthe captain brought him into the round-house, and I set eyes on him for\nthe first time, he looked as cool as I did.\n\nHe was smallish in stature, but well set and as nimble as a goat; his\nface was of a good open expression, but sunburnt very dark, and heavily\nfreckled and pitted with the small-pox; his eyes were unusually light\nand had a kind of dancing madness in them, that was both engaging and\nalarming; and when he took off his great-coat, he laid a pair of fine\nsilver-mounted pistols on the table, and I saw that he was belted with\na great sword. His manners, besides, were elegant, and he pledged the\ncaptain handsomely. Altogether I thought of him, at the first sight,\nthat here was a man I would rather call my friend than my enemy.\n\nThe captain, too, was taking his observations, but rather of the man\'s\nclothes than his person. And to be sure, as soon as he had taken off\nthe great-coat, he showed forth mighty fine for the round-house of a\nmerchant brig: having a hat with feathers, a red waistcoat, breeches\nof black plush, and a blue coat with silver buttons and handsome silver\nlace; costly clothes, though somewhat spoiled with the fog and being\nslept in.\n\n\"I\'m vexed, sir, about the boat,\" says the captain.\n\n\"There are some pretty men gone to the bottom,\" said the stranger, \"that\nI would rather see on the dry land again than half a score of boats.\"\n\n\"Friends of yours?\" said Hoseason.\n\n\"You have none such friends in your country,\" was the reply. \"They would\nhave died for me like dogs.\"\n\n\"Well, sir,\" said the captain, still watching him, \"there are more men\nin the world than boats to put them in.\"\n\n\"And that\'s true, too,\" cried the other, \"and ye seem to be a gentleman\nof great penetration.\"\n\n\"I have been in France, sir,\" says the captain, so that it was plain he\nmeant more by the words than showed upon the face of them.\n\n\"Well, sir,\" says the other, \"and so has many a pretty man, for the\nmatter of that.\"\n\n\"No doubt, sir,\" says the captain, \"and fine coats.\"\n\n\"Oho!\" says the stranger, \"is that how the wind sets?\" And he laid his\nhand quickly on his pistols.\n\n\"Don\'t be hasty,\" said the captain. \"Don\'t do a mischief before ye\nsee the need of it. Ye\'ve a French soldier\'s coat upon your back and a\nScotch tongue in your head, to be sure; but so has many an honest fellow\nin these days, and I dare say none the worse of it.\"\n\n\"So?\" said the gentleman in the fine coat: \"are ye of the honest party?\"\n(meaning, Was he a Jacobite? for each side, in these sort of civil\nbroils, takes the name of honesty for its own).\n\n\"Why, sir,\" replied the captain, \"I am a true-blue Protestant, and I\nthank God for it.\" (It was the first word of any religion I had ever\nheard from him, but I learnt afterwards he was a great church-goer while\non shore.) \"But, for all that,\" says he, \"I can be sorry to see another\nman with his back to the wall.\"\n\n\"Can ye so, indeed?\" asked the Jacobite. \"Well, sir, to be quite plain\nwith ye, I am one of those honest gentlemen that were in trouble about\nthe years forty-five and six; and (to be still quite plain with ye) if\nI got into the hands of any of the red-coated gentry, it\'s like it would\ngo hard with me. Now, sir, I was for France; and there was a French ship\ncruising here to pick me up; but she gave us the go-by in the fog--as I\nwish from the heart that ye had done yoursel\'! And the best that I can\nsay is this: If ye can set me ashore where I was going, I have that upon\nme will reward you highly for your trouble.\"\n\n\"In France?\" says the captain. \"No, sir; that I cannot do. But where ye\ncome from--we might talk of that.\"\n\nAnd then, unhappily, he observed me standing in my corner, and packed\nme off to the galley to get supper for the gentleman. I lost no time,\nI promise you; and when I came back into the round-house, I found the\ngentleman had taken a money-belt from about his waist, and poured out\na guinea or two upon the table. The captain was looking at the guineas,\nand then at the belt, and then at the gentleman\'s face; and I thought he\nseemed excited.\n\n\"Half of it,\" he cried, \"and I\'m your man!\"\n\nThe other swept back the guineas into the belt, and put it on again\nunder his waistcoat. \"I have told ye sir,\" said he, \"that not one doit\nof it belongs to me. It belongs to my chieftain,\" and here he touched\nhis hat, \"and while I would be but a silly messenger to grudge some of\nit that the rest might come safe, I should show myself a hound indeed if\nI bought my own carcase any too dear. Thirty guineas on the sea-side, or\nsixty if ye set me on the Linnhe Loch. Take it, if ye will; if not, ye\ncan do your worst.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said Hoseason. \"And if I give ye over to the soldiers?\"\n\n\"Ye would make a fool\'s bargain,\" said the other. \"My chief, let me tell\nyou, sir, is forfeited, like every honest man in Scotland. His estate\nis in the hands of the man they call King George; and it is his officers\nthat collect the rents, or try to collect them. But for the honour of\nScotland, the poor tenant bodies take a thought upon their chief lying\nin exile; and this money is a part of that very rent for which King\nGeorge is looking. Now, sir, ye seem to me to be a man that understands\nthings: bring this money within the reach of Government, and how much of\nit\'ll come to you?\"\n\n\"Little enough, to be sure,\" said Hoseason; and then, \"if they knew,\" he\nadded, drily. \"But I think, if I was to try, that I could hold my tongue\nabout it.\"\n\n\"Ah, but I\'ll begowk* ye there!\" cried the gentleman. \"Play me false,\nand I\'ll play you cunning. If a hand is laid upon me, they shall ken\nwhat money it is.\"\n\n *Befool.\n\n\"Well,\" returned the captain, \"what must be must. Sixty guineas, and\ndone. Here\'s my hand upon it.\"\n\n\"And here\'s mine,\" said the other.\n\nAnd thereupon the captain went out (rather hurriedly, I thought), and\nleft me alone in the round-house with the stranger.\n\nAt that period (so soon after the forty-five) there were many exiled\ngentlemen coming back at the peril of their lives, either to see their\nfriends or to collect a little money; and as for the Highland chiefs\nthat had been forfeited, it was a common matter of talk how their\ntenants would stint themselves to send them money, and their clansmen\noutface the soldiery to get it in, and run the gauntlet of our great\nnavy to carry it across. All this I had, of course, heard tell of; and\nnow I had a man under my eyes whose life was forfeit on all these counts\nand upon one more, for he was not only a rebel and a smuggler of rents,\nbut had taken service with King Louis of France. And as if all this\nwere not enough, he had a belt full of golden guineas round his loins.\nWhatever my opinions, I could not look on such a man without a lively\ninterest.\n\n\"And so you\'re a Jacobite?\" said I, as I set meat before him.\n\n\"Ay,\" said he, beginning to eat. \"And you, by your long face, should be\na Whig?\"*\n\n * Whig or Whigamore was the cant name for those who were\n loyal to King George.\n\n\"Betwixt and between,\" said I, not to annoy him; for indeed I was as\ngood a Whig as Mr. Campbell could make me.\n\n\"And that\'s naething,\" said he. \"But I\'m saying, Mr.\nBetwixt-and-Between,\" he added, \"this bottle of yours is dry; and it\'s\nhard if I\'m to pay sixty guineas and be grudged a dram upon the back of\nit.\"\n\n\"I\'ll go and ask for the key,\" said I, and stepped on deck.\n\nThe fog was as close as ever, but the swell almost down. They had laid\nthe brig to, not knowing precisely where they were, and the wind (what\nlittle there was of it) not serving well for their true course. Some of\nthe hands were still hearkening for breakers; but the captain and the\ntwo officers were in the waist with their heads together. It struck me\n(I don\'t know why) that they were after no good; and the first word I\nheard, as I drew softly near, more than confirmed me.\n\nIt was Mr. Riach, crying out as if upon a sudden thought: \"Couldn\'t we\nwile him out of the round-house?\"\n\n\"He\'s better where he is,\" returned Hoseason; \"he hasn\'t room to use his\nsword.\"\n\n\"Well, that\'s true,\" said Riach; \"but he\'s hard to come at.\"\n\n\"Hut!\" said Hoseason. \"We can get the man in talk, one upon each side,\nand pin him by the two arms; or if that\'ll not hold, sir, we can make a\nrun by both the doors and get him under hand before he has the time to\ndraw.\"\n\nAt this hearing, I was seized with both fear and anger at these\ntreacherous, greedy, bloody men that I sailed with. My first mind was to\nrun away; my second was bolder.\n\n\"Captain,\" said I, \"the gentleman is seeking a dram, and the bottle\'s\nout. Will you give me the key?\"\n\nThey all started and turned about.\n\n\"Why, here\'s our chance to get the firearms!\"\n\nRiach cried; and then to me: \"Hark ye, David,\" he said, \"do ye ken where\nthe pistols are?\"\n\n\"Ay, ay,\" put in Hoseason. \"David kens; David\'s a good lad. Ye see,\nDavid my man, yon wild Hielandman is a danger to the ship, besides being\na rank foe to King George, God bless him!\"\n\nI had never been so be-Davided since I came on board: but I said Yes, as\nif all I heard were quite natural.\n\n\"The trouble is,\" resumed the captain, \"that all our firelocks, great\nand little, are in the round-house under this man\'s nose; likewise the\npowder. Now, if I, or one of the officers, was to go in and take them,\nhe would fall to thinking. But a lad like you, David, might snap up a\nhorn and a pistol or two without remark. And if ye can do it cleverly,\nI\'ll bear it in mind when it\'ll be good for you to have friends; and\nthat\'s when we come to Carolina.\"\n\nHere Mr. Riach whispered him a little.\n\n\"Very right, sir,\" said the captain; and then to myself: \"And see here,\nDavid, yon man has a beltful of gold, and I give you my word that you\nshall have your fingers in it.\"\n\nI told him I would do as he wished, though indeed I had scarce breath to\nspeak with; and upon that he gave me the key of the spirit locker, and I\nbegan to go slowly back to the round-house. What was I to do? They\nwere dogs and thieves; they had stolen me from my own country; they had\nkilled poor Ransome; and was I to hold the candle to another murder? But\nthen, upon the other hand, there was the fear of death very plain before\nme; for what could a boy and a man, if they were as brave as lions,\nagainst a whole ship\'s company?\n\nI was still arguing it back and forth, and getting no great clearness,\nwhen I came into the round-house and saw the Jacobite eating his supper\nunder the lamp; and at that my mind was made up all in a moment. I have\nno credit by it; it was by no choice of mine, but as if by compulsion,\nthat I walked right up to the table and put my hand on his shoulder.\n\n\"Do ye want to be killed?\" said I. He sprang to his feet, and looked a\nquestion at me as clear as if he had spoken.\n\n\"O!\" cried I, \"they\'re all murderers here; it\'s a ship full of them!\nThey\'ve murdered a boy already. Now it\'s you.\"\n\n\"Ay, ay,\" said he; \"but they have n\'t got me yet.\" And then looking at me\ncuriously, \"Will ye stand with me?\"\n\n\"That will I!\" said I. \"I am no thief, nor yet murderer. I\'ll stand by\nyou.\"\n\n\"Why, then,\" said he, \"what\'s your name?\"\n\n\"David Balfour,\" said I; and then, thinking that a man with so fine a\ncoat must like fine people, I added for the first time, \"of Shaws.\"\n\nIt never occurred to him to doubt me, for a Highlander is used to see\ngreat gentlefolk in great poverty; but as he had no estate of his own,\nmy words nettled a very childish vanity he had.\n\n\"My name is Stewart,\" he said, drawing himself up. \"Alan Breck, they\ncall me. A king\'s name is good enough for me, though I bear it plain and\nhave the name of no farm-midden to clap to the hind-end of it.\"\n\nAnd having administered this rebuke, as though it were something of a\nchief importance, he turned to examine our defences.\n\nThe round-house was built very strong, to support the breaching of the\nseas. Of its five apertures, only the skylight and the two doors were\nlarge enough for the passage of a man. The doors, besides, could be\ndrawn close: they were of stout oak, and ran in grooves, and were fitted\nwith hooks to keep them either shut or open, as the need arose. The\none that was already shut I secured in this fashion; but when I was\nproceeding to slide to the other, Alan stopped me.\n\n\"David,\" said he--\"for I cannae bring to mind the name of your landed\nestate, and so will make so bold as to call you David--that door, being\nopen, is the best part of my defences.\"\n\n\"It would be yet better shut,\" says I.\n\n\"Not so, David,\" says he. \"Ye see, I have but one face; but so long as\nthat door is open and my face to it, the best part of my enemies will be\nin front of me, where I would aye wish to find them.\"\n\nThen he gave me from the rack a cutlass (of which there were a few\nbesides the firearms), choosing it with great care, shaking his head and\nsaying he had never in all his life seen poorer weapons; and next he set\nme down to the table with a powder-horn, a bag of bullets and all the\npistols, which he bade me charge.\n\n\"And that will be better work, let me tell you,\" said he, \"for a\ngentleman of decent birth, than scraping plates and raxing* drams to a\nwheen tarry sailors.\"\n\n *Reaching.\n\nThereupon he stood up in the midst with his face to the door, and\ndrawing his great sword, made trial of the room he had to wield it in.\n\n\"I must stick to the point,\" he said, shaking his head; \"and that\'s a\npity, too. It doesn\'t set my genius, which is all for the upper guard.\nAnd, now,\" said he, \"do you keep on charging the pistols, and give heed\nto me.\"\n\nI told him I would listen closely. My chest was tight, my mouth dry, the\nlight dark to my eyes; the thought of the numbers that were soon to\nleap in upon us kept my heart in a flutter: and the sea, which I heard\nwashing round the brig, and where I thought my dead body would be cast\nere morning, ran in my mind strangely.\n\n\"First of all,\" said he, \"how many are against us?\"\n\nI reckoned them up; and such was the hurry of my mind, I had to cast the\nnumbers twice. \"Fifteen,\" said I.\n\nAlan whistled. \"Well,\" said he, \"that can\'t be cured. And now follow me.\nIt is my part to keep this door, where I look for the main battle. In\nthat, ye have no hand. And mind and dinnae fire to this side unless they\nget me down; for I would rather have ten foes in front of me than one\nfriend like you cracking pistols at my back.\"\n\nI told him, indeed I was no great shot.\n\n\"And that\'s very bravely said,\" he cried, in a great admiration of my\ncandour. \"There\'s many a pretty gentleman that wouldnae dare to say it.\"\n\n\"But then, sir,\" said I, \"there is the door behind you, which they may\nperhaps break in.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said he, \"and that is a part of your work. No sooner the pistols\ncharged, than ye must climb up into yon bed where ye\'re handy at the\nwindow; and if they lift hand against the door, ye\'re to shoot. But\nthat\'s not all. Let\'s make a bit of a soldier of ye, David. What else\nhave ye to guard?\"\n\n\"There\'s the skylight,\" said I. \"But indeed, Mr. Stewart, I would need\nto have eyes upon both sides to keep the two of them; for when my face\nis at the one, my back is to the other.\"\n\n\"And that\'s very true,\" said Alan. \"But have ye no ears to your head?\"\n\n\"To be sure!\" cried I. \"I must hear the bursting of the glass!\"\n\n\"Ye have some rudiments of sense,\" said Alan, grimly.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nTHE SIEGE OF THE ROUND-HOUSE\n\nBut now our time of truce was come to an end. Those on deck had waited\nfor my coming till they grew impatient; and scarce had Alan spoken, when\nthe captain showed face in the open door.\n\n\"Stand!\" cried Alan, and pointed his sword at him. The captain stood,\nindeed; but he neither winced nor drew back a foot.\n\n\"A naked sword?\" says he. \"This is a strange return for hospitality.\"\n\n\"Do ye see me?\" said Alan. \"I am come of kings; I bear a king\'s name. My\nbadge is the oak. Do ye see my sword? It has slashed the heads off mair\nWhigamores than you have toes upon your feet. Call up your vermin to\nyour back, sir, and fall on! The sooner the clash begins, the sooner\nye\'ll taste this steel throughout your vitals.\"\n\nThe captain said nothing to Alan, but he looked over at me with an ugly\nlook. \"David,\" said he, \"I\'ll mind this;\" and the sound of his voice\nwent through me with a jar.\n\nNext moment he was gone.\n\n\"And now,\" said Alan, \"let your hand keep your head, for the grip is\ncoming.\"\n\nAlan drew a dirk, which he held in his left hand in case they should run\nin under his sword. I, on my part, clambered up into the berth with\nan armful of pistols and something of a heavy heart, and set open the\nwindow where I was to watch. It was a small part of the deck that I\ncould overlook, but enough for our purpose. The sea had gone down, and\nthe wind was steady and kept the sails quiet; so that there was a\ngreat stillness in the ship, in which I made sure I heard the sound of\nmuttering voices. A little after, and there came a clash of steel upon\nthe deck, by which I knew they were dealing out the cutlasses and one\nhad been let fall; and after that, silence again.\n\nI do not know if I was what you call afraid; but my heart beat like a\nbird\'s, both quick and little; and there was a dimness came before my\neyes which I continually rubbed away, and which continually returned. As\nfor hope, I had none; but only a darkness of despair and a sort of anger\nagainst all the world that made me long to sell my life as dear as I was\nable. I tried to pray, I remember, but that same hurry of my mind, like\na man running, would not suffer me to think upon the words; and my chief\nwish was to have the thing begin and be done with it.\n\nIt came all of a sudden when it did, with a rush of feet and a roar, and\nthen a shout from Alan, and a sound of blows and some one crying out\nas if hurt. I looked back over my shoulder, and saw Mr. Shuan in the\ndoorway, crossing blades with Alan.\n\n\"That\'s him that killed the boy!\" I cried.\n\n\"Look to your window!\" said Alan; and as I turned back to my place, I\nsaw him pass his sword through the mate\'s body.\n\nIt was none too soon for me to look to my own part; for my head was\nscarce back at the window, before five men, carrying a spare yard for\na battering-ram, ran past me and took post to drive the door in. I had\nnever fired with a pistol in my life, and not often with a gun; far less\nagainst a fellow-creature. But it was now or never; and just as they\nswang the yard, I cried out: \"Take that!\" and shot into their midst.\n\nI must have hit one of them, for he sang out and gave back a step, and\nthe rest stopped as if a little disconcerted. Before they had time to\nrecover, I sent another ball over their heads; and at my third shot\n(which went as wide as the second) the whole party threw down the yard\nand ran for it.\n\nThen I looked round again into the deck-house. The whole place was full\nof the smoke of my own firing, just as my ears seemed to be burst with\nthe noise of the shots. But there was Alan, standing as before; only\nnow his sword was running blood to the hilt, and himself so swelled\nwith triumph and fallen into so fine an attitude, that he looked to be\ninvincible. Right before him on the floor was Mr. Shuan, on his hands\nand knees; the blood was pouring from his mouth, and he was sinking\nslowly lower, with a terrible, white face; and just as I looked, some of\nthose from behind caught hold of him by the heels and dragged him bodily\nout of the round-house. I believe he died as they were doing it.\n\n\"There\'s one of your Whigs for ye!\" cried Alan; and then turning to me,\nhe asked if I had done much execution.\n\nI told him I had winged one, and thought it was the captain.\n\n\"And I\'ve settled two,\" says he. \"No, there\'s not enough blood let;\nthey\'ll be back again. To your watch, David. This was but a dram before\nmeat.\"\n\nI settled back to my place, re-charging the three pistols I had fired,\nand keeping watch with both eye and ear.\n\nOur enemies were disputing not far off upon the deck, and that so loudly\nthat I could hear a word or two above the washing of the seas.\n\n\"It was Shuan bauchled* it,\" I heard one say.\n\n * Bungled.\n\nAnd another answered him with a \"Wheesht, man! He\'s paid the piper.\"\n\nAfter that the voices fell again into the same muttering as before. Only\nnow, one person spoke most of the time, as though laying down a plan,\nand first one and then another answered him briefly, like men taking\norders. By this, I made sure they were coming on again, and told Alan.\n\n\"It\'s what we have to pray for,\" said he. \"Unless we can give them a\ngood distaste of us, and done with it, there\'ll be nae sleep for either\nyou or me. But this time, mind, they\'ll be in earnest.\"\n\nBy this, my pistols were ready, and there was nothing to do but listen\nand wait. While the brush lasted, I had not the time to think if I was\nfrighted; but now, when all was still again, my mind ran upon nothing\nelse. The thought of the sharp swords and the cold steel was strong in\nme; and presently, when I began to hear stealthy steps and a brushing\nof men\'s clothes against the round-house wall, and knew they were taking\ntheir places in the dark, I could have found it in my mind to cry out\naloud.\n\nAll this was upon Alan\'s side; and I had begun to think my share of the\nfight was at an end, when I heard some one drop softly on the roof above\nme.\n\nThen there came a single call on the sea-pipe, and that was the signal.\nA knot of them made one rush of it, cutlass in hand, against the door;\nand at the same moment, the glass of the skylight was dashed in a\nthousand pieces, and a man leaped through and landed on the floor.\nBefore he got his feet, I had clapped a pistol to his back, and might\nhave shot him, too; only at the touch of him (and him alive) my whole\nflesh misgave me, and I could no more pull the trigger than I could have\nflown.\n\nHe had dropped his cutlass as he jumped, and when he felt the pistol,\nwhipped straight round and laid hold of me, roaring out an oath; and at\nthat either my courage came again, or I grew so much afraid as came to\nthe same thing; for I gave a shriek and shot him in the midst of the\nbody. He gave the most horrible, ugly groan and fell to the floor. The\nfoot of a second fellow, whose legs were dangling through the skylight,\nstruck me at the same time upon the head; and at that I snatched another\npistol and shot this one through the thigh, so that he slipped through\nand tumbled in a lump on his companion\'s body. There was no talk of\nmissing, any more than there was time to aim; I clapped the muzzle to\nthe very place and fired.\n\nI might have stood and stared at them for long, but I heard Alan shout\nas if for help, and that brought me to my senses.\n\nHe had kept the door so long; but one of the seamen, while he was\nengaged with others, had run in under his guard and caught him about the\nbody. Alan was dirking him with his left hand, but the fellow clung like\na leech. Another had broken in and had his cutlass raised. The door was\nthronged with their faces. I thought we were lost, and catching up my\ncutlass, fell on them in flank.\n\nBut I had not time to be of help. The wrestler dropped at last; and\nAlan, leaping back to get his distance, ran upon the others like a\nbull, roaring as he went. They broke before him like water, turning, and\nrunning, and falling one against another in their haste. The sword\nin his hands flashed like quicksilver into the huddle of our fleeing\nenemies; and at every flash there came the scream of a man hurt. I was\nstill thinking we were lost, when lo! they were all gone, and Alan was\ndriving them along the deck as a sheep-dog chases sheep.\n\nYet he was no sooner out than he was back again, being as cautious as he\nwas brave; and meanwhile the seamen continued running and crying out as\nif he was still behind them; and we heard them tumble one upon another\ninto the forecastle, and clap-to the hatch upon the top.\n\nThe round-house was like a shambles; three were dead inside, another\nlay in his death agony across the threshold; and there were Alan and I\nvictorious and unhurt.\n\nHe came up to me with open arms. \"Come to my arms!\" he cried, and\nembraced and kissed me hard upon both cheeks. \"David,\" said he, \"I love\nyou like a brother. And O, man,\" he cried in a kind of ecstasy, \"am I no\na bonny fighter?\"\n\nThereupon he turned to the four enemies, passed his sword clean through\neach of them, and tumbled them out of doors one after the other. As he\ndid so, he kept humming and singing and whistling to himself, like a man\ntrying to recall an air; only what HE was trying was to make one. All\nthe while, the flush was in his face, and his eyes were as bright as a\nfive-year-old child\'s with a new toy. And presently he sat down upon the\ntable, sword in hand; the air that he was making all the time began to\nrun a little clearer, and then clearer still; and then out he burst with\na great voice into a Gaelic song.\n\nI have translated it here, not in verse (of which I have no skill) but\nat least in the king\'s English.\n\nHe sang it often afterwards, and the thing became popular; so that I\nhave heard it and had it explained to me, many\'s the time.\n\n\n\"This is the song of the sword of Alan; The smith made it, The fire set\nit; Now it shines in the hand of Alan Breck.\n\n\"Their eyes were many and bright, Swift were they to behold, Many the\nhands they guided: The sword was alone.\n\n\"The dun deer troop over the hill, They are many, the hill is one; The\ndun deer vanish, The hill remains.\n\n\"Come to me from the hills of heather, Come from the isles of the sea. O\nfar-beholding eagles, Here is your meat.\"\n\n\nNow this song which he made (both words and music) in the hour of our\nvictory, is something less than just to me, who stood beside him in\nthe tussle. Mr. Shuan and five more were either killed outright or\nthoroughly disabled; but of these, two fell by my hand, the two that\ncame by the skylight. Four more were hurt, and of that number, one (and\nhe not the least important) got his hurt from me. So that, altogether,\nI did my fair share both of the killing and the wounding, and might have\nclaimed a place in Alan\'s verses. But poets have to think upon their\nrhymes; and in good prose talk, Alan always did me more than justice.\n\nIn the meanwhile, I was innocent of any wrong being done me. For not\nonly I knew no word of the Gaelic; but what with the long suspense of\nthe waiting, and the scurry and strain of our two spirts of fighting,\nand more than all, the horror I had of some of my own share in it, the\nthing was no sooner over than I was glad to stagger to a seat. There was\nthat tightness on my chest that I could hardly breathe; the thought\nof the two men I had shot sat upon me like a nightmare; and all upon a\nsudden, and before I had a guess of what was coming, I began to sob and\ncry like any child.\n\nAlan clapped my shoulder, and said I was a brave lad and wanted nothing\nbut a sleep.\n\n\"I\'ll take the first watch,\" said he. \"Ye\'ve done well by me, David,\nfirst and last; and I wouldn\'t lose you for all Appin--no, nor for\nBreadalbane.\"\n\nSo I made up my bed on the floor; and he took the first spell, pistol\nin hand and sword on knee, three hours by the captain\'s watch upon the\nwall. Then he roused me up, and I took my turn of three hours; before\nthe end of which it was broad day, and a very quiet morning, with a\nsmooth, rolling sea that tossed the ship and made the blood run to and\nfro on the round-house floor, and a heavy rain that drummed upon the\nroof. All my watch there was nothing stirring; and by the banging of the\nhelm, I knew they had even no one at the tiller. Indeed (as I learned\nafterwards) there were so many of them hurt or dead, and the rest in so\nill a temper, that Mr. Riach and the captain had to take turn and turn\nlike Alan and me, or the brig might have gone ashore and nobody the\nwiser. It was a mercy the night had fallen so still, for the wind had\ngone down as soon as the rain began. Even as it was, I judged by the\nwailing of a great number of gulls that went crying and fishing round\nthe ship, that she must have drifted pretty near the coast or one of\nthe islands of the Hebrides; and at last, looking out of the door of the\nround-house, I saw the great stone hills of Skye on the right hand, and,\na little more astern, the strange isle of Rum.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nTHE CAPTAIN KNUCKLES UNDER\n\nAlan and I sat down to breakfast about six of the clock. The floor was\ncovered with broken glass and in a horrid mess of blood, which took away\nmy hunger. In all other ways we were in a situation not only agreeable\nbut merry; having ousted the officers from their own cabin, and having\nat command all the drink in the ship--both wine and spirits--and all the\ndainty part of what was eatable, such as the pickles and the fine sort\nof bread. This, of itself, was enough to set us in good humour, but the\nrichest part of it was this, that the two thirstiest men that ever came\nout of Scotland (Mr. Shuan being dead) were now shut in the fore-part of\nthe ship and condemned to what they hated most--cold water.\n\n\"And depend upon it,\" Alan said, \"we shall hear more of them ere long.\nYe may keep a man from the fighting, but never from his bottle.\"\n\nWe made good company for each other. Alan, indeed, expressed himself\nmost lovingly; and taking a knife from the table, cut me off one of the\nsilver buttons from his coat.\n\n\"I had them,\" says he, \"from my father, Duncan Stewart; and now give ye\none of them to be a keepsake for last night\'s work. And wherever ye go\nand show that button, the friends of Alan Breck will come around you.\"\n\nHe said this as if he had been Charlemagne, and commanded armies; and\nindeed, much as I admired his courage, I was always in danger of smiling\nat his vanity: in danger, I say, for had I not kept my countenance, I\nwould be afraid to think what a quarrel might have followed.\n\nAs soon as we were through with our meal he rummaged in the captain\'s\nlocker till he found a clothes-brush; and then taking off his coat,\nbegan to visit his suit and brush away the stains, with such care and\nlabour as I supposed to have been only usual with women. To be sure, he\nhad no other; and, besides (as he said), it belonged to a king and so\nbehoved to be royally looked after.\n\nFor all that, when I saw what care he took to pluck out the threads\nwhere the button had been cut away, I put a higher value on his gift.\n\nHe was still so engaged when we were hailed by Mr. Riach from the deck,\nasking for a parley; and I, climbing through the skylight and sitting on\nthe edge of it, pistol in hand and with a bold front, though inwardly in\nfear of broken glass, hailed him back again and bade him speak out. He\ncame to the edge of the round-house, and stood on a coil of rope, so\nthat his chin was on a level with the roof; and we looked at each other\nawhile in silence. Mr. Riach, as I do not think he had been very forward\nin the battle, so he had got off with nothing worse than a blow upon the\ncheek: but he looked out of heart and very weary, having been all night\nafoot, either standing watch or doctoring the wounded.\n\n\"This is a bad job,\" said he at last, shaking his head.\n\n\"It was none of our choosing,\" said I.\n\n\"The captain,\" says he, \"would like to speak with your friend. They\nmight speak at the window.\"\n\n\"And how do we know what treachery he means?\" cried I.\n\n\"He means none, David,\" returned Mr. Riach, \"and if he did, I\'ll tell ye\nthe honest truth, we couldnae get the men to follow.\"\n\n\"Is that so?\" said I.\n\n\"I\'ll tell ye more than that,\" said he. \"It\'s not only the men; it\'s me.\nI\'m frich\'ened, Davie.\" And he smiled across at me. \"No,\" he continued,\n\"what we want is to be shut of him.\"\n\nThereupon I consulted with Alan, and the parley was agreed to and\nparole given upon either side; but this was not the whole of Mr. Riach\'s\nbusiness, and he now begged me for a dram with such instancy and such\nreminders of his former kindness, that at last I handed him a pannikin\nwith about a gill of brandy. He drank a part, and then carried the rest\ndown upon the deck, to share it (I suppose) with his superior.\n\nA little after, the captain came (as was agreed) to one of the windows,\nand stood there in the rain, with his arm in a sling, and looking stern\nand pale, and so old that my heart smote me for having fired upon him.\n\nAlan at once held a pistol in his face.\n\n\"Put that thing up!\" said the captain. \"Have I not passed my word, sir?\nor do ye seek to affront me?\"\n\n\"Captain,\" says Alan, \"I doubt your word is a breakable. Last night ye\nhaggled and argle-bargled like an apple-wife; and then passed me your\nword, and gave me your hand to back it; and ye ken very well what was\nthe upshot. Be damned to your word!\" says he.\n\n\"Well, well, sir,\" said the captain, \"ye\'ll get little good by\nswearing.\" (And truly that was a fault of which the captain was quite\nfree.) \"But we have other things to speak,\" he continued, bitterly.\n\"Ye\'ve made a sore hash of my brig; I haven\'t hands enough left to work\nher; and my first officer (whom I could ill spare) has got your sword\nthroughout his vitals, and passed without speech. There is nothing left\nme, sir, but to put back into the port of Glasgow after hands; and there\n(by your leave) ye will find them that are better able to talk to you.\"\n\n\"Ay?\" said Alan; \"and faith, I\'ll have a talk with them mysel\'! Unless\nthere\'s naebody speaks English in that town, I have a bonny tale for\nthem. Fifteen tarry sailors upon the one side, and a man and a halfling\nboy upon the other! O, man, it\'s peetiful!\"\n\nHoseason flushed red.\n\n\"No,\" continued Alan, \"that\'ll no do. Ye\'ll just have to set me ashore\nas we agreed.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said Hoseason, \"but my first officer is dead--ye ken best how.\nThere\'s none of the rest of us acquaint with this coast, sir; and it\'s\none very dangerous to ships.\"\n\n\"I give ye your choice,\" says Alan. \"Set me on dry ground in Appin,\nor Ardgour, or in Morven, or Arisaig, or Morar; or, in brief, where ye\nplease, within thirty miles of my own country; except in a country of\nthe Campbells. That\'s a broad target. If ye miss that, ye must be as\nfeckless at the sailoring as I have found ye at the fighting. Why, my\npoor country people in their bit cobles* pass from island to island in\nall weathers, ay, and by night too, for the matter of that.\"\n\n *Coble: a small boat used in fishing.\n\n\"A coble\'s not a ship, sir,\" said the captain. \"It has nae draught of\nwater.\"\n\n\"Well, then, to Glasgow if ye list!\" says Alan. \"We\'ll have the laugh of\nye at the least.\"\n\n\"My mind runs little upon laughing,\" said the captain. \"But all this\nwill cost money, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, sir,\" says Alan, \"I am nae weathercock. Thirty guineas, if ye land\nme on the sea-side; and sixty, if ye put me in the Linnhe Loch.\"\n\n\"But see, sir, where we lie, we are but a few hours\' sail from\nArdnamurchan,\" said Hoseason. \"Give me sixty, and I\'ll set ye there.\"\n\n\"And I\'m to wear my brogues and run jeopardy of the red-coats to please\nyou?\" cries Alan. \"No, sir; if ye want sixty guineas earn them, and set\nme in my own country.\"\n\n\"It\'s to risk the brig, sir,\" said the captain, \"and your own lives\nalong with her.\"\n\n\"Take it or want it,\" says Alan.\n\n\"Could ye pilot us at all?\" asked the captain, who was frowning to\nhimself.\n\n\"Well, it\'s doubtful,\" said Alan. \"I\'m more of a fighting man (as ye\nhave seen for yoursel\') than a sailor-man. But I have been often enough\npicked up and set down upon this coast, and should ken something of the\nlie of it.\"\n\nThe captain shook his head, still frowning.\n\n\"If I had lost less money on this unchancy cruise,\" says he, \"I would\nsee you in a rope\'s end before I risked my brig, sir. But be it as ye\nwill. As soon as I get a slant of wind (and there\'s some coming, or I\'m\nthe more mistaken) I\'ll put it in hand. But there\'s one thing more. We\nmay meet in with a king\'s ship and she may lay us aboard, sir, with no\nblame of mine: they keep the cruisers thick upon this coast, ye ken who\nfor. Now, sir, if that was to befall, ye might leave the money.\"\n\n\"Captain,\" says Alan, \"if ye see a pennant, it shall be your part to\nrun away. And now, as I hear you\'re a little short of brandy in the\nfore-part, I\'ll offer ye a change: a bottle of brandy against two\nbuckets of water.\"\n\nThat was the last clause of the treaty, and was duly executed on both\nsides; so that Alan and I could at last wash out the round-house and be\nquit of the memorials of those whom we had slain, and the captain and\nMr. Riach could be happy again in their own way, the name of which was\ndrink.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nI HEAR OF THE \"RED FOX\"\n\nBefore we had done cleaning out the round-house, a breeze sprang up from\na little to the east of north. This blew off the rain and brought out\nthe sun.\n\nAnd here I must explain; and the reader would do well to look at a map.\nOn the day when the fog fell and we ran down Alan\'s boat, we had been\nrunning through the Little Minch. At dawn after the battle, we lay\nbecalmed to the east of the Isle of Canna or between that and Isle\nEriska in the chain of the Long Island. Now to get from there to the\nLinnhe Loch, the straight course was through the narrows of the Sound of\nMull. But the captain had no chart; he was afraid to trust his brig so\ndeep among the islands; and the wind serving well, he preferred to go by\nwest of Tiree and come up under the southern coast of the great Isle of\nMull.\n\nAll day the breeze held in the same point, and rather freshened than\ndied down; and towards afternoon, a swell began to set in from round the\nouter Hebrides. Our course, to go round about the inner isles, was to\nthe west of south, so that at first we had this swell upon our beam, and\nwere much rolled about. But after nightfall, when we had turned the end\nof Tiree and began to head more to the east, the sea came right astern.\n\nMeanwhile, the early part of the day, before the swell came up, was\nvery pleasant; sailing, as we were, in a bright sunshine and with\nmany mountainous islands upon different sides. Alan and I sat in the\nround-house with the doors open on each side (the wind being straight\nastern), and smoked a pipe or two of the captain\'s fine tobacco. It was\nat this time we heard each other\'s stories, which was the more important\nto me, as I gained some knowledge of that wild Highland country on which\nI was so soon to land. In those days, so close on the back of the great\nrebellion, it was needful a man should know what he was doing when he\nwent upon the heather.\n\nIt was I that showed the example, telling him all my misfortune; which\nhe heard with great good-nature. Only, when I came to mention that good\nfriend of mine, Mr. Campbell the minister, Alan fired up and cried out\nthat he hated all that were of that name.\n\n\"Why,\" said I, \"he is a man you should be proud to give your hand to.\"\n\n\"I know nothing I would help a Campbell to,\" says he, \"unless it was a\nleaden bullet. I would hunt all of that name like blackcocks. If I lay\ndying, I would crawl upon my knees to my chamber window for a shot at\none.\"\n\n\"Why, Alan,\" I cried, \"what ails ye at the Campbells?\"\n\n\"Well,\" says he, \"ye ken very well that I am an Appin Stewart, and the\nCampbells have long harried and wasted those of my name; ay, and got\nlands of us by treachery--but never with the sword,\" he cried loudly,\nand with the word brought down his fist upon the table. But I paid the\nless attention to this, for I knew it was usually said by those who have\nthe underhand. \"There\'s more than that,\" he continued, \"and all in the\nsame story: lying words, lying papers, tricks fit for a peddler, and the\nshow of what\'s legal over all, to make a man the more angry.\"\n\n\"You that are so wasteful of your buttons,\" said I, \"I can hardly think\nyou would be a good judge of business.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" says he, falling again to smiling, \"I got my wastefulness from\nthe same man I got the buttons from; and that was my poor father, Duncan\nStewart, grace be to him! He was the prettiest man of his kindred; and\nthe best swordsman in the Hielands, David, and that is the same as to\nsay, in all the world, I should ken, for it was him that taught me.\nHe was in the Black Watch, when first it was mustered; and, like other\ngentlemen privates, had a gillie at his back to carry his firelock for\nhim on the march. Well, the King, it appears, was wishful to see Hieland\nswordsmanship; and my father and three more were chosen out and sent to\nLondon town, to let him see it at the best. So they were had into the\npalace and showed the whole art of the sword for two hours at a stretch,\nbefore King George and Queen Carline, and the Butcher Cumberland, and\nmany more of whom I havenae mind. And when they were through, the King\n(for all he was a rank usurper) spoke them fair and gave each man three\nguineas in his hand. Now, as they were going out of the palace, they\nhad a porter\'s lodge to go by; and it came in on my father, as he was\nperhaps the first private Hieland gentleman that had ever gone by that\ndoor, it was right he should give the poor porter a proper notion of\ntheir quality. So he gives the King\'s three guineas into the man\'s hand,\nas if it was his common custom; the three others that came behind him\ndid the same; and there they were on the street, never a penny the\nbetter for their pains. Some say it was one, that was the first to fee\nthe King\'s porter; and some say it was another; but the truth of it is,\nthat it was Duncan Stewart, as I am willing to prove with either sword\nor pistol. And that was the father that I had, God rest him!\"\n\n\"I think he was not the man to leave you rich,\" said I.\n\n\"And that\'s true,\" said Alan. \"He left me my breeks to cover me, and\nlittle besides. And that was how I came to enlist, which was a black\nspot upon my character at the best of times, and would still be a sore\njob for me if I fell among the red-coats.\"\n\n\"What,\" cried I, \"were you in the English army?\"\n\n\"That was I,\" said Alan. \"But I deserted to the right side at Preston\nPans--and that\'s some comfort.\"\n\nI could scarcely share this view: holding desertion under arms for an\nunpardonable fault in honour. But for all I was so young, I was wiser\nthan say my thought. \"Dear, dear,\" says I, \"the punishment is death.\"\n\n\"Ay\" said he, \"if they got hands on me, it would be a short shrift and\na lang tow for Alan! But I have the King of France\'s commission in my\npocket, which would aye be some protection.\"\n\n\"I misdoubt it much,\" said I.\n\n\"I have doubts mysel\',\" said Alan drily.\n\n\"And, good heaven, man,\" cried I, \"you that are a condemned rebel, and a\ndeserter, and a man of the French King\'s--what tempts ye back into this\ncountry? It\'s a braving of Providence.\"\n\n\"Tut!\" says Alan, \"I have been back every year since forty-six!\"\n\n\"And what brings ye, man?\" cried I.\n\n\"Well, ye see, I weary for my friends and country,\" said he. \"France is\na braw place, nae doubt; but I weary for the heather and the deer. And\nthen I have bit things that I attend to. Whiles I pick up a few lads\nto serve the King of France: recruits, ye see; and that\'s aye a\nlittle money. But the heart of the matter is the business of my chief,\nArdshiel.\"\n\n\"I thought they called your chief Appin,\" said I.\n\n\"Ay, but Ardshiel is the captain of the clan,\" said he, which scarcely\ncleared my mind. \"Ye see, David, he that was all his life so great a\nman, and come of the blood and bearing the name of kings, is now brought\ndown to live in a French town like a poor and private person. He that\nhad four hundred swords at his whistle, I have seen, with these eyes\nof mine, buying butter in the market-place, and taking it home in a\nkale-leaf. This is not only a pain but a disgrace to us of his family\nand clan. There are the bairns forby, the children and the hope of\nAppin, that must be learned their letters and how to hold a sword, in\nthat far country. Now, the tenants of Appin have to pay a rent to King\nGeorge; but their hearts are staunch, they are true to their chief; and\nwhat with love and a bit of pressure, and maybe a threat or two, the\npoor folk scrape up a second rent for Ardshiel. Well, David, I\'m the\nhand that carries it.\" And he struck the belt about his body, so that\nthe guineas rang.\n\n\"Do they pay both?\" cried I.\n\n\"Ay, David, both,\" says he.\n\n\"What! two rents?\" I repeated.\n\n\"Ay, David,\" said he. \"I told a different tale to yon captain man; but\nthis is the truth of it. And it\'s wonderful to me how little pressure\nis needed. But that\'s the handiwork of my good kinsman and my father\'s\nfriend, James of the Glens: James Stewart, that is: Ardshiel\'s\nhalf-brother. He it is that gets the money in, and does the management.\"\n\nThis was the first time I heard the name of that James Stewart, who was\nafterwards so famous at the time of his hanging. But I took little heed\nat the moment, for all my mind was occupied with the generosity of these\npoor Highlanders.\n\n\"I call it noble,\" I cried. \"I\'m a Whig, or little better; but I call it\nnoble.\"\n\n\"Ay\" said he, \"ye\'re a Whig, but ye\'re a gentleman; and that\'s what does\nit. Now, if ye were one of the cursed race of Campbell, ye would gnash\nyour teeth to hear tell of it. If ye were the Red Fox...\" And at that\nname, his teeth shut together, and he ceased speaking. I have seen many\na grim face, but never a grimmer than Alan\'s when he had named the Red\nFox.\n\n\"And who is the Red Fox?\" I asked, daunted, but still curious.\n\n\"Who is he?\" cried Alan. \"Well, and I\'ll tell you that. When the men of\nthe clans were broken at Culloden, and the good cause went down, and the\nhorses rode over the fetlocks in the best blood of the north, Ardshiel\nhad to flee like a poor deer upon the mountains--he and his lady and his\nbairns. A sair job we had of it before we got him shipped; and while he\nstill lay in the heather, the English rogues, that couldnae come at his\nlife, were striking at his rights. They stripped him of his powers; they\nstripped him of his lands; they plucked the weapons from the hands of\nhis clansmen, that had borne arms for thirty centuries; ay, and the very\nclothes off their backs--so that it\'s now a sin to wear a tartan plaid,\nand a man may be cast into a gaol if he has but a kilt about his legs.\nOne thing they couldnae kill. That was the love the clansmen bore their\nchief. These guineas are the proof of it. And now, in there steps a man,\na Campbell, red-headed Colin of Glenure----\"\n\n\"Is that him you call the Red Fox?\" said I.\n\n\"Will ye bring me his brush?\" cries Alan, fiercely. \"Ay, that\'s the man.\nIn he steps, and gets papers from King George, to be so-called King\'s\nfactor on the lands of Appin. And at first he sings small, and is\nhail-fellow-well-met with Sheamus--that\'s James of the Glens, my\nchieftain\'s agent. But by-and-by, that came to his ears that I have just\ntold you; how the poor commons of Appin, the farmers and the crofters\nand the boumen, were wringing their very plaids to get a second rent,\nand send it over-seas for Ardshiel and his poor bairns. What was it ye\ncalled it, when I told ye?\"\n\n\"I called it noble, Alan,\" said I.\n\n\"And you little better than a common Whig!\" cries Alan. \"But when it\ncame to Colin Roy, the black Campbell blood in him ran wild. He sat\ngnashing his teeth at the wine table. What! should a Stewart get a bite\nof bread, and him not be able to prevent it? Ah! Red Fox, if ever I\nhold you at a gun\'s end, the Lord have pity upon ye!\" (Alan stopped to\nswallow down his anger.) \"Well, David, what does he do? He declares all\nthe farms to let. And, thinks he, in his black heart, \'I\'ll soon get\nother tenants that\'ll overbid these Stewarts, and Maccolls, and Macrobs\'\n(for these are all names in my clan, David); \'and then,\' thinks he,\n\'Ardshiel will have to hold his bonnet on a French roadside.\'\"\n\n\"Well,\" said I, \"what followed?\"\n\nAlan laid down his pipe, which he had long since suffered to go out, and\nset his two hands upon his knees.\n\n\"Ay,\" said he, \"ye\'ll never guess that! For these same Stewarts, and\nMaccolls, and Macrobs (that had two rents to pay, one to King George\nby stark force, and one to Ardshiel by natural kindness) offered him a\nbetter price than any Campbell in all broad Scotland; and far he\nsent seeking them--as far as to the sides of Clyde and the cross of\nEdinburgh--seeking, and fleeching, and begging them to come, where there\nwas a Stewart to be starved and a red-headed hound of a Campbell to be\npleasured!\"\n\n\"Well, Alan,\" said I, \"that is a strange story, and a fine one, too. And\nWhig as I may be, I am glad the man was beaten.\"\n\n\"Him beaten?\" echoed Alan. \"It\'s little ye ken of Campbells, and less\nof the Red Fox. Him beaten? No: nor will be, till his blood\'s on the\nhillside! But if the day comes, David man, that I can find time and\nleisure for a bit of hunting, there grows not enough heather in all\nScotland to hide him from my vengeance!\"\n\n\"Man Alan,\" said I, \"ye are neither very wise nor very Christian to\nblow off so many words of anger. They will do the man ye call the Fox no\nharm, and yourself no good. Tell me your tale plainly out. What did he\nnext?\"\n\n\"And that\'s a good observe, David,\" said Alan. \"Troth and indeed,\nthey will do him no harm; the more\'s the pity! And barring that about\nChristianity (of which my opinion is quite otherwise, or I would be nae\nChristian), I am much of your mind.\"\n\n\"Opinion here or opinion there,\" said I, \"it\'s a kent thing that\nChristianity forbids revenge.\"\n\n\"Ay\" said he, \"it\'s well seen it was a Campbell taught ye! It would be\na convenient world for them and their sort, if there was no such a thing\nas a lad and a gun behind a heather bush! But that\'s nothing to the\npoint. This is what he did.\"\n\n\"Ay\" said I, \"come to that.\"\n\n\"Well, David,\" said he, \"since he couldnae be rid of the loyal commons\nby fair means, he swore he would be rid of them by foul. Ardshiel was to\nstarve: that was the thing he aimed at. And since them that fed him in\nhis exile wouldnae be bought out--right or wrong, he would drive them\nout. Therefore he sent for lawyers, and papers, and red-coats to stand\nat his back. And the kindly folk of that country must all pack and\ntramp, every father\'s son out of his father\'s house, and out of the\nplace where he was bred and fed, and played when he was a callant. And\nwho are to succeed them? Bare-leggit beggars! King George is to whistle\nfor his rents; he maun dow with less; he can spread his butter thinner:\nwhat cares Red Colin? If he can hurt Ardshiel, he has his wish; if he\ncan pluck the meat from my chieftain\'s table, and the bit toys out of\nhis children\'s hands, he will gang hame singing to Glenure!\"\n\n\"Let me have a word,\" said I. \"Be sure, if they take less rents, be\nsure Government has a finger in the pie. It\'s not this Campbell\'s fault,\nman--it\'s his orders. And if ye killed this Colin to-morrow, what better\nwould ye be? There would be another factor in his shoes, as fast as spur\ncan drive.\"\n\n\"Ye\'re a good lad in a fight,\" said Alan; \"but, man! ye have Whig blood\nin ye!\"\n\nHe spoke kindly enough, but there was so much anger under his contempt\nthat I thought it was wise to change the conversation. I expressed my\nwonder how, with the Highlands covered with troops, and guarded like\na city in a siege, a man in his situation could come and go without\narrest.\n\n\"It\'s easier than ye would think,\" said Alan. \"A bare hillside (ye see)\nis like all one road; if there\'s a sentry at one place, ye just go by\nanother. And then the heather\'s a great help. And everywhere there are\nfriends\' houses and friends\' byres and haystacks. And besides, when folk\ntalk of a country covered with troops, it\'s but a kind of a byword at\nthe best. A soldier covers nae mair of it than his boot-soles. I have\nfished a water with a sentry on the other side of the brae, and killed a\nfine trout; and I have sat in a heather bush within six feet of another,\nand learned a real bonny tune from his whistling. This was it,\" said he,\nand whistled me the air.\n\n\"And then, besides,\" he continued, \"it\'s no sae bad now as it was in\nforty-six. The Hielands are what they call pacified. Small wonder, with\nnever a gun or a sword left from Cantyre to Cape Wrath, but what tenty*\nfolk have hidden in their thatch! But what I would like to ken, David,\nis just how long? Not long, ye would think, with men like Ardshiel in\nexile and men like the Red Fox sitting birling the wine and oppressing\nthe poor at home. But it\'s a kittle thing to decide what folk\'ll bear,\nand what they will not. Or why would Red Colin be riding his horse all\nover my poor country of Appin, and never a pretty lad to put a bullet in\nhim?\"\n\n * Careful.\n\nAnd with this Alan fell into a muse, and for a long time sate very sad\nand silent.\n\nI will add the rest of what I have to say about my friend, that he\nwas skilled in all kinds of music, but principally pipe-music; was a\nwell-considered poet in his own tongue; had read several books both in\nFrench and English; was a dead shot, a good angler, and an excellent\nfencer with the small sword as well as with his own particular weapon.\nFor his faults, they were on his face, and I now knew them all. But\nthe worst of them, his childish propensity to take offence and to pick\nquarrels, he greatly laid aside in my case, out of regard for the battle\nof the round-house. But whether it was because I had done well myself,\nor because I had been a witness of his own much greater prowess, is more\nthan I can tell. For though he had a great taste for courage in other\nmen, yet he admired it most in Alan Breck.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nTHE LOSS OF THE BRIG\n\nIt was already late at night, and as dark as it ever would be at that\nseason of the year (and that is to say, it was still pretty bright),\nwhen Hoseason clapped his head into the round-house door.\n\n\"Here,\" said he, \"come out and see if ye can pilot.\"\n\n\"Is this one of your tricks?\" asked Alan.\n\n\"Do I look like tricks?\" cries the captain. \"I have other things to\nthink of--my brig\'s in danger!\"\n\nBy the concerned look of his face, and, above all, by the sharp tones in\nwhich he spoke of his brig, it was plain to both of us he was in deadly\nearnest; and so Alan and I, with no great fear of treachery, stepped on\ndeck.\n\nThe sky was clear; it blew hard, and was bitter cold; a great deal of\ndaylight lingered; and the moon, which was nearly full, shone brightly.\nThe brig was close hauled, so as to round the southwest corner of the\nIsland of Mull, the hills of which (and Ben More above them all, with a\nwisp of mist upon the top of it) lay full upon the lar-board bow. Though\nit was no good point of sailing for the Covenant, she tore through\nthe seas at a great rate, pitching and straining, and pursued by the\nwesterly swell.\n\nAltogether it was no such ill night to keep the seas in; and I had begun\nto wonder what it was that sat so heavily upon the captain, when the\nbrig rising suddenly on the top of a high swell, he pointed and cried to\nus to look. Away on the lee bow, a thing like a fountain rose out of the\nmoonlit sea, and immediately after we heard a low sound of roaring.\n\n\"What do ye call that?\" asked the captain, gloomily.\n\n\"The sea breaking on a reef,\" said Alan. \"And now ye ken where it is;\nand what better would ye have?\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said Hoseason, \"if it was the only one.\"\n\nAnd sure enough, just as he spoke there came a second fountain farther\nto the south.\n\n\"There!\" said Hoseason. \"Ye see for yourself. If I had kent of these\nreefs, if I had had a chart, or if Shuan had been spared, it\'s not sixty\nguineas, no, nor six hundred, would have made me risk my brig in sic a\nstoneyard! But you, sir, that was to pilot us, have ye never a word?\"\n\n\"I\'m thinking,\" said Alan, \"these\'ll be what they call the Torran\nRocks.\"\n\n\"Are there many of them?\" says the captain.\n\n\"Truly, sir, I am nae pilot,\" said Alan; \"but it sticks in my mind there\nare ten miles of them.\"\n\nMr. Riach and the captain looked at each other.\n\n\"There\'s a way through them, I suppose?\" said the captain.\n\n\"Doubtless,\" said Alan, \"but where? But it somehow runs in my mind once\nmore that it is clearer under the land.\"\n\n\"So?\" said Hoseason. \"We\'ll have to haul our wind then, Mr. Riach; we\'ll\nhave to come as near in about the end of Mull as we can take her, sir;\nand even then we\'ll have the land to kep the wind off us, and that\nstoneyard on our lee. Well, we\'re in for it now, and may as well crack\non.\"\n\nWith that he gave an order to the steersman, and sent Riach to the\nforetop. There were only five men on deck, counting the officers; these\nbeing all that were fit (or, at least, both fit and willing) for their\nwork. So, as I say, it fell to Mr. Riach to go aloft, and he sat there\nlooking out and hailing the deck with news of all he saw.\n\n\"The sea to the south is thick,\" he cried; and then, after a while, \"it\ndoes seem clearer in by the land.\"\n\n\"Well, sir,\" said Hoseason to Alan, \"we\'ll try your way of it. But I\nthink I might as well trust to a blind fiddler. Pray God you\'re right.\"\n\n\"Pray God I am!\" says Alan to me. \"But where did I hear it? Well, well,\nit will be as it must.\"\n\nAs we got nearer to the turn of the land the reefs began to be sown here\nand there on our very path; and Mr. Riach sometimes cried down to us to\nchange the course. Sometimes, indeed, none too soon; for one reef was\nso close on the brig\'s weather board that when a sea burst upon it the\nlighter sprays fell upon her deck and wetted us like rain.\n\nThe brightness of the night showed us these perils as clearly as by day,\nwhich was, perhaps, the more alarming. It showed me, too, the face of\nthe captain as he stood by the steersman, now on one foot, now on the\nother, and sometimes blowing in his hands, but still listening and\nlooking and as steady as steel. Neither he nor Mr. Riach had shown\nwell in the fighting; but I saw they were brave in their own trade, and\nadmired them all the more because I found Alan very white.\n\n\"Ochone, David,\" says he, \"this is no the kind of death I fancy!\"\n\n\"What, Alan!\" I cried, \"you\'re not afraid?\"\n\n\"No,\" said he, wetting his lips, \"but you\'ll allow, yourself, it\'s a\ncold ending.\"\n\nBy this time, now and then sheering to one side or the other to avoid a\nreef, but still hugging the wind and the land, we had got round Iona and\nbegun to come alongside Mull. The tide at the tail of the land ran very\nstrong, and threw the brig about. Two hands were put to the helm, and\nHoseason himself would sometimes lend a help; and it was strange to\nsee three strong men throw their weight upon the tiller, and it (like a\nliving thing) struggle against and drive them back. This would have\nbeen the greater danger had not the sea been for some while free of\nobstacles. Mr. Riach, besides, announced from the top that he saw clear\nwater ahead.\n\n\"Ye were right,\" said Hoseason to Alan. \"Ye have saved the brig, sir.\nI\'ll mind that when we come to clear accounts.\" And I believe he not\nonly meant what he said, but would have done it; so high a place did the\nCovenant hold in his affections.\n\nBut this is matter only for conjecture, things having gone otherwise\nthan he forecast.\n\n\"Keep her away a point,\" sings out Mr. Riach. \"Reef to windward!\"\n\nAnd just at the same time the tide caught the brig, and threw the wind\nout of her sails. She came round into the wind like a top, and the next\nmoment struck the reef with such a dunch as threw us all flat upon the\ndeck, and came near to shake Mr. Riach from his place upon the mast.\n\nI was on my feet in a minute. The reef on which we had struck was close\nin under the southwest end of Mull, off a little isle they call Earraid,\nwhich lay low and black upon the larboard. Sometimes the swell broke\nclean over us; sometimes it only ground the poor brig upon the reef, so\nthat we could hear her beat herself to pieces; and what with the great\nnoise of the sails, and the singing of the wind, and the flying of the\nspray in the moonlight, and the sense of danger, I think my head must\nhave been partly turned, for I could scarcely understand the things I\nsaw.\n\nPresently I observed Mr. Riach and the seamen busy round the skiff, and,\nstill in the same blank, ran over to assist them; and as soon as I set\nmy hand to work, my mind came clear again. It was no very easy task, for\nthe skiff lay amidships and was full of hamper, and the breaking of the\nheavier seas continually forced us to give over and hold on; but we all\nwrought like horses while we could.\n\nMeanwhile such of the wounded as could move came clambering out of the\nfore-scuttle and began to help; while the rest that lay helpless in\ntheir bunks harrowed me with screaming and begging to be saved.\n\nThe captain took no part. It seemed he was struck stupid. He stood\nholding by the shrouds, talking to himself and groaning out aloud\nwhenever the ship hammered on the rock. His brig was like wife and\nchild to him; he had looked on, day by day, at the mishandling of poor\nRansome; but when it came to the brig, he seemed to suffer along with\nher.\n\nAll the time of our working at the boat, I remember only one other\nthing: that I asked Alan, looking across at the shore, what country it\nwas; and he answered, it was the worst possible for him, for it was a\nland of the Campbells.\n\nWe had one of the wounded men told off to keep a watch upon the seas and\ncry us warning. Well, we had the boat about ready to be launched, when\nthis man sang out pretty shrill: \"For God\'s sake, hold on!\" We knew\nby his tone that it was something more than ordinary; and sure enough,\nthere followed a sea so huge that it lifted the brig right up and canted\nher over on her beam. Whether the cry came too late, or my hold was too\nweak, I know not; but at the sudden tilting of the ship I was cast clean\nover the bulwarks into the sea.\n\nI went down, and drank my fill, and then came up, and got a blink of the\nmoon, and then down again. They say a man sinks a third time for good. I\ncannot be made like other folk, then; for I would not like to write how\noften I went down, or how often I came up again. All the while, I was\nbeing hurled along, and beaten upon and choked, and then swallowed\nwhole; and the thing was so distracting to my wits, that I was neither\nsorry nor afraid.\n\nPresently, I found I was holding to a spar, which helped me somewhat.\nAnd then all of a sudden I was in quiet water, and began to come to\nmyself.\n\nIt was the spare yard I had got hold of, and I was amazed to see how far\nI had travelled from the brig. I hailed her, indeed; but it was plain\nshe was already out of cry. She was still holding together; but whether\nor not they had yet launched the boat, I was too far off and too low\ndown to see.\n\nWhile I was hailing the brig, I spied a tract of water lying between\nus where no great waves came, but which yet boiled white all over and\nbristled in the moon with rings and bubbles. Sometimes the whole tract\nswung to one side, like the tail of a live serpent; sometimes, for a\nglimpse, it would all disappear and then boil up again. What it was I\nhad no guess, which for the time increased my fear of it; but I now know\nit must have been the roost or tide race, which had carried me away so\nfast and tumbled me about so cruelly, and at last, as if tired of that\nplay, had flung out me and the spare yard upon its landward margin.\n\nI now lay quite becalmed, and began to feel that a man can die of cold\nas well as of drowning. The shores of Earraid were close in; I could see\nin the moonlight the dots of heather and the sparkling of the mica in\nthe rocks.\n\n\"Well,\" thought I to myself, \"if I cannot get as far as that, it\'s\nstrange!\"\n\nI had no skill of swimming, Essen Water being small in our\nneighbourhood; but when I laid hold upon the yard with both arms, and\nkicked out with both feet, I soon begun to find that I was moving. Hard\nwork it was, and mortally slow; but in about an hour of kicking\nand splashing, I had got well in between the points of a sandy bay\nsurrounded by low hills.\n\nThe sea was here quite quiet; there was no sound of any surf; the moon\nshone clear; and I thought in my heart I had never seen a place so\ndesert and desolate. But it was dry land; and when at last it grew so\nshallow that I could leave the yard and wade ashore upon my feet, I\ncannot tell if I was more tired or more grateful. Both, at least, I was:\ntired as I never was before that night; and grateful to God as I trust I\nhave been often, though never with more cause.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nTHE ISLET\n\nWith my stepping ashore I began the most unhappy part of my adventures.\nIt was half-past twelve in the morning, and though the wind was broken\nby the land, it was a cold night. I dared not sit down (for I thought\nI should have frozen), but took off my shoes and walked to and fro upon\nthe sand, bare-foot, and beating my breast with infinite weariness.\nThere was no sound of man or cattle; not a cock crew, though it was\nabout the hour of their first waking; only the surf broke outside in the\ndistance, which put me in mind of my perils and those of my friend.\nTo walk by the sea at that hour of the morning, and in a place so\ndesert-like and lonesome, struck me with a kind of fear.\n\nAs soon as the day began to break I put on my shoes and climbed a\nhill--the ruggedest scramble I ever undertook--falling, the whole way,\nbetween big blocks of granite, or leaping from one to another. When I\ngot to the top the dawn was come. There was no sign of the brig, which\nmust have lifted from the reef and sunk. The boat, too, was nowhere to\nbe seen. There was never a sail upon the ocean; and in what I could see\nof the land was neither house nor man.\n\nI was afraid to think what had befallen my shipmates, and afraid to look\nlonger at so empty a scene. What with my wet clothes and weariness, and\nmy belly that now began to ache with hunger, I had enough to trouble\nme without that. So I set off eastward along the south coast, hoping to\nfind a house where I might warm myself, and perhaps get news of those I\nhad lost. And at the worst, I considered the sun would soon rise and dry\nmy clothes.\n\nAfter a little, my way was stopped by a creek or inlet of the sea, which\nseemed to run pretty deep into the land; and as I had no means to get\nacross, I must needs change my direction to go about the end of it. It\nwas still the roughest kind of walking; indeed the whole, not only of\nEarraid, but of the neighbouring part of Mull (which they call the Ross)\nis nothing but a jumble of granite rocks with heather in among. At first\nthe creek kept narrowing as I had looked to see; but presently to my\nsurprise it began to widen out again. At this I scratched my head,\nbut had still no notion of the truth: until at last I came to a rising\nground, and it burst upon me all in a moment that I was cast upon a\nlittle barren isle, and cut off on every side by the salt seas.\n\nInstead of the sun rising to dry me, it came on to rain, with a thick\nmist; so that my case was lamentable.\n\nI stood in the rain, and shivered, and wondered what to do, till it\noccurred to me that perhaps the creek was fordable. Back I went to the\nnarrowest point and waded in. But not three yards from shore, I plumped\nin head over ears; and if ever I was heard of more, it was rather by\nGod\'s grace than my own prudence. I was no wetter (for that could hardly\nbe), but I was all the colder for this mishap; and having lost another\nhope was the more unhappy.\n\nAnd now, all at once, the yard came in my head. What had carried me\nthrough the roost would surely serve me to cross this little quiet creek\nin safety. With that I set off, undaunted, across the top of the isle,\nto fetch and carry it back. It was a weary tramp in all ways, and if\nhope had not buoyed me up, I must have cast myself down and given up.\nWhether with the sea salt, or because I was growing fevered, I was\ndistressed with thirst, and had to stop, as I went, and drink the peaty\nwater out of the hags.\n\nI came to the bay at last, more dead than alive; and at the first\nglance, I thought the yard was something farther out than when I left\nit. In I went, for the third time, into the sea. The sand was smooth\nand firm, and shelved gradually down, so that I could wade out till the\nwater was almost to my neck and the little waves splashed into my face.\nBut at that depth my feet began to leave me, and I durst venture in no\nfarther. As for the yard, I saw it bobbing very quietly some twenty feet\nbeyond.\n\nI had borne up well until this last disappointment; but at that I came\nashore, and flung myself down upon the sands and wept.\n\nThe time I spent upon the island is still so horrible a thought to me,\nthat I must pass it lightly over. In all the books I have read of people\ncast away, they had either their pockets full of tools, or a chest of\nthings would be thrown upon the beach along with them, as if on purpose.\nMy case was very different. I had nothing in my pockets but money and\nAlan\'s silver button; and being inland bred, I was as much short of\nknowledge as of means.\n\nI knew indeed that shell-fish were counted good to eat; and among the\nrocks of the isle I found a great plenty of limpets, which at first I\ncould scarcely strike from their places, not knowing quickness to be\nneedful. There were, besides, some of the little shells that we call\nbuckies; I think periwinkle is the English name. Of these two I made my\nwhole diet, devouring them cold and raw as I found them; and so hungry\nwas I, that at first they seemed to me delicious.\n\nPerhaps they were out of season, or perhaps there was something wrong\nin the sea about my island. But at least I had no sooner eaten my first\nmeal than I was seized with giddiness and retching, and lay for a long\ntime no better than dead. A second trial of the same food (indeed I had\nno other) did better with me, and revived my strength. But as long as\nI was on the island, I never knew what to expect when I had eaten;\nsometimes all was well, and sometimes I was thrown into a miserable\nsickness; nor could I ever distinguish what particular fish it was that\nhurt me.\n\nAll day it streamed rain; the island ran like a sop, there was no dry\nspot to be found; and when I lay down that night, between two boulders\nthat made a kind of roof, my feet were in a bog.\n\nThe second day I crossed the island to all sides. There was no one part\nof it better than another; it was all desolate and rocky; nothing living\non it but game birds which I lacked the means to kill, and the gulls\nwhich haunted the outlying rocks in a prodigious number. But the creek,\nor strait, that cut off the isle from the main-land of the Ross, opened\nout on the north into a bay, and the bay again opened into the Sound of\nIona; and it was the neighbourhood of this place that I chose to be my\nhome; though if I had thought upon the very name of home in such a spot,\nI must have burst out weeping.\n\nI had good reasons for my choice. There was in this part of the isle a\nlittle hut of a house like a pig\'s hut, where fishers used to sleep when\nthey came there upon their business; but the turf roof of it had fallen\nentirely in; so that the hut was of no use to me, and gave me less\nshelter than my rocks. What was more important, the shell-fish on which\nI lived grew there in great plenty; when the tide was out I could gather\na peck at a time: and this was doubtless a convenience. But the other\nreason went deeper. I had become in no way used to the horrid solitude\nof the isle, but still looked round me on all sides (like a man that\nwas hunted), between fear and hope that I might see some human creature\ncoming. Now, from a little up the hillside over the bay, I could catch a\nsight of the great, ancient church and the roofs of the people\'s houses\nin Iona. And on the other hand, over the low country of the Ross, I saw\nsmoke go up, morning and evening, as if from a homestead in a hollow of\nthe land.\n\nI used to watch this smoke, when I was wet and cold, and had my head\nhalf turned with loneliness; and think of the fireside and the\ncompany, till my heart burned. It was the same with the roofs of Iona.\nAltogether, this sight I had of men\'s homes and comfortable lives,\nalthough it put a point on my own sufferings, yet it kept hope alive,\nand helped me to eat my raw shell-fish (which had soon grown to be a\ndisgust), and saved me from the sense of horror I had whenever I was\nquite alone with dead rocks, and fowls, and the rain, and the cold sea.\n\nI say it kept hope alive; and indeed it seemed impossible that I should\nbe left to die on the shores of my own country, and within view of a\nchurch-tower and the smoke of men\'s houses. But the second day passed;\nand though as long as the light lasted I kept a bright look-out for\nboats on the Sound or men passing on the Ross, no help came near me. It\nstill rained, and I turned in to sleep, as wet as ever, and with a cruel\nsore throat, but a little comforted, perhaps, by having said good-night\nto my next neighbours, the people of Iona.\n\nCharles the Second declared a man could stay outdoors more days in the\nyear in the climate of England than in any other. This was very like a\nking, with a palace at his back and changes of dry clothes. But he must\nhave had better luck on his flight from Worcester than I had on that\nmiserable isle. It was the height of the summer; yet it rained for more\nthan twenty-four hours, and did not clear until the afternoon of the\nthird day.\n\nThis was the day of incidents. In the morning I saw a red deer, a buck\nwith a fine spread of antlers, standing in the rain on the top of the\nisland; but he had scarce seen me rise from under my rock, before\nhe trotted off upon the other side. I supposed he must have swum the\nstrait; though what should bring any creature to Earraid, was more than\nI could fancy.\n\nA little after, as I was jumping about after my limpets, I was startled\nby a guinea-piece, which fell upon a rock in front of me and glanced off\ninto the sea. When the sailors gave me my money again, they kept back\nnot only about a third of the whole sum, but my father\'s leather purse;\nso that from that day out, I carried my gold loose in a pocket with a\nbutton. I now saw there must be a hole, and clapped my hand to the place\nin a great hurry. But this was to lock the stable door after the steed\nwas stolen. I had left the shore at Queensferry with near on fifty\npounds; now I found no more than two guinea-pieces and a silver\nshilling.\n\nIt is true I picked up a third guinea a little after, where it lay\nshining on a piece of turf. That made a fortune of three pounds and four\nshillings, English money, for a lad, the rightful heir of an estate, and\nnow starving on an isle at the extreme end of the wild Highlands.\n\nThis state of my affairs dashed me still further; and, indeed my plight\non that third morning was truly pitiful. My clothes were beginning to\nrot; my stockings in particular were quite worn through, so that my\nshanks went naked; my hands had grown quite soft with the continual\nsoaking; my throat was very sore, my strength had much abated, and my\nheart so turned against the horrid stuff I was condemned to eat, that\nthe very sight of it came near to sicken me.\n\nAnd yet the worst was not yet come.\n\nThere is a pretty high rock on the northwest of Earraid, which (because\nit had a flat top and overlooked the Sound) I was much in the habit of\nfrequenting; not that ever I stayed in one place, save when asleep, my\nmisery giving me no rest. Indeed, I wore myself down with continual and\naimless goings and comings in the rain.\n\nAs soon, however, as the sun came out, I lay down on the top of that\nrock to dry myself. The comfort of the sunshine is a thing I cannot\ntell. It set me thinking hopefully of my deliverance, of which I had\nbegun to despair; and I scanned the sea and the Ross with a fresh\ninterest. On the south of my rock, a part of the island jutted out and\nhid the open ocean, so that a boat could thus come quite near me upon\nthat side, and I be none the wiser.\n\nWell, all of a sudden, a coble with a brown sail and a pair of fishers\naboard of it, came flying round that corner of the isle, bound for Iona.\nI shouted out, and then fell on my knees on the rock and reached up my\nhands and prayed to them. They were near enough to hear--I could even\nsee the colour of their hair; and there was no doubt but they observed\nme, for they cried out in the Gaelic tongue, and laughed. But the boat\nnever turned aside, and flew on, right before my eyes, for Iona.\n\nI could not believe such wickedness, and ran along the shore from rock\nto rock, crying on them piteously even after they were out of reach\nof my voice, I still cried and waved to them; and when they were quite\ngone, I thought my heart would have burst. All the time of my troubles\nI wept only twice. Once, when I could not reach the yard, and now, the\nsecond time, when these fishers turned a deaf ear to my cries. But this\ntime I wept and roared like a wicked child, tearing up the turf with\nmy nails, and grinding my face in the earth. If a wish would kill men,\nthose two fishers would never have seen morning, and I should likely\nhave died upon my island.\n\nWhen I was a little over my anger, I must eat again, but with such\nloathing of the mess as I could now scarce control. Sure enough, I\nshould have done as well to fast, for my fishes poisoned me again. I had\nall my first pains; my throat was so sore I could scarce swallow; I had\na fit of strong shuddering, which clucked my teeth together; and there\ncame on me that dreadful sense of illness, which we have no name for\neither in Scotch or English. I thought I should have died, and made my\npeace with God, forgiving all men, even my uncle and the fishers; and as\nsoon as I had thus made up my mind to the worst, clearness came upon me;\nI observed the night was falling dry; my clothes were dried a good deal;\ntruly, I was in a better case than ever before, since I had landed on\nthe isle; and so I got to sleep at last, with a thought of gratitude.\n\nThe next day (which was the fourth of this horrible life of mine) I\nfound my bodily strength run very low. But the sun shone, the air was\nsweet, and what I managed to eat of the shell-fish agreed well with me\nand revived my courage.\n\nI was scarce back on my rock (where I went always the first thing after\nI had eaten) before I observed a boat coming down the Sound, and with\nher head, as I thought, in my direction.\n\nI began at once to hope and fear exceedingly; for I thought these men\nmight have thought better of their cruelty and be coming back to my\nassistance. But another disappointment, such as yesterday\'s, was more\nthan I could bear. I turned my back, accordingly, upon the sea, and\ndid not look again till I had counted many hundreds. The boat was still\nheading for the island. The next time I counted the full thousand, as\nslowly as I could, my heart beating so as to hurt me. And then it was\nout of all question. She was coming straight to Earraid!\n\nI could no longer hold myself back, but ran to the seaside and out,\nfrom one rock to another, as far as I could go. It is a marvel I was not\ndrowned; for when I was brought to a stand at last, my legs shook under\nme, and my mouth was so dry, I must wet it with the sea-water before I\nwas able to shout.\n\nAll this time the boat was coming on; and now I was able to perceive\nit was the same boat and the same two men as yesterday. This I knew by\ntheir hair, which the one had of a bright yellow and the other black.\nBut now there was a third man along with them, who looked to be of a\nbetter class.\n\nAs soon as they were come within easy speech, they let down their sail\nand lay quiet. In spite of my supplications, they drew no nearer in, and\nwhat frightened me most of all, the new man tee-hee\'d with laughter as\nhe talked and looked at me.\n\nThen he stood up in the boat and addressed me a long while, speaking\nfast and with many wavings of his hand. I told him I had no Gaelic; and\nat this he became very angry, and I began to suspect he thought he was\ntalking English. Listening very close, I caught the word \"whateffer\"\nseveral times; but all the rest was Gaelic and might have been Greek and\nHebrew for me.\n\n\"Whatever,\" said I, to show him I had caught a word.\n\n\"Yes, yes--yes, yes,\" says he, and then he looked at the other men, as\nmuch as to say, \"I told you I spoke English,\" and began again as hard as\never in the Gaelic.\n\nThis time I picked out another word, \"tide.\" Then I had a flash of hope.\nI remembered he was always waving his hand towards the mainland of the\nRoss.\n\n\"Do you mean when the tide is out--?\" I cried, and could not finish.\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" said he. \"Tide.\"\n\nAt that I turned tail upon their boat (where my adviser had once more\nbegun to tee-hee with laughter), leaped back the way I had come, from\none stone to another, and set off running across the isle as I had never\nrun before. In about half an hour I came out upon the shores of the\ncreek; and, sure enough, it was shrunk into a little trickle of water,\nthrough which I dashed, not above my knees, and landed with a shout on\nthe main island.\n\nA sea-bred boy would not have stayed a day on Earraid; which is only\nwhat they call a tidal islet, and except in the bottom of the neaps, can\nbe entered and left twice in every twenty-four hours, either dry-shod,\nor at the most by wading. Even I, who had the tide going out and in\nbefore me in the bay, and even watched for the ebbs, the better to get\nmy shellfish--even I (I say) if I had sat down to think, instead of\nraging at my fate, must have soon guessed the secret, and got free. It\nwas no wonder the fishers had not understood me. The wonder was rather\nthat they had ever guessed my pitiful illusion, and taken the trouble to\ncome back. I had starved with cold and hunger on that island for close\nupon one hundred hours. But for the fishers, I might have left my bones\nthere, in pure folly. And even as it was, I had paid for it pretty dear,\nnot only in past sufferings, but in my present case; being clothed like\na beggar-man, scarce able to walk, and in great pain of my sore throat.\n\nI have seen wicked men and fools, a great many of both; and I believe\nthey both get paid in the end; but the fools first.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nTHE LAD WITH THE SILVER BUTTON: THROUGH THE ISLE OF MULL\n\nThe Ross of Mull, which I had now got upon, was rugged and trackless,\nlike the isle I had just left; being all bog, and brier, and big stone.\nThere may be roads for them that know that country well; but for my part\nI had no better guide than my own nose, and no other landmark than Ben\nMore.\n\nI aimed as well as I could for the smoke I had seen so often from the\nisland; and with all my great weariness and the difficulty of the way\ncame upon the house in the bottom of a little hollow about five or\nsix at night. It was low and longish, roofed with turf and built of\nunmortared stones; and on a mound in front of it, an old gentleman sat\nsmoking his pipe in the sun.\n\nWith what little English he had, he gave me to understand that my\nshipmates had got safe ashore, and had broken bread in that very house\non the day after.\n\n\"Was there one,\" I asked, \"dressed like a gentleman?\"\n\nHe said they all wore rough great-coats; but to be sure, the first of\nthem, the one that came alone, wore breeches and stockings, while the\nrest had sailors\' trousers.\n\n\"Ah,\" said I, \"and he would have a feathered hat?\"\n\nHe told me, no, that he was bareheaded like myself.\n\nAt first I thought Alan might have lost his hat; and then the rain came\nin my mind, and I judged it more likely he had it out of harm\'s way\nunder his great-coat. This set me smiling, partly because my friend was\nsafe, partly to think of his vanity in dress.\n\nAnd then the old gentleman clapped his hand to his brow, and cried out\nthat I must be the lad with the silver button.\n\n\"Why, yes!\" said I, in some wonder.\n\n\"Well, then,\" said the old gentleman, \"I have a word for you, that you\nare to follow your friend to his country, by Torosay.\"\n\nHe then asked me how I had fared, and I told him my tale. A\nsouth-country man would certainly have laughed; but this old gentleman\n(I call him so because of his manners, for his clothes were dropping off\nhis back) heard me all through with nothing but gravity and pity. When I\nhad done, he took me by the hand, led me into his hut (it was no better)\nand presented me before his wife, as if she had been the Queen and I a\nduke.\n\nThe good woman set oat-bread before me and a cold grouse, patting my\nshoulder and smiling to me all the time, for she had no English; and the\nold gentleman (not to be behind) brewed me a strong punch out of their\ncountry spirit. All the while I was eating, and after that when I was\ndrinking the punch, I could scarce come to believe in my good fortune;\nand the house, though it was thick with the peat-smoke and as full of\nholes as a colander, seemed like a palace.\n\nThe punch threw me in a strong sweat and a deep slumber; the good people\nlet me lie; and it was near noon of the next day before I took the road,\nmy throat already easier and my spirits quite restored by good fare and\ngood news. The old gentleman, although I pressed him hard, would take no\nmoney, and gave me an old bonnet for my head; though I am free to own I\nwas no sooner out of view of the house than I very jealously washed this\ngift of his in a wayside fountain.\n\nThought I to myself: \"If these are the wild Highlanders, I could wish my\nown folk wilder.\"\n\nI not only started late, but I must have wandered nearly half the time.\nTrue, I met plenty of people, grubbing in little miserable fields that\nwould not keep a cat, or herding little kine about the bigness of asses.\nThe Highland dress being forbidden by law since the rebellion, and the\npeople condemned to the Lowland habit, which they much disliked, it was\nstrange to see the variety of their array. Some went bare, only for a\nhanging cloak or great-coat, and carried their trousers on their backs\nlike a useless burthen: some had made an imitation of the tartan with\nlittle parti-coloured stripes patched together like an old wife\'s quilt;\nothers, again, still wore the Highland philabeg, but by putting a few\nstitches between the legs transformed it into a pair of trousers like\na Dutchman\'s. All those makeshifts were condemned and punished, for the\nlaw was harshly applied, in hopes to break up the clan spirit; but in\nthat out-of-the-way, sea-bound isle, there were few to make remarks and\nfewer to tell tales.\n\nThey seemed in great poverty; which was no doubt natural, now that\nrapine was put down, and the chiefs kept no longer an open house;\nand the roads (even such a wandering, country by-track as the one\nI followed) were infested with beggars. And here again I marked\na difference from my own part of the country. For our Lowland\nbeggars--even the gownsmen themselves, who beg by patent--had a louting,\nflattering way with them, and if you gave them a plaek and asked change,\nwould very civilly return you a boddle. But these Highland beggars stood\non their dignity, asked alms only to buy snuff (by their account) and\nwould give no change.\n\nTo be sure, this was no concern of mine, except in so far as it\nentertained me by the way. What was much more to the purpose, few had\nany English, and these few (unless they were of the brotherhood of\nbeggars) not very anxious to place it at my service. I knew Torosay\nto be my destination, and repeated the name to them and pointed; but\ninstead of simply pointing in reply, they would give me a screed of the\nGaelic that set me foolish; so it was small wonder if I went out of my\nroad as often as I stayed in it.\n\nAt last, about eight at night, and already very weary, I came to a lone\nhouse, where I asked admittance, and was refused, until I bethought\nme of the power of money in so poor a country, and held up one of my\nguineas in my finger and thumb. Thereupon, the man of the house, who had\nhitherto pretended to have no English, and driven me from his door by\nsignals, suddenly began to speak as clearly as was needful, and agreed\nfor five shillings to give me a night\'s lodging and guide me the next\nday to Torosay.\n\nI slept uneasily that night, fearing I should be robbed; but I might\nhave spared myself the pain; for my host was no robber, only miserably\npoor and a great cheat. He was not alone in his poverty; for the next\nmorning, we must go five miles about to the house of what he called a\nrich man to have one of my guineas changed. This was perhaps a rich man\nfor Mull; he would have scarce been thought so in the south; for it\ntook all he had--the whole house was turned upside down, and a neighbour\nbrought under contribution, before he could scrape together twenty\nshillings in silver. The odd shilling he kept for himself, protesting he\ncould ill afford to have so great a sum of money lying \"locked up.\" For\nall that he was very courteous and well spoken, made us both sit down\nwith his family to dinner, and brewed punch in a fine china bowl, over\nwhich my rascal guide grew so merry that he refused to start.\n\nI was for getting angry, and appealed to the rich man (Hector Maclean\nwas his name), who had been a witness to our bargain and to my payment\nof the five shillings. But Maclean had taken his share of the punch,\nand vowed that no gentleman should leave his table after the bowl was\nbrewed; so there was nothing for it but to sit and hear Jacobite toasts\nand Gaelic songs, till all were tipsy and staggered off to the bed or\nthe barn for their night\'s rest.\n\nNext day (the fourth of my travels) we were up before five upon the\nclock; but my rascal guide got to the bottle at once, and it was three\nhours before I had him clear of the house, and then (as you shall hear)\nonly for a worse disappointment.\n\nAs long as we went down a heathery valley that lay before Mr. Maclean\'s\nhouse, all went well; only my guide looked constantly over his shoulder,\nand when I asked him the cause, only grinned at me. No sooner, however,\nhad we crossed the back of a hill, and got out of sight of the house\nwindows, than he told me Torosay lay right in front, and that a hill-top\n(which he pointed out) was my best landmark.\n\n\"I care very little for that,\" said I, \"since you are going with me.\"\n\nThe impudent cheat answered me in the Gaelic that he had no English.\n\n\"My fine fellow,\" I said, \"I know very well your English comes and goes.\nTell me what will bring it back? Is it more money you wish?\"\n\n\"Five shillings mair,\" said he, \"and hersel\' will bring ye there.\"\n\nI reflected awhile and then offered him two, which he accepted greedily,\nand insisted on having in his hands at once \"for luck,\" as he said, but\nI think it was rather for my misfortune.\n\nThe two shillings carried him not quite as many miles; at the end of\nwhich distance, he sat down upon the wayside and took off his brogues\nfrom his feet, like a man about to rest.\n\nI was now red-hot. \"Ha!\" said I, \"have you no more English?\"\n\nHe said impudently, \"No.\"\n\nAt that I boiled over, and lifted my hand to strike him; and he, drawing\na knife from his rags, squatted back and grinned at me like a wildcat.\nAt that, forgetting everything but my anger, I ran in upon him, put\naside his knife with my left, and struck him in the mouth with the\nright. I was a strong lad and very angry, and he but a little man; and\nhe went down before me heavily. By good luck, his knife flew out of his\nhand as he fell.\n\nI picked up both that and his brogues, wished him a good morning, and\nset off upon my way, leaving him barefoot and disarmed. I chuckled to\nmyself as I went, being sure I was done with that rogue, for a variety\nof reasons. First, he knew he could have no more of my money; next, the\nbrogues were worth in that country only a few pence; and, lastly, the\nknife, which was really a dagger, it was against the law for him to\ncarry.\n\nIn about half an hour of walk, I overtook a great, ragged man, moving\npretty fast but feeling before him with a staff. He was quite blind, and\ntold me he was a catechist, which should have put me at my ease. But\nhis face went against me; it seemed dark and dangerous and secret; and\npresently, as we began to go on alongside, I saw the steel butt of a\npistol sticking from under the flap of his coat-pocket. To carry such a\nthing meant a fine of fifteen pounds sterling upon a first offence, and\ntransportation to the colonies upon a second. Nor could I quite see why\na religious teacher should go armed, or what a blind man could be doing\nwith a pistol.\n\nI told him about my guide, for I was proud of what I had done, and my\nvanity for once got the heels of my prudence. At the mention of the\nfive shillings he cried out so loud that I made up my mind I should say\nnothing of the other two, and was glad he could not see my blushes.\n\n\"Was it too much?\" I asked, a little faltering.\n\n\"Too much!\" cries he. \"Why, I will guide you to Torosay myself for a\ndram of brandy. And give you the great pleasure of my company (me that\nis a man of some learning) in the bargain.\"\n\nI said I did not see how a blind man could be a guide; but at that he\nlaughed aloud, and said his stick was eyes enough for an eagle.\n\n\"In the Isle of Mull, at least,\" says he, \"where I know every stone and\nheather-bush by mark of head. See, now,\" he said, striking right and\nleft, as if to make sure, \"down there a burn is running; and at the head\nof it there stands a bit of a small hill with a stone cocked upon the\ntop of that; and it\'s hard at the foot of the hill, that the way runs by\nto Torosay; and the way here, being for droves, is plainly trodden, and\nwill show grassy through the heather.\"\n\nI had to own he was right in every feature, and told my wonder.\n\n\"Ha!\" says he, \"that\'s nothing. Would ye believe me now, that before\nthe Act came out, and when there were weepons in this country, I could\nshoot? Ay, could I!\" cries he, and then with a leer: \"If ye had such a\nthing as a pistol here to try with, I would show ye how it\'s done.\"\n\nI told him I had nothing of the sort, and gave him a wider berth. If\nhe had known, his pistol stuck at that time quite plainly out of his\npocket, and I could see the sun twinkle on the steel of the butt. But\nby the better luck for me, he knew nothing, thought all was covered, and\nlied on in the dark.\n\nHe then began to question me cunningly, where I came from, whether I\nwas rich, whether I could change a five-shilling piece for him (which\nhe declared he had that moment in his sporran), and all the time he kept\nedging up to me and I avoiding him. We were now upon a sort of green\ncattle-track which crossed the hills towards Torosay, and we kept\nchanging sides upon that like dancers in a reel. I had so plainly the\nupper-hand that my spirits rose, and indeed I took a pleasure in this\ngame of blindman\'s buff; but the catechist grew angrier and angrier,\nand at last began to swear in Gaelic and to strike for my legs with his\nstaff.\n\nThen I told him that, sure enough, I had a pistol in my pocket as well\nas he, and if he did not strike across the hill due south I would even\nblow his brains out.\n\nHe became at once very polite, and after trying to soften me for some\ntime, but quite in vain, he cursed me once more in Gaelic and took\nhimself off. I watched him striding along, through bog and brier,\ntapping with his stick, until he turned the end of a hill and\ndisappeared in the next hollow. Then I struck on again for Torosay, much\nbetter pleased to be alone than to travel with that man of learning.\nThis was an unlucky day; and these two, of whom I had just rid myself,\none after the other, were the two worst men I met with in the Highlands.\n\nAt Torosay, on the Sound of Mull and looking over to the mainland\nof Morven, there was an inn with an innkeeper, who was a Maclean, it\nappeared, of a very high family; for to keep an inn is thought even more\ngenteel in the Highlands than it is with us, perhaps as partaking of\nhospitality, or perhaps because the trade is idle and drunken. He spoke\ngood English, and finding me to be something of a scholar, tried me\nfirst in French, where he easily beat me, and then in the Latin, in\nwhich I don\'t know which of us did best. This pleasant rivalry put us at\nonce upon friendly terms; and I sat up and drank punch with him (or to\nbe more correct, sat up and watched him drink it), until he was so tipsy\nthat he wept upon my shoulder.\n\nI tried him, as if by accident, with a sight of Alan\'s button; but it\nwas plain he had never seen or heard of it. Indeed, he bore some grudge\nagainst the family and friends of Ardshiel, and before he was drunk\nhe read me a lampoon, in very good Latin, but with a very ill meaning,\nwhich he had made in elegiac verses upon a person of that house.\n\nWhen I told him of my catechist, he shook his head, and said I was lucky\nto have got clear off. \"That is a very dangerous man,\" he said; \"Duncan\nMackiegh is his name; he can shoot by the ear at several yards, and has\nbeen often accused of highway robberies, and once of murder.\"\n\n\"The cream of it is,\" says I, \"that he called himself a catechist.\"\n\n\"And why should he not?\" says he, \"when that is what he is. It was\nMaclean of Duart gave it to him because he was blind. But perhaps it was\na peety,\" says my host, \"for he is always on the road, going from\none place to another to hear the young folk say their religion; and,\ndoubtless, that is a great temptation to the poor man.\"\n\nAt last, when my landlord could drink no more, he showed me to a bed,\nand I lay down in very good spirits; having travelled the greater part\nof that big and crooked Island of Mull, from Earraid to Torosay, fifty\nmiles as the crow flies, and (with my wanderings) much nearer a hundred,\nin four days and with little fatigue. Indeed I was by far in better\nheart and health of body at the end of that long tramp than I had been\nat the beginning.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nTHE LAD WITH THE SILVER BUTTON: ACROSS MORVEN\n\nThere is a regular ferry from Torosay to Kinlochaline on the mainland.\nBoth shores of the Sound are in the country of the strong clan of the\nMacleans, and the people that passed the ferry with me were almost all\nof that clan. The skipper of the boat, on the other hand, was called\nNeil Roy Macrob; and since Macrob was one of the names of Alan\'s\nclansmen, and Alan himself had sent me to that ferry, I was eager to\ncome to private speech of Neil Roy.\n\nIn the crowded boat this was of course impossible, and the passage was\na very slow affair. There was no wind, and as the boat was wretchedly\nequipped, we could pull but two oars on one side, and one on the other.\nThe men gave way, however, with a good will, the passengers taking\nspells to help them, and the whole company giving the time in\nGaelic boat-songs. And what with the songs, and the sea-air, and the\ngood-nature and spirit of all concerned, and the bright weather, the\npassage was a pretty thing to have seen.\n\nBut there was one melancholy part. In the mouth of Loch Aline we found\na great sea-going ship at anchor; and this I supposed at first to be one\nof the King\'s cruisers which were kept along that coast, both summer\nand winter, to prevent communication with the French. As we got a little\nnearer, it became plain she was a ship of merchandise; and what still\nmore puzzled me, not only her decks, but the sea-beach also, were quite\nblack with people, and skiffs were continually plying to and fro between\nthem. Yet nearer, and there began to come to our ears a great sound\nof mourning, the people on board and those on the shore crying and\nlamenting one to another so as to pierce the heart.\n\nThen I understood this was an emigrant ship bound for the American\ncolonies.\n\nWe put the ferry-boat alongside, and the exiles leaned over the\nbulwarks, weeping and reaching out their hands to my fellow-passengers,\namong whom they counted some near friends. How long this might have gone\non I do not know, for they seemed to have no sense of time: but at last\nthe captain of the ship, who seemed near beside himself (and no great\nwonder) in the midst of this crying and confusion, came to the side and\nbegged us to depart.\n\nThereupon Neil sheered off; and the chief singer in our boat struck into\na melancholy air, which was presently taken up both by the emigrants and\ntheir friends upon the beach, so that it sounded from all sides like a\nlament for the dying. I saw the tears run down the cheeks of the men and\nwomen in the boat, even as they bent at the oars; and the circumstances\nand the music of the song (which is one called \"Lochaber no more\") were\nhighly affecting even to myself.\n\nAt Kinlochaline I got Neil Roy upon one side on the beach, and said I\nmade sure he was one of Appin\'s men.\n\n\"And what for no?\" said he.\n\n\"I am seeking somebody,\" said I; \"and it comes in my mind that you will\nhave news of him. Alan Breck Stewart is his name.\" And very foolishly,\ninstead of showing him the button, I sought to pass a shilling in his\nhand.\n\nAt this he drew back. \"I am very much affronted,\" he said; \"and this is\nnot the way that one shentleman should behave to another at all. The man\nyou ask for is in France; but if he was in my sporran,\" says he, \"and\nyour belly full of shillings, I would not hurt a hair upon his body.\"\n\nI saw I had gone the wrong way to work, and without wasting time upon\napologies, showed him the button lying in the hollow of my palm.\n\n\"Aweel, aweel,\" said Neil; \"and I think ye might have begun with that\nend of the stick, whatever! But if ye are the lad with the silver\nbutton, all is well, and I have the word to see that ye come safe. But\nif ye will pardon me to speak plainly,\" says he, \"there is a name that\nyou should never take into your mouth, and that is the name of Alan\nBreck; and there is a thing that ye would never do, and that is to offer\nyour dirty money to a Hieland shentleman.\"\n\nIt was not very easy to apologise; for I could scarce tell him (what was\nthe truth) that I had never dreamed he would set up to be a gentleman\nuntil he told me so. Neil on his part had no wish to prolong his\ndealings with me, only to fulfil his orders and be done with it; and\nhe made haste to give me my route. This was to lie the night in\nKinlochaline in the public inn; to cross Morven the next day to Ardgour,\nand lie the night in the house of one John of the Claymore, who was\nwarned that I might come; the third day, to be set across one loch at\nCorran and another at Balachulish, and then ask my way to the house of\nJames of the Glens, at Aucharn in Duror of Appin. There was a good deal\nof ferrying, as you hear; the sea in all this part running deep into the\nmountains and winding about their roots. It makes the country strong to\nhold and difficult to travel, but full of prodigious wild and dreadful\nprospects.\n\nI had some other advice from Neil: to speak with no one by the way, to\navoid Whigs, Campbells, and the \"red-soldiers;\" to leave the road and\nlie in a bush if I saw any of the latter coming, \"for it was never\nchancy to meet in with them;\" and in brief, to conduct myself like a\nrobber or a Jacobite agent, as perhaps Neil thought me.\n\nThe inn at Kinlochaline was the most beggarly vile place that ever pigs\nwere styed in, full of smoke, vermin, and silent Highlanders. I was not\nonly discontented with my lodging, but with myself for my mismanagement\nof Neil, and thought I could hardly be worse off. But very wrongly, as I\nwas soon to see; for I had not been half an hour at the inn (standing in\nthe door most of the time, to ease my eyes from the peat smoke) when a\nthunderstorm came close by, the springs broke in a little hill on which\nthe inn stood, and one end of the house became a running water. Places\nof public entertainment were bad enough all over Scotland in those days;\nyet it was a wonder to myself, when I had to go from the fireside to the\nbed in which I slept, wading over the shoes.\n\nEarly in my next day\'s journey I overtook a little, stout, solemn man,\nwalking very slowly with his toes turned out, sometimes reading in\na book and sometimes marking the place with his finger, and dressed\ndecently and plainly in something of a clerical style.\n\nThis I found to be another catechist, but of a different order from the\nblind man of Mull: being indeed one of those sent out by the Edinburgh\nSociety for Propagating Christian Knowledge, to evangelise the more\nsavage places of the Highlands. His name was Henderland; he spoke with\nthe broad south-country tongue, which I was beginning to weary for the\nsound of; and besides common countryship, we soon found we had a\nmore particular bond of interest. For my good friend, the minister of\nEssendean, had translated into the Gaelic in his by-time a number of\nhymns and pious books which Henderland used in his work, and held in\ngreat esteem. Indeed, it was one of these he was carrying and reading\nwhen we met.\n\nWe fell in company at once, our ways lying together as far as to\nKingairloch. As we went, he stopped and spoke with all the wayfarers\nand workers that we met or passed; and though of course I could not tell\nwhat they discoursed about, yet I judged Mr. Henderland must be well\nliked in the countryside, for I observed many of them to bring out their\nmulls and share a pinch of snuff with him.\n\nI told him as far in my affairs as I judged wise; as far, that is,\nas they were none of Alan\'s; and gave Balachulish as the place I was\ntravelling to, to meet a friend; for I thought Aucharn, or even Duror,\nwould be too particular, and might put him on the scent.\n\nOn his part, he told me much of his work and the people he worked among,\nthe hiding priests and Jacobites, the Disarming Act, the dress, and many\nother curiosities of the time and place. He seemed moderate; blaming\nParliament in several points, and especially because they had framed the\nAct more severely against those who wore the dress than against those\nwho carried weapons.\n\nThis moderation put it in my mind to question him of the Red Fox and the\nAppin tenants; questions which, I thought, would seem natural enough in\nthe mouth of one travelling to that country.\n\n\n\nHe said it was a bad business. \"It\'s wonderful,\" said he, \"where the\ntenants find the money, for their life is mere starvation. (Ye don\'t\ncarry such a thing as snuff, do ye, Mr. Balfour? No. Well, I\'m better\nwanting it.) But these tenants (as I was saying) are doubtless partly\ndriven to it. James Stewart in Duror (that\'s him they call James of the\nGlens) is half-brother to Ardshiel, the captain of the clan; and he is\na man much looked up to, and drives very hard. And then there\'s one they\ncall Alan Breck--\"\n\n\"Ah!\" I cried, \"what of him?\"\n\n\"What of the wind that bloweth where it listeth?\" said Henderland. \"He\'s\nhere and awa; here to-day and gone to-morrow: a fair heather-cat. He\nmight be glowering at the two of us out of yon whin-bush, and I wouldnae\nwonder! Ye\'ll no carry such a thing as snuff, will ye?\"\n\nI told him no, and that he had asked the same thing more than once.\n\n\"It\'s highly possible,\" said he, sighing. \"But it seems strange ye\nshouldnae carry it. However, as I was saying, this Alan Breck is a bold,\ndesperate customer, and well kent to be James\'s right hand. His life\nis forfeit already; he would boggle at naething; and maybe, if a\ntenant-body was to hang back he would get a dirk in his wame.\"\n\n\"You make a poor story of it all, Mr. Henderland,\" said I. \"If it is all\nfear upon both sides, I care to hear no more of it.\"\n\n\"Na,\" said Mr. Henderland, \"but there\'s love too, and self-denial that\nshould put the like of you and me to shame. There\'s something fine about\nit; no perhaps Christian, but humanly fine. Even Alan Breck, by all that\nI hear, is a chield to be respected. There\'s many a lying sneck-draw\nsits close in kirk in our own part of the country, and stands well in\nthe world\'s eye, and maybe is a far worse man, Mr. Balfour, than yon\nmisguided shedder of man\'s blood. Ay, ay, we might take a lesson by\nthem.--Ye\'ll perhaps think I\'ve been too long in the Hielands?\" he\nadded, smiling to me.\n\nI told him not at all; that I had seen much to admire among the\nHighlanders; and if he came to that, Mr. Campbell himself was a\nHighlander.\n\n\"Ay,\" said he, \"that\'s true. It\'s a fine blood.\"\n\n\"And what is the King\'s agent about?\" I asked.\n\n\"Colin Campbell?\" says Henderland. \"Putting his head in a bees\' byke!\"\n\n\"He is to turn the tenants out by force, I hear?\" said I.\n\n\"Yes,\" says he, \"but the business has gone back and forth, as folk say.\nFirst, James of the Glens rode to Edinburgh, and got some lawyer (a\nStewart, nae doubt--they all hing together like bats in a steeple) and\nhad the proceedings stayed. And then Colin Campbell cam\' in again, and\nhad the upper-hand before the Barons of Exchequer. And now they tell me\nthe first of the tenants are to flit to-morrow. It\'s to begin at Duror\nunder James\'s very windows, which doesnae seem wise by my humble way of\nit.\"\n\n\"Do you think they\'ll fight?\" I asked.\n\n\"Well,\" says Henderland, \"they\'re disarmed--or supposed to be--for\nthere\'s still a good deal of cold iron lying by in quiet places. And\nthen Colin Campbell has the sogers coming. But for all that, if I was\nhis lady wife, I wouldnae be well pleased till I got him home again.\nThey\'re queer customers, the Appin Stewarts.\"\n\nI asked if they were worse than their neighbours.\n\n\"No they,\" said he. \"And that\'s the worst part of it. For if Colin Roy\ncan get his business done in Appin, he has it all to begin again in the\nnext country, which they call Mamore, and which is one of the countries\nof the Camerons. He\'s King\'s Factor upon both, and from both he has to\ndrive out the tenants; and indeed, Mr. Balfour (to be open with ye),\nit\'s my belief that if he escapes the one lot, he\'ll get his death by\nthe other.\"\n\nSo we continued talking and walking the great part of the day; until\nat last, Mr. Henderland after expressing his delight in my company, and\nsatisfaction at meeting with a friend of Mr. Campbell\'s (\"whom,\" says\nhe, \"I will make bold to call that sweet singer of our covenanted\nZion\"), proposed that I should make a short stage, and lie the night in\nhis house a little beyond Kingairloch. To say truth, I was overjoyed;\nfor I had no great desire for John of the Claymore, and since my double\nmisadventure, first with the guide and next with the gentleman skipper,\nI stood in some fear of any Highland stranger. Accordingly we shook\nhands upon the bargain, and came in the afternoon to a small house,\nstanding alone by the shore of the Linnhe Loch. The sun was already gone\nfrom the desert mountains of Ardgour upon the hither side, but shone on\nthose of Appin on the farther; the loch lay as still as a lake, only\nthe gulls were crying round the sides of it; and the whole place seemed\nsolemn and uncouth.\n\nWe had no sooner come to the door of Mr. Henderland\'s dwelling, than to\nmy great surprise (for I was now used to the politeness of Highlanders)\nhe burst rudely past me, dashed into the room, caught up a jar and\na small horn-spoon, and began ladling snuff into his nose in most\nexcessive quantities. Then he had a hearty fit of sneezing, and looked\nround upon me with a rather silly smile.\n\n\"It\'s a vow I took,\" says he. \"I took a vow upon me that I wouldnae\ncarry it. Doubtless it\'s a great privation; but when I think upon\nthe martyrs, not only to the Scottish Covenant but to other points of\nChristianity, I think shame to mind it.\"\n\nAs soon as we had eaten (and porridge and whey was the best of the good\nman\'s diet) he took a grave face and said he had a duty to perform by\nMr. Campbell, and that was to inquire into my state of mind towards God.\nI was inclined to smile at him since the business of the snuff; but he\nhad not spoken long before he brought the tears into my eyes. There are\ntwo things that men should never weary of, goodness and humility; we get\nnone too much of them in this rough world among cold, proud people; but\nMr. Henderland had their very speech upon his tongue. And though I was a\ngood deal puffed up with my adventures and with having come off, as the\nsaying is, with flying colours; yet he soon had me on my knees beside a\nsimple, poor old man, and both proud and glad to be there.\n\nBefore we went to bed he offered me sixpence to help me on my way, out\nof a scanty store he kept in the turf wall of his house; at which excess\nof goodness I knew not what to do. But at last he was so earnest with me\nthat I thought it the more mannerly part to let him have his way, and so\nleft him poorer than myself.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nTHE DEATH OF THE RED FOX\n\nThe next day Mr. Henderland found for me a man who had a boat of his own\nand was to cross the Linnhe Loch that afternoon into Appin, fishing. Him\nhe prevailed on to take me, for he was one of his flock; and in this way\nI saved a long day\'s travel and the price of the two public ferries I\nmust otherwise have passed.\n\nIt was near noon before we set out; a dark day with clouds, and the sun\nshining upon little patches. The sea was here very deep and still,\nand had scarce a wave upon it; so that I must put the water to my lips\nbefore I could believe it to be truly salt. The mountains on either side\nwere high, rough and barren, very black and gloomy in the shadow of\nthe clouds, but all silver-laced with little watercourses where the sun\nshone upon them. It seemed a hard country, this of Appin, for people to\ncare as much about as Alan did.\n\nThere was but one thing to mention. A little after we had started,\nthe sun shone upon a little moving clump of scarlet close in along the\nwater-side to the north. It was much of the same red as soldiers\' coats;\nevery now and then, too, there came little sparks and lightnings, as\nthough the sun had struck upon bright steel.\n\nI asked my boatman what it should be, and he answered he supposed it was\nsome of the red soldiers coming from Fort William into Appin, against\nthe poor tenantry of the country. Well, it was a sad sight to me;\nand whether it was because of my thoughts of Alan, or from something\nprophetic in my bosom, although this was but the second time I had seen\nKing George\'s troops, I had no good will to them.\n\nAt last we came so near the point of land at the entering in of Loch\nLeven that I begged to be set on shore. My boatman (who was an honest\nfellow and mindful of his promise to the catechist) would fain have\ncarried me on to Balachulish; but as this was to take me farther from my\nsecret destination, I insisted, and was set on shore at last under the\nwood of Lettermore (or Lettervore, for I have heard it both ways) in\nAlan\'s country of Appin.\n\nThis was a wood of birches, growing on a steep, craggy side of a\nmountain that overhung the loch. It had many openings and ferny howes;\nand a road or bridle track ran north and south through the midst of\nit, by the edge of which, where was a spring, I sat down to eat some\noat-bread of Mr. Henderland\'s and think upon my situation.\n\nHere I was not only troubled by a cloud of stinging midges, but far more\nby the doubts of my mind. What I ought to do, why I was going to join\nmyself with an outlaw and a would-be murderer like Alan, whether I\nshould not be acting more like a man of sense to tramp back to the south\ncountry direct, by my own guidance and at my own charges, and what Mr.\nCampbell or even Mr. Henderland would think of me if they should ever\nlearn my folly and presumption: these were the doubts that now began to\ncome in on me stronger than ever.\n\nAs I was so sitting and thinking, a sound of men and horses came to me\nthrough the wood; and presently after, at a turning of the road, I saw\nfour travellers come into view. The way was in this part so rough and\nnarrow that they came single and led their horses by the reins. The\nfirst was a great, red-headed gentleman, of an imperious and flushed\nface, who carried his hat in his hand and fanned himself, for he was in\na breathing heat. The second, by his decent black garb and white wig,\nI correctly took to be a lawyer. The third was a servant, and wore some\npart of his clothes in tartan, which showed that his master was of a\nHighland family, and either an outlaw or else in singular good odour\nwith the Government, since the wearing of tartan was against the Act. If\nI had been better versed in these things, I would have known the tartan\nto be of the Argyle (or Campbell) colours. This servant had a good-sized\nportmanteau strapped on his horse, and a net of lemons (to brew punch\nwith) hanging at the saddle-bow; as was often enough the custom with\nluxurious travellers in that part of the country.\n\nAs for the fourth, who brought up the tail, I had seen his like before,\nand knew him at once to be a sheriff\'s officer.\n\nI had no sooner seen these people coming than I made up my mind (for no\nreason that I can tell) to go through with my adventure; and when the\nfirst came alongside of me, I rose up from the bracken and asked him the\nway to Aucharn.\n\nHe stopped and looked at me, as I thought, a little oddly; and then,\nturning to the lawyer, \"Mungo,\" said he, \"there\'s many a man would think\nthis more of a warning than two pyats. Here am I on my road to Duror on\nthe job ye ken; and here is a young lad starts up out of the bracken,\nand speers if I am on the way to Aucharn.\"\n\n\"Glenure,\" said the other, \"this is an ill subject for jesting.\"\n\nThese two had now drawn close up and were gazing at me, while the two\nfollowers had halted about a stone-cast in the rear.\n\n\"And what seek ye in Aucharn?\" said Colin Roy Campbell of Glenure, him\nthey called the Red Fox; for he it was that I had stopped.\n\n\"The man that lives there,\" said I.\n\n\"James of the Glens,\" says Glenure, musingly; and then to the lawyer:\n\"Is he gathering his people, think ye?\"\n\n\"Anyway,\" says the lawyer, \"we shall do better to bide where we are, and\nlet the soldiers rally us.\"\n\n\"If you are concerned for me,\" said I, \"I am neither of his people nor\nyours, but an honest subject of King George, owing no man and fearing no\nman.\"\n\n\"Why, very well said,\" replies the Factor. \"But if I may make so bold as\nask, what does this honest man so far from his country? and why does\nhe come seeking the brother of Ardshiel? I have power here, I must tell\nyou. I am King\'s Factor upon several of these estates, and have twelve\nfiles of soldiers at my back.\"\n\n\"I have heard a waif word in the country,\" said I, a little nettled,\n\"that you were a hard man to drive.\"\n\nHe still kept looking at me, as if in doubt.\n\n\"Well,\" said he, at last, \"your tongue is bold; but I am no unfriend to\nplainness. If ye had asked me the way to the door of James Stewart on\nany other day but this, I would have set ye right and bidden ye God\nspeed. But to-day--eh, Mungo?\" And he turned again to look at the\nlawyer.\n\nBut just as he turned there came the shot of a firelock from higher up\nthe hill; and with the very sound of it Glenure fell upon the road.\n\n\"O, I am dead!\" he cried, several times over.\n\nThe lawyer had caught him up and held him in his arms, the servant\nstanding over and clasping his hands. And now the wounded man looked\nfrom one to another with scared eyes, and there was a change in his\nvoice, that went to the heart.\n\n\"Take care of yourselves,\" says he. \"I am dead.\"\n\nHe tried to open his clothes as if to look for the wound, but his\nfingers slipped on the buttons. With that he gave a great sigh, his head\nrolled on his shoulder, and he passed away.\n\nThe lawyer said never a word, but his face was as sharp as a pen and\nas white as the dead man\'s; the servant broke out into a great noise of\ncrying and weeping, like a child; and I, on my side, stood staring at\nthem in a kind of horror. The sheriff\'s officer had run back at the\nfirst sound of the shot, to hasten the coming of the soldiers.\n\nAt last the lawyer laid down the dead man in his blood upon the road,\nand got to his own feet with a kind of stagger.\n\nI believe it was his movement that brought me to my senses; for he had\nno sooner done so than I began to scramble up the hill, crying out, \"The\nmurderer! the murderer!\"\n\nSo little a time had elapsed, that when I got to the top of the first\nsteepness, and could see some part of the open mountain, the murderer\nwas still moving away at no great distance. He was a big man, in a black\ncoat, with metal buttons, and carried a long fowling-piece.\n\n\"Here!\" I cried. \"I see him!\"\n\nAt that the murderer gave a little, quick look over his shoulder, and\nbegan to run. The next moment he was lost in a fringe of birches; then\nhe came out again on the upper side, where I could see him climbing like\na jackanapes, for that part was again very steep; and then he dipped\nbehind a shoulder, and I saw him no more.\n\nAll this time I had been running on my side, and had got a good way up,\nwhen a voice cried upon me to stand.\n\nI was at the edge of the upper wood, and so now, when I halted and\nlooked back, I saw all the open part of the hill below me.\n\nThe lawyer and the sheriff\'s officer were standing just above the road,\ncrying and waving on me to come back; and on their left, the red-coats,\nmusket in hand, were beginning to struggle singly out of the lower wood.\n\n\"Why should I come back?\" I cried. \"Come you on!\"\n\n\"Ten pounds if ye take that lad!\" cried the lawyer. \"He\'s an accomplice.\nHe was posted here to hold us in talk.\"\n\nAt that word (which I could hear quite plainly, though it was to the\nsoldiers and not to me that he was crying it) my heart came in my mouth\nwith quite a new kind of terror. Indeed, it is one thing to stand the\ndanger of your life, and quite another to run the peril of both life and\ncharacter. The thing, besides, had come so suddenly, like thunder out of\na clear sky, that I was all amazed and helpless.\n\nThe soldiers began to spread, some of them to run, and others to put up\ntheir pieces and cover me; and still I stood.\n\n\"Jock* in here among the trees,\" said a voice close by.\n\n * Duck.\n\nIndeed, I scarce knew what I was doing, but I obeyed; and as I did so, I\nheard the firelocks bang and the balls whistle in the birches.\n\nJust inside the shelter of the trees I found Alan Breck standing, with\na fishing-rod. He gave me no salutation; indeed it was no time for\ncivilities; only \"Come!\" says he, and set off running along the side of\nthe mountain towards Balachulish; and I, like a sheep, to follow him.\n\nNow we ran among the birches; now stooping behind low humps upon the\nmountain-side; now crawling on all fours among the heather. The pace was\ndeadly: my heart seemed bursting against my ribs; and I had neither time\nto think nor breath to speak with. Only I remember seeing with wonder,\nthat Alan every now and then would straighten himself to his full height\nand look back; and every time he did so, there came a great far-away\ncheering and crying of the soldiers.\n\nQuarter of an hour later, Alan stopped, clapped down flat in the\nheather, and turned to me.\n\n\"Now,\" said he, \"it\'s earnest. Do as I do, for your life.\"\n\nAnd at the same speed, but now with infinitely more precaution, we\ntraced back again across the mountain-side by the same way that we had\ncome, only perhaps higher; till at last Alan threw himself down in the\nupper wood of Lettermore, where I had found him at the first, and lay,\nwith his face in the bracken, panting like a dog.\n\nMy own sides so ached, my head so swam, my tongue so hung out of my\nmouth with heat and dryness, that I lay beside him like one dead.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nI TALK WITH ALAN IN THE WOOD OF LETTERMORE\n\nAlan was the first to come round. He rose, went to the border of the\nwood, peered out a little, and then returned and sat down.\n\n\"Well,\" said he, \"yon was a hot burst, David.\"\n\nI said nothing, nor so much as lifted my face. I had seen murder done,\nand a great, ruddy, jovial gentleman struck out of life in a moment; the\npity of that sight was still sore within me, and yet that was but a part\nof my concern. Here was murder done upon the man Alan hated; here was\nAlan skulking in the trees and running from the troops; and whether his\nwas the hand that fired or only the head that ordered, signified\nbut little. By my way of it, my only friend in that wild country was\nblood-guilty in the first degree; I held him in horror; I could not look\nupon his face; I would have rather lain alone in the rain on my cold\nisle, than in that warm wood beside a murderer.\n\n\"Are ye still wearied?\" he asked again.\n\n\"No,\" said I, still with my face in the bracken; \"no, I am not wearied\nnow, and I can speak. You and me must twine,\"* I said. \"I liked you very\nwell, Alan, but your ways are not mine, and they\'re not God\'s: and the\nshort and the long of it is just that we must twine.\"\n\n * Part.\n\n\"I will hardly twine from ye, David, without some kind of reason for\nthe same,\" said Alan, mighty gravely. \"If ye ken anything against\nmy reputation, it\'s the least thing that ye should do, for old\nacquaintance\' sake, to let me hear the name of it; and if ye have only\ntaken a distaste to my society, it will be proper for me to judge if I\'m\ninsulted.\"\n\n\"Alan,\" said I, \"what is the sense of this? Ye ken very well yon\nCampbell-man lies in his blood upon the road.\"\n\nHe was silent for a little; then says he, \"Did ever ye hear tell of the\nstory of the Man and the Good People?\"--by which he meant the fairies.\n\n\"No,\" said I, \"nor do I want to hear it.\"\n\n\"With your permission, Mr. Balfour, I will tell it you, whatever,\" says\nAlan. \"The man, ye should ken, was cast upon a rock in the sea, where\nit appears the Good People were in use to come and rest as they went\nthrough to Ireland. The name of this rock is called the Skerryvore, and\nit\'s not far from where we suffered ship-wreck. Well, it seems the man\ncried so sore, if he could just see his little bairn before he died!\nthat at last the king of the Good People took peety upon him, and sent\none flying that brought back the bairn in a poke* and laid it down\nbeside the man where he lay sleeping. So when the man woke, there was a\npoke beside him and something into the inside of it that moved. Well, it\nseems he was one of these gentry that think aye the worst of things; and\nfor greater security, he stuck his dirk throughout that poke before he\nopened it, and there was his bairn dead. I am thinking to myself, Mr.\nBalfour, that you and the man are very much alike.\"\n\n * Bag.\n\n\"Do you mean you had no hand in it?\" cried I, sitting up.\n\n\"I will tell you first of all, Mr. Balfour of Shaws, as one friend to\nanother,\" said Alan, \"that if I were going to kill a gentleman, it would\nnot be in my own country, to bring trouble on my clan; and I would not\ngo wanting sword and gun, and with a long fishing-rod upon my back.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said I, \"that\'s true!\"\n\n\"And now,\" continued Alan, taking out his dirk and laying his hand upon\nit in a certain manner, \"I swear upon the Holy Iron I had neither art\nnor part, act nor thought in it.\"\n\n\"I thank God for that!\" cried I, and offered him my hand.\n\nHe did not appear to see it.\n\n\"And here is a great deal of work about a Campbell!\" said he. \"They are\nnot so scarce, that I ken!\"\n\n\"At least,\" said I, \"you cannot justly blame me, for you know very\nwell what you told me in the brig. But the temptation and the act are\ndifferent, I thank God again for that. We may all be tempted; but\nto take a life in cold blood, Alan!\" And I could say no more for the\nmoment. \"And do you know who did it?\" I added. \"Do you know that man in\nthe black coat?\"\n\n\"I have nae clear mind about his coat,\" said Alan cunningly, \"but it\nsticks in my head that it was blue.\"\n\n\"Blue or black, did ye know him?\" said I.\n\n\"I couldnae just conscientiously swear to him,\" says Alan. \"He gaed very\nclose by me, to be sure, but it\'s a strange thing that I should just\nhave been tying my brogues.\"\n\n\"Can you swear that you don\'t know him, Alan?\" I cried, half angered,\nhalf in a mind to laugh at his evasions.\n\n\"Not yet,\" says he; \"but I\'ve a grand memory for forgetting, David.\"\n\n\"And yet there was one thing I saw clearly,\" said I; \"and that was, that\nyou exposed yourself and me to draw the soldiers.\"\n\n\"It\'s very likely,\" said Alan; \"and so would any gentleman. You and me\nwere innocent of that transaction.\"\n\n\"The better reason, since we were falsely suspected, that we should get\nclear,\" I cried. \"The innocent should surely come before the guilty.\"\n\n\"Why, David,\" said he, \"the innocent have aye a chance to get assoiled\nin court; but for the lad that shot the bullet, I think the best place\nfor him will be the heather. Them that havenae dipped their hands in any\nlittle difficulty, should be very mindful of the case of them that have.\nAnd that is the good Christianity. For if it was the other way round\nabout, and the lad whom I couldnae just clearly see had been in our\nshoes, and we in his (as might very well have been), I think we would be\na good deal obliged to him oursel\'s if he would draw the soldiers.\"\n\nWhen it came to this, I gave Alan up. But he looked so innocent all the\ntime, and was in such clear good faith in what he said, and so ready to\nsacrifice himself for what he deemed his duty, that my mouth was closed.\nMr. Henderland\'s words came back to me: that we ourselves might take a\nlesson by these wild Highlanders. Well, here I had taken mine. Alan\'s\nmorals were all tail-first; but he was ready to give his life for them,\nsuch as they were.\n\n\"Alan,\" said I, \"I\'ll not say it\'s the good Christianity as I understand\nit, but it\'s good enough. And here I offer ye my hand for the second\ntime.\"\n\nWhereupon he gave me both of his, saying surely I had cast a spell upon\nhim, for he could forgive me anything. Then he grew very grave, and said\nwe had not much time to throw away, but must both flee that country: he,\nbecause he was a deserter, and the whole of Appin would now be searched\nlike a chamber, and every one obliged to give a good account of himself;\nand I, because I was certainly involved in the murder.\n\n\"O!\" says I, willing to give him a little lesson, \"I have no fear of the\njustice of my country.\"\n\n\"As if this was your country!\" said he. \"Or as if ye would be tried\nhere, in a country of Stewarts!\"\n\n\"It\'s all Scotland,\" said I.\n\n\"Man, I whiles wonder at ye,\" said Alan. \"This is a Campbell that\'s been\nkilled. Well, it\'ll be tried in Inverara, the Campbells\' head place;\nwith fifteen Campbells in the jury-box and the biggest Campbell of all\n(and that\'s the Duke) sitting cocking on the bench. Justice, David?\nThe same justice, by all the world, as Glenure found awhile ago at the\nroadside.\"\n\nThis frightened me a little, I confess, and would have frightened me\nmore if I had known how nearly exact were Alan\'s predictions; indeed\nit was but in one point that he exaggerated, there being but eleven\nCampbells on the jury; though as the other four were equally in the\nDuke\'s dependence, it mattered less than might appear. Still, I cried\nout that he was unjust to the Duke of Argyle, who (for all he was a\nWhig) was yet a wise and honest nobleman.\n\n\"Hoot!\" said Alan, \"the man\'s a Whig, nae doubt; but I would never deny\nhe was a good chieftain to his clan. And what would the clan think if\nthere was a Campbell shot, and naebody hanged, and their own chief\nthe Justice General? But I have often observed,\" says Alan, \"that you\nLow-country bodies have no clear idea of what\'s right and wrong.\"\n\nAt this I did at last laugh out aloud, when to my surprise, Alan joined\nin, and laughed as merrily as myself.\n\n\"Na, na,\" said he, \"we\'re in the Hielands, David; and when I tell ye\nto run, take my word and run. Nae doubt it\'s a hard thing to skulk and\nstarve in the Heather, but it\'s harder yet to lie shackled in a red-coat\nprison.\"\n\nI asked him whither we should flee; and as he told me \"to the Lowlands,\"\nI was a little better inclined to go with him; for, indeed, I was\ngrowing impatient to get back and have the upper-hand of my uncle.\nBesides, Alan made so sure there would be no question of justice in the\nmatter, that I began to be afraid he might be right. Of all deaths, I\nwould truly like least to die by the gallows; and the picture of that\nuncanny instrument came into my head with extraordinary clearness (as I\nhad once seen it engraved at the top of a pedlar\'s ballad) and took away\nmy appetite for courts of justice.\n\n\"I\'ll chance it, Alan,\" said I. \"I\'ll go with you.\"\n\n\"But mind you,\" said Alan, \"it\'s no small thing. Ye maun lie bare and\nhard, and brook many an empty belly. Your bed shall be the moorcock\'s,\nand your life shall be like the hunted deer\'s, and ye shall sleep with\nyour hand upon your weapons. Ay, man, ye shall taigle many a weary foot,\nor we get clear! I tell ye this at the start, for it\'s a life that I ken\nwell. But if ye ask what other chance ye have, I answer: Nane. Either\ntake to the heather with me, or else hang.\"\n\n\"And that\'s a choice very easily made,\" said I; and we shook hands upon\nit.\n\n\"And now let\'s take another keek at the red-coats,\" says Alan, and he\nled me to the north-eastern fringe of the wood.\n\nLooking out between the trees, we could see a great side of mountain,\nrunning down exceeding steep into the waters of the loch. It was a rough\npart, all hanging stone, and heather, and big scrogs of birchwood; and\naway at the far end towards Balachulish, little wee red soldiers were\ndipping up and down over hill and howe, and growing smaller every\nminute. There was no cheering now, for I think they had other uses\nfor what breath was left them; but they still stuck to the trail, and\ndoubtless thought that we were close in front of them.\n\nAlan watched them, smiling to himself.\n\n\"Ay,\" said he, \"they\'ll be gey weary before they\'ve got to the end of\nthat employ! And so you and me, David, can sit down and eat a bite, and\nbreathe a bit longer, and take a dram from my bottle. Then we\'ll strike\nfor Aucharn, the house of my kinsman, James of the Glens, where I must\nget my clothes, and my arms, and money to carry us along; and then,\nDavid, we\'ll cry, \'Forth, Fortune!\' and take a cast among the heather.\"\n\nSo we sat again and ate and drank, in a place whence we could see the\nsun going down into a field of great, wild, and houseless mountains,\nsuch as I was now condemned to wander in with my companion. Partly as\nwe so sat, and partly afterwards, on the way to Aucharn, each of us\nnarrated his adventures; and I shall here set down so much of Alan\'s as\nseems either curious or needful.\n\nIt appears he ran to the bulwarks as soon as the wave was passed; saw\nme, and lost me, and saw me again, as I tumbled in the roost; and at\nlast had one glimpse of me clinging on the yard. It was this that put\nhim in some hope I would maybe get to land after all, and made him leave\nthose clues and messages which had brought me (for my sins) to that\nunlucky country of Appin.\n\nIn the meanwhile, those still on the brig had got the skiff launched,\nand one or two were on board of her already, when there came a second\nwave greater than the first, and heaved the brig out of her place, and\nwould certainly have sent her to the bottom, had she not struck and\ncaught on some projection of the reef. When she had struck first, it had\nbeen bows-on, so that the stern had hitherto been lowest. But now her\nstern was thrown in the air, and the bows plunged under the sea; and\nwith that, the water began to pour into the fore-scuttle like the\npouring of a mill-dam.\n\nIt took the colour out of Alan\'s face, even to tell what followed.\nFor there were still two men lying impotent in their bunks; and these,\nseeing the water pour in and thinking the ship had foundered, began to\ncry out aloud, and that with such harrowing cries that all who were on\ndeck tumbled one after another into the skiff and fell to their oars.\nThey were not two hundred yards away, when there came a third great sea;\nand at that the brig lifted clean over the reef; her canvas filled for\na moment, and she seemed to sail in chase of them, but settling all the\nwhile; and presently she drew down and down, as if a hand was drawing\nher; and the sea closed over the Covenant of Dysart.\n\nNever a word they spoke as they pulled ashore, being stunned with the\nhorror of that screaming; but they had scarce set foot upon the beach\nwhen Hoseason woke up, as if out of a muse, and bade them lay hands upon\nAlan. They hung back indeed, having little taste for the employment;\nbut Hoseason was like a fiend, crying that Alan was alone, that he had\na great sum about him, that he had been the means of losing the brig and\ndrowning all their comrades, and that here was both revenge and wealth\nupon a single cast. It was seven against one; in that part of the shore\nthere was no rock that Alan could set his back to; and the sailors began\nto spread out and come behind him.\n\n\"And then,\" said Alan, \"the little man with the red head--I havenae mind\nof the name that he is called.\"\n\n\"Riach,\" said I.\n\n\"Ay\" said Alan, \"Riach! Well, it was him that took up the clubs for me,\nasked the men if they werenae feared of a judgment, and, says he \'Dod,\nI\'ll put my back to the Hielandman\'s mysel\'.\' That\'s none such an\nentirely bad little man, yon little man with the red head,\" said Alan.\n\"He has some spunks of decency.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said I, \"he was kind to me in his way.\"\n\n\"And so he was to Alan,\" said he; \"and by my troth, I found his way a\nvery good one! But ye see, David, the loss of the ship and the cries of\nthese poor lads sat very ill upon the man; and I\'m thinking that would\nbe the cause of it.\"\n\n\"Well, I would think so,\" says I; \"for he was as keen as any of the rest\nat the beginning. But how did Hoseason take it?\"\n\n\"It sticks in my mind that he would take it very ill,\" says Alan. \"But\nthe little man cried to me to run, and indeed I thought it was a good\nobserve, and ran. The last that I saw they were all in a knot upon the\nbeach, like folk that were not agreeing very well together.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by that?\" said I.\n\n\"Well, the fists were going,\" said Alan; \"and I saw one man go down like\na pair of breeks. But I thought it would be better no to wait. Ye see\nthere\'s a strip of Campbells in that end of Mull, which is no good\ncompany for a gentleman like me. If it hadnae been for that I would have\nwaited and looked for ye mysel\', let alone giving a hand to the little\nman.\" (It was droll how Alan dwelt on Mr. Riach\'s stature, for, to say\nthe truth, the one was not much smaller than the other.) \"So,\" says he,\ncontinuing, \"I set my best foot forward, and whenever I met in with any\none I cried out there was a wreck ashore. Man, they didnae stop to fash\nwith me! Ye should have seen them linking for the beach! And when they\ngot there they found they had had the pleasure of a run, which is aye\ngood for a Campbell. I\'m thinking it was a judgment on the clan that the\nbrig went down in the lump and didnae break. But it was a very unlucky\nthing for you, that same; for if any wreck had come ashore they would\nhave hunted high and low, and would soon have found ye.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\nTHE HOUSE OF FEAR\n\nNight fell as we were walking, and the clouds, which had broken up in\nthe afternoon, settled in and thickened, so that it fell, for the\nseason of the year, extremely dark. The way we went was over rough\nmountainsides; and though Alan pushed on with an assured manner, I could\nby no means see how he directed himself.\n\nAt last, about half-past ten of the clock, we came to the top of a brae,\nand saw lights below us. It seemed a house door stood open and let out a\nbeam of fire and candle-light; and all round the house and steading\nfive or six persons were moving hurriedly about, each carrying a lighted\nbrand.\n\n\"James must have tint his wits,\" said Alan. \"If this was the soldiers\ninstead of you and me, he would be in a bonny mess. But I dare say he\'ll\nhave a sentry on the road, and he would ken well enough no soldiers\nwould find the way that we came.\"\n\nHereupon he whistled three times, in a particular manner. It was strange\nto see how, at the first sound of it, all the moving torches came to\na stand, as if the bearers were affrighted; and how, at the third, the\nbustle began again as before.\n\nHaving thus set folks\' minds at rest, we came down the brae, and were\nmet at the yard gate (for this place was like a well-doing farm) by\na tall, handsome man of more than fifty, who cried out to Alan in the\nGaelic.\n\n\"James Stewart,\" said Alan, \"I will ask ye to speak in Scotch, for here\nis a young gentleman with me that has nane of the other. This is him,\"\nhe added, putting his arm through mine, \"a young gentleman of the\nLowlands, and a laird in his country too, but I am thinking it will be\nthe better for his health if we give his name the go-by.\"\n\nJames of the Glens turned to me for a moment, and greeted me courteously\nenough; the next he had turned to Alan.\n\n\"This has been a dreadful accident,\" he cried. \"It will bring trouble on\nthe country.\" And he wrung his hands.\n\n\"Hoots!\" said Alan, \"ye must take the sour with the sweet, man. Colin\nRoy is dead, and be thankful for that!\"\n\n\"Ay\" said James, \"and by my troth, I wish he was alive again! It\'s all\nvery fine to blow and boast beforehand; but now it\'s done, Alan; and\nwho\'s to bear the wyte* of it? The accident fell out in Appin--mind ye\nthat, Alan; it\'s Appin that must pay; and I am a man that has a family.\"\n\n * Blame.\n\nWhile this was going on I looked about me at the servants. Some were on\nladders, digging in the thatch of the house or the farm buildings,\nfrom which they brought out guns, swords, and different weapons of\nwar; others carried them away; and by the sound of mattock blows from\nsomewhere farther down the brae, I suppose they buried them. Though they\nwere all so busy, there prevailed no kind of order in their efforts; men\nstruggled together for the same gun and ran into each other with their\nburning torches; and James was continually turning about from his talk\nwith Alan, to cry out orders which were apparently never understood. The\nfaces in the torchlight were like those of people overborne with hurry\nand panic; and though none spoke above his breath, their speech sounded\nboth anxious and angry.\n\nIt was about this time that a lassie came out of the house carrying\na pack or bundle; and it has often made me smile to think how Alan\'s\ninstinct awoke at the mere sight of it.\n\n\"What\'s that the lassie has?\" he asked.\n\n\"We\'re just setting the house in order, Alan,\" said James, in his\nfrightened and somewhat fawning way. \"They\'ll search Appin with candles,\nand we must have all things straight. We\'re digging the bit guns and\nswords into the moss, ye see; and these, I am thinking, will be your ain\nFrench clothes. We\'ll be to bury them, I believe.\"\n\n\"Bury my French clothes!\" cried Alan. \"Troth, no!\" And he laid hold upon\nthe packet and retired into the barn to shift himself, recommending me\nin the meanwhile to his kinsman.\n\nJames carried me accordingly into the kitchen, and sat down with me at\ntable, smiling and talking at first in a very hospitable manner. But\npresently the gloom returned upon him; he sat frowning and biting his\nfingers; only remembered me from time to time; and then gave me but a\nword or two and a poor smile, and back into his private terrors. His\nwife sat by the fire and wept, with her face in her hands; his eldest\nson was crouched upon the floor, running over a great mass of papers and\nnow and again setting one alight and burning it to the bitter end; all\nthe while a servant lass with a red face was rummaging about the room,\nin a blind hurry of fear, and whimpering as she went; and every now and\nagain one of the men would thrust in his face from the yard, and cry for\norders.\n\nAt last James could keep his seat no longer, and begged my permission to\nbe so unmannerly as walk about. \"I am but poor company altogether, sir,\"\nsays he, \"but I can think of nothing but this dreadful accident, and the\ntrouble it is like to bring upon quite innocent persons.\"\n\nA little after he observed his son burning a paper which he thought\nshould have been kept; and at that his excitement burst out so that it\nwas painful to witness. He struck the lad repeatedly.\n\n\"Are you gone gyte?\"* he cried. \"Do you wish to hang your father?\" and\nforgetful of my presence, carried on at him a long time together in the\nGaelic, the young man answering nothing; only the wife, at the name of\nhanging, throwing her apron over her face and sobbing out louder than\nbefore.\n\n * Mad.\n\nThis was all wretched for a stranger like myself to hear and see; and\nI was right glad when Alan returned, looking like himself in his fine\nFrench clothes, though (to be sure) they were now grown almost too\nbattered and withered to deserve the name of fine. I was then taken out\nin my turn by another of the sons, and given that change of clothing of\nwhich I had stood so long in need, and a pair of Highland brogues made\nof deer-leather, rather strange at first, but after a little practice\nvery easy to the feet.\n\nBy the time I came back Alan must have told his story; for it seemed\nunderstood that I was to fly with him, and they were all busy upon our\nequipment. They gave us each a sword and pistols, though I professed my\ninability to use the former; and with these, and some ammunition, a bag\nof oatmeal, an iron pan, and a bottle of right French brandy, we were\nready for the heather. Money, indeed, was lacking. I had about two\nguineas left; Alan\'s belt having been despatched by another hand, that\ntrusty messenger had no more than seventeen-pence to his whole fortune;\nand as for James, it appears he had brought himself so low with journeys\nto Edinburgh and legal expenses on behalf of the tenants, that he could\nonly scrape together three-and-five-pence-halfpenny, the most of it in\ncoppers.\n\n\"This\'ll no do,\" said Alan.\n\n\"Ye must find a safe bit somewhere near by,\" said James, \"and get word\nsent to me. Ye see, ye\'ll have to get this business prettily off, Alan.\nThis is no time to be stayed for a guinea or two. They\'re sure to get\nwind of ye, sure to seek ye, and by my way of it, sure to lay on ye the\nwyte of this day\'s accident. If it falls on you, it falls on me that am\nyour near kinsman and harboured ye while ye were in the country. And if\nit comes on me----\" he paused, and bit his fingers, with a white face.\n\"It would be a painful thing for our friends if I was to hang,\" said he.\n\n\"It would be an ill day for Appin,\" says Alan.\n\n\"It\'s a day that sticks in my throat,\" said James. \"O man, man, man--man\nAlan! you and me have spoken like two fools!\" he cried, striking his\nhand upon the wall so that the house rang again.\n\n\"Well, and that\'s true, too,\" said Alan; \"and my friend from the\nLowlands here\" (nodding at me) \"gave me a good word upon that head, if I\nwould only have listened to him.\"\n\n\"But see here,\" said James, returning to his former manner, \"if they lay\nme by the heels, Alan, it\'s then that you\'ll be needing the money. For\nwith all that I have said and that you have said, it will look very\nblack against the two of us; do ye mark that? Well, follow me out, and\nye\'ll, I\'ll see that I\'ll have to get a paper out against ye mysel\';\nhave to offer a reward for ye; ay, will I! It\'s a sore thing to do\nbetween such near friends; but if I get the dirdum* of this dreadful\naccident, I\'ll have to fend for myself, man. Do ye see that?\"\n\n * Blame.\n\nHe spoke with a pleading earnestness, taking Alan by the breast of the\ncoat.\n\n\"Ay\" said Alan, \"I see that.\"\n\n\"And ye\'ll have to be clear of the country, Alan--ay, and clear of\nScotland--you and your friend from the Lowlands, too. For I\'ll have to\npaper your friend from the Lowlands. Ye see that, Alan--say that ye see\nthat!\"\n\nI thought Alan flushed a bit. \"This is unco hard on me that brought him\nhere, James,\" said he, throwing his head back. \"It\'s like making me a\ntraitor!\"\n\n\"Now, Alan, man!\" cried James. \"Look things in the face! He\'ll be\npapered anyway; Mungo Campbell\'ll be sure to paper him; what matters\nif I paper him too? And then, Alan, I am a man that has a family.\" And\nthen, after a little pause on both sides, \"And, Alan, it\'ll be a jury of\nCampbells,\" said he.\n\n\"There\'s one thing,\" said Alan, musingly, \"that naebody kens his name.\"\n\n\"Nor yet they shallnae, Alan! There\'s my hand on that,\" cried James, for\nall the world as if he had really known my name and was foregoing some\nadvantage. \"But just the habit he was in, and what he looked like, and\nhis age, and the like? I couldnae well do less.\"\n\n\"I wonder at your father\'s son,\" cried Alan, sternly. \"Would ye sell the\nlad with a gift? Would ye change his clothes and then betray him?\"\n\n\"No, no, Alan,\" said James. \"No, no: the habit he took off--the habit\nMungo saw him in.\" But I thought he seemed crestfallen; indeed, he was\nclutching at every straw, and all the time, I dare say, saw the faces of\nhis hereditary foes on the bench, and in the jury-box, and the gallows\nin the background.\n\n\"Well, sir,\" says Alan, turning to me, \"what say ye to that? Ye are here\nunder the safeguard of my honour; and it\'s my part to see nothing done\nbut what shall please you.\"\n\n\"I have but one word to say,\" said I; \"for to all this dispute I am a\nperfect stranger. But the plain common-sense is to set the blame where\nit belongs, and that is on the man who fired the shot. Paper him, as ye\ncall it, set the hunt on him; and let honest, innocent folk show their\nfaces in safety.\" But at this both Alan and James cried out in horror;\nbidding me hold my tongue, for that was not to be thought of; and asking\nme what the Camerons would think? (which confirmed me, it must have been\na Cameron from Mamore that did the act) and if I did not see that the\nlad might be caught? \"Ye havenae surely thought of that?\" said they,\nwith such innocent earnestness, that my hands dropped at my side and I\ndespaired of argument.\n\n\"Very well, then,\" said I, \"paper me, if you please, paper Alan, paper\nKing George! We\'re all three innocent, and that seems to be what\'s\nwanted. But at least, sir,\" said I to James, recovering from my little\nfit of annoyance, \"I am Alan\'s friend, and if I can be helpful to\nfriends of his, I will not stumble at the risk.\"\n\nI thought it best to put a fair face on my consent, for I saw Alan\ntroubled; and, besides (thinks I to myself), as soon as my back is\nturned, they will paper me, as they call it, whether I consent or not.\nBut in this I saw I was wrong; for I had no sooner said the words, than\nMrs. Stewart leaped out of her chair, came running over to us, and wept\nfirst upon my neck and then on Alan\'s, blessing God for our goodness to\nher family.\n\n\"As for you, Alan, it was no more than your bounden duty,\" she said.\n\"But for this lad that has come here and seen us at our worst, and seen\nthe goodman fleeching like a suitor, him that by rights should give his\ncommands like any king--as for you, my lad,\" she says, \"my heart is wae\nnot to have your name, but I have your face; and as long as my heart\nbeats under my bosom, I will keep it, and think of it, and bless it.\"\nAnd with that she kissed me, and burst once more into such sobbing, that\nI stood abashed.\n\n\"Hoot, hoot,\" said Alan, looking mighty silly. \"The day comes unco soon\nin this month of July; and to-morrow there\'ll be a fine to-do in Appin,\na fine riding of dragoons, and crying of \'Cruachan!\'* and running of\nred-coats; and it behoves you and me to the sooner be gone.\"\n\n * The rallying-word of the Campbells.\n\nThereupon we said farewell, and set out again, bending somewhat\neastwards, in a fine mild dark night, and over much the same broken\ncountry as before.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nTHE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE ROCKS\n\nSometimes we walked, sometimes ran; and as it drew on to morning, walked\never the less and ran the more. Though, upon its face, that country\nappeared to be a desert, yet there were huts and houses of the people,\nof which we must have passed more than twenty, hidden in quiet places of\nthe hills. When we came to one of these, Alan would leave me in the way,\nand go himself and rap upon the side of the house and speak awhile at\nthe window with some sleeper awakened. This was to pass the news; which,\nin that country, was so much of a duty that Alan must pause to attend to\nit even while fleeing for his life; and so well attended to by others,\nthat in more than half of the houses where we called they had heard\nalready of the murder. In the others, as well as I could make out\n(standing back at a distance and hearing a strange tongue), the news was\nreceived with more of consternation than surprise.\n\nFor all our hurry, day began to come in while we were still far from any\nshelter. It found us in a prodigious valley, strewn with rocks and where\nran a foaming river. Wild mountains stood around it; there grew there\nneither grass nor trees; and I have sometimes thought since then, that\nit may have been the valley called Glencoe, where the massacre was in\nthe time of King William. But for the details of our itinerary, I am all\nto seek; our way lying now by short cuts, now by great detours; our pace\nbeing so hurried, our time of journeying usually by night; and the names\nof such places as I asked and heard being in the Gaelic tongue and the\nmore easily forgotten.\n\nThe first peep of morning, then, showed us this horrible place, and I\ncould see Alan knit his brow.\n\n\"This is no fit place for you and me,\" he said. \"This is a place they\'re\nbound to watch.\"\n\nAnd with that he ran harder than ever down to the water-side, in a part\nwhere the river was split in two among three rocks. It went through with\na horrid thundering that made my belly quake; and there hung over the\nlynn a little mist of spray. Alan looked neither to the right nor to the\nleft, but jumped clean upon the middle rock and fell there on his hands\nand knees to check himself, for that rock was small and he might have\npitched over on the far side. I had scarce time to measure the distance\nor to understand the peril before I had followed him, and he had caught\nand stopped me.\n\nSo there we stood, side by side upon a small rock slippery with spray,\na far broader leap in front of us, and the river dinning upon all sides.\nWhen I saw where I was, there came on me a deadly sickness of fear,\nand I put my hand over my eyes. Alan took me and shook me; I saw he\nwas speaking, but the roaring of the falls and the trouble of my mind\nprevented me from hearing; only I saw his face was red with anger, and\nthat he stamped upon the rock. The same look showed me the water raging\nby, and the mist hanging in the air: and with that I covered my eyes\nagain and shuddered.\n\nThe next minute Alan had set the brandy bottle to my lips, and forced\nme to drink about a gill, which sent the blood into my head again. Then,\nputting his hands to his mouth, and his mouth to my ear, he shouted,\n\"Hang or drown!\" and turning his back upon me, leaped over the farther\nbranch of the stream, and landed safe.\n\nI was now alone upon the rock, which gave me the more room; the brandy\nwas singing in my ears; I had this good example fresh before me, and\njust wit enough to see that if I did not leap at once, I should never\nleap at all. I bent low on my knees and flung myself forth, with\nthat kind of anger of despair that has sometimes stood me in stead of\ncourage. Sure enough, it was but my hands that reached the full length;\nthese slipped, caught again, slipped again; and I was sliddering back\ninto the lynn, when Alan seized me, first by the hair, then by the\ncollar, and with a great strain dragged me into safety.\n\nNever a word he said, but set off running again for his life, and I must\nstagger to my feet and run after him. I had been weary before, but now\nI was sick and bruised, and partly drunken with the brandy; I kept\nstumbling as I ran, I had a stitch that came near to overmaster me; and\nwhen at last Alan paused under a great rock that stood there among a\nnumber of others, it was none too soon for David Balfour.\n\nA great rock I have said; but by rights it was two rocks leaning\ntogether at the top, both some twenty feet high, and at the first sight\ninaccessible. Even Alan (though you may say he had as good as four\nhands) failed twice in an attempt to climb them; and it was only at the\nthird trial, and then by standing on my shoulders and leaping up with\nsuch force as I thought must have broken my collar-bone, that he secured\na lodgment. Once there, he let down his leathern girdle; and with the\naid of that and a pair of shallow footholds in the rock, I scrambled up\nbeside him.\n\nThen I saw why we had come there; for the two rocks, being both somewhat\nhollow on the top and sloping one to the other, made a kind of dish or\nsaucer, where as many as three or four men might have lain hidden.\n\nAll this while Alan had not said a word, and had run and climbed with\nsuch a savage, silent frenzy of hurry, that I knew that he was in mortal\nfear of some miscarriage. Even now we were on the rock he said nothing,\nnor so much as relaxed the frowning look upon his face; but clapped flat\ndown, and keeping only one eye above the edge of our place of shelter\nscouted all round the compass. The dawn had come quite clear; we could\nsee the stony sides of the valley, and its bottom, which was bestrewed\nwith rocks, and the river, which went from one side to another, and made\nwhite falls; but nowhere the smoke of a house, nor any living creature\nbut some eagles screaming round a cliff.\n\nThen at last Alan smiled.\n\n\"Ay\" said he, \"now we have a chance;\" and then looking at me with some\namusement, \"Ye\'re no very gleg* at the jumping,\" said he.\n\n * Brisk.\n\nAt this I suppose I coloured with mortification, for he added at once,\n\"Hoots! small blame to ye! To be feared of a thing and yet to do it, is\nwhat makes the prettiest kind of a man. And then there was water there,\nand water\'s a thing that dauntons even me. No, no,\" said Alan, \"it\'s no\nyou that\'s to blame, it\'s me.\"\n\nI asked him why.\n\n\"Why,\" said he, \"I have proved myself a gomeral this night. For first\nof all I take a wrong road, and that in my own country of Appin; so that\nthe day has caught us where we should never have been; and thanks to\nthat, we lie here in some danger and mair discomfort. And next (which is\nthe worst of the two, for a man that has been so much among the heather\nas myself) I have come wanting a water-bottle, and here we lie for a\nlong summer\'s day with naething but neat spirit. Ye may think that a\nsmall matter; but before it comes night, David, ye\'ll give me news of\nit.\"\n\nI was anxious to redeem my character, and offered, if he would pour out\nthe brandy, to run down and fill the bottle at the river.\n\n\"I wouldnae waste the good spirit either,\" says he. \"It\'s been a good\nfriend to you this night; or in my poor opinion, ye would still be\ncocking on yon stone. And what\'s mair,\" says he, \"ye may have observed\n(you that\'s a man of so much penetration) that Alan Breck Stewart was\nperhaps walking quicker than his ordinar\'.\"\n\n\"You!\" I cried, \"you were running fit to burst.\"\n\n\"Was I so?\" said he. \"Well, then, ye may depend upon it, there was nae\ntime to be lost. And now here is enough said; gang you to your sleep,\nlad, and I\'ll watch.\"\n\nAccordingly, I lay down to sleep; a little peaty earth had drifted in\nbetween the top of the two rocks, and some bracken grew there, to be a\nbed to me; the last thing I heard was still the crying of the eagles.\n\nI dare say it would be nine in the morning when I was roughly awakened,\nand found Alan\'s hand pressed upon my mouth.\n\n\"Wheesht!\" he whispered. \"Ye were snoring.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said I, surprised at his anxious and dark face, \"and why not?\"\n\nHe peered over the edge of the rock, and signed to me to do the like.\n\nIt was now high day, cloudless, and very hot. The valley was as clear as\nin a picture. About half a mile up the water was a camp of red-coats; a\nbig fire blazed in their midst, at which some were cooking; and near by,\non the top of a rock about as high as ours, there stood a sentry, with\nthe sun sparkling on his arms. All the way down along the river-side\nwere posted other sentries; here near together, there widelier\nscattered; some planted like the first, on places of command, some\non the ground level and marching and counter-marching, so as to meet\nhalf-way. Higher up the glen, where the ground was more open, the chain\nof posts was continued by horse-soldiers, whom we could see in the\ndistance riding to and fro. Lower down, the infantry continued; but\nas the stream was suddenly swelled by the confluence of a considerable\nburn, they were more widely set, and only watched the fords and\nstepping-stones.\n\nI took but one look at them, and ducked again into my place. It was\nstrange indeed to see this valley, which had lain so solitary in the\nhour of dawn, bristling with arms and dotted with the red coats and\nbreeches.\n\n\"Ye see,\" said Alan, \"this was what I was afraid of, Davie: that they\nwould watch the burn-side. They began to come in about two hours ago,\nand, man! but ye\'re a grand hand at the sleeping! We\'re in a narrow\nplace. If they get up the sides of the hill, they could easy spy us with\na glass; but if they\'ll only keep in the foot of the valley, we\'ll do\nyet. The posts are thinner down the water; and, come night, we\'ll try\nour hand at getting by them.\"\n\n\"And what are we to do till night?\" I asked.\n\n\"Lie here,\" says he, \"and birstle.\"\n\nThat one good Scotch word, \"birstle,\" was indeed the most of the story\nof the day that we had now to pass. You are to remember that we lay on\nthe bare top of a rock, like scones upon a girdle; the sun beat upon us\ncruelly; the rock grew so heated, a man could scarce endure the touch of\nit; and the little patch of earth and fern, which kept cooler, was only\nlarge enough for one at a time. We took turn about to lie on the naked\nrock, which was indeed like the position of that saint that was martyred\non a gridiron; and it ran in my mind how strange it was, that in the\nsame climate and at only a few days\' distance, I should have suffered\nso cruelly, first from cold upon my island and now from heat upon this\nrock.\n\nAll the while we had no water, only raw brandy for a drink, which was\nworse than nothing; but we kept the bottle as cool as we could, burying\nit in the earth, and got some relief by bathing our breasts and temples.\n\nThe soldiers kept stirring all day in the bottom of the valley, now\nchanging guard, now in patrolling parties hunting among the rocks. These\nlay round in so great a number, that to look for men among them was like\nlooking for a needle in a bottle of hay; and being so hopeless a task,\nit was gone about with the less care. Yet we could see the soldiers\npike their bayonets among the heather, which sent a cold thrill into my\nvitals; and they would sometimes hang about our rock, so that we scarce\ndared to breathe.\n\nIt was in this way that I first heard the right English speech; one\nfellow as he went by actually clapping his hand upon the sunny face of\nthe rock on which we lay, and plucking it off again with an oath. \"I\ntell you it\'s \'ot,\" says he; and I was amazed at the clipping tones and\nthe odd sing-song in which he spoke, and no less at that strange trick\nof dropping out the letter \"h.\" To be sure, I had heard Ransome; but he\nhad taken his ways from all sorts of people, and spoke so imperfectly\nat the best, that I set down the most of it to childishness. My surprise\nwas all the greater to hear that manner of speaking in the mouth of a\ngrown man; and indeed I have never grown used to it; nor yet altogether\nwith the English grammar, as perhaps a very critical eye might here and\nthere spy out even in these memoirs.\n\nThe tediousness and pain of these hours upon the rock grew only the\ngreater as the day went on; the rock getting still the hotter and the\nsun fiercer. There were giddiness, and sickness, and sharp pangs like\nrheumatism, to be supported. I minded then, and have often minded since,\non the lines in our Scotch psalm:--\n\n \"The moon by night thee shall not smite,\n Nor yet the sun by day;\"\n\nand indeed it was only by God\'s blessing that we were neither of us\nsun-smitten.\n\nAt last, about two, it was beyond men\'s bearing, and there was now\ntemptation to resist, as well as pain to thole. For the sun being now\ngot a little into the west, there came a patch of shade on the east side\nof our rock, which was the side sheltered from the soldiers.\n\n\"As well one death as another,\" said Alan, and slipped over the edge and\ndropped on the ground on the shadowy side.\n\nI followed him at once, and instantly fell all my length, so weak was I\nand so giddy with that long exposure. Here, then, we lay for an hour or\ntwo, aching from head to foot, as weak as water, and lying quite naked\nto the eye of any soldier who should have strolled that way. None came,\nhowever, all passing by on the other side; so that our rock continued to\nbe our shield even in this new position.\n\nPresently we began again to get a little strength; and as the soldiers\nwere now lying closer along the river-side, Alan proposed that we should\ntry a start. I was by this time afraid of but one thing in the world;\nand that was to be set back upon the rock; anything else was welcome\nto me; so we got ourselves at once in marching order, and began to slip\nfrom rock to rock one after the other, now crawling flat on our bellies\nin the shade, now making a run for it, heart in mouth.\n\nThe soldiers, having searched this side of the valley after a fashion,\nand being perhaps somewhat sleepy with the sultriness of the afternoon,\nhad now laid by much of their vigilance, and stood dozing at their posts\nor only kept a look-out along the banks of the river; so that in this\nway, keeping down the valley and at the same time towards the mountains,\nwe drew steadily away from their neighbourhood. But the business was the\nmost wearing I had ever taken part in. A man had need of a hundred\neyes in every part of him, to keep concealed in that uneven country and\nwithin cry of so many and scattered sentries. When we must pass an open\nplace, quickness was not all, but a swift judgment not only of the lie\nof the whole country, but of the solidity of every stone on which we\nmust set foot; for the afternoon was now fallen so breathless that the\nrolling of a pebble sounded abroad like a pistol shot, and would start\nthe echo calling among the hills and cliffs.\n\nBy sundown we had made some distance, even by our slow rate of progress,\nthough to be sure the sentry on the rock was still plainly in our view.\nBut now we came on something that put all fears out of season; and that\nwas a deep rushing burn, that tore down, in that part, to join the glen\nriver. At the sight of this we cast ourselves on the ground and plunged\nhead and shoulders in the water; and I cannot tell which was the more\npleasant, the great shock as the cool stream went over us, or the greed\nwith which we drank of it.\n\nWe lay there (for the banks hid us), drank again and again, bathed our\nchests, let our wrists trail in the running water till they ached\nwith the chill; and at last, being wonderfully renewed, we got out the\nmeal-bag and made drammach in the iron pan. This, though it is but cold\nwater mingled with oatmeal, yet makes a good enough dish for a hungry\nman; and where there are no means of making fire, or (as in our case)\ngood reason for not making one, it is the chief stand-by of those who\nhave taken to the heather.\n\nAs soon as the shadow of the night had fallen, we set forth again, at\nfirst with the same caution, but presently with more boldness, standing\nour full height and stepping out at a good pace of walking. The way\nwas very intricate, lying up the steep sides of mountains and along the\nbrows of cliffs; clouds had come in with the sunset, and the night was\ndark and cool; so that I walked without much fatigue, but in continual\nfear of falling and rolling down the mountains, and with no guess at our\ndirection.\n\nThe moon rose at last and found us still on the road; it was in its last\nquarter, and was long beset with clouds; but after awhile shone out and\nshowed me many dark heads of mountains, and was reflected far underneath\nus on the narrow arm of a sea-loch.\n\nAt this sight we both paused: I struck with wonder to find myself so\nhigh and walking (as it seemed to me) upon clouds; Alan to make sure of\nhis direction.\n\nSeemingly he was well pleased, and he must certainly have judged us\nout of ear-shot of all our enemies; for throughout the rest of our\nnight-march he beguiled the way with whistling of many tunes, warlike,\nmerry, plaintive; reel tunes that made the foot go faster; tunes of my\nown south country that made me fain to be home from my adventures; and\nall these, on the great, dark, desert mountains, making company upon the\nway.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nTHE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE HEUGH OF CORRYNAKIEGH\n\nEarly as day comes in the beginning of July, it was still dark when we\nreached our destination, a cleft in the head of a great mountain, with a\nwater running through the midst, and upon the one hand a shallow cave\nin a rock. Birches grew there in a thin, pretty wood, which a little\nfarther on was changed into a wood of pines. The burn was full of trout;\nthe wood of cushat-doves; on the open side of the mountain beyond,\nwhaups would be always whistling, and cuckoos were plentiful. From the\nmouth of the cleft we looked down upon a part of Mamore, and on the\nsea-loch that divides that country from Appin; and this from so great\na height as made it my continual wonder and pleasure to sit and behold\nthem.\n\nThe name of the cleft was the Heugh of Corrynakiegh; and although from\nits height and being so near upon the sea, it was often beset with\nclouds, yet it was on the whole a pleasant place, and the five days we\nlived in it went happily.\n\nWe slept in the cave, making our bed of heather bushes which we cut for\nthat purpose, and covering ourselves with Alan\'s great-coat. There was a\nlow concealed place, in a turning of the glen, where we were so bold as\nto make fire: so that we could warm ourselves when the clouds set in,\nand cook hot porridge, and grill the little trouts that we caught with\nour hands under the stones and overhanging banks of the burn. This was\nindeed our chief pleasure and business; and not only to save our meal\nagainst worse times, but with a rivalry that much amused us, we spent\na great part of our days at the water-side, stripped to the waist and\ngroping about or (as they say) guddling for these fish. The largest we\ngot might have been a quarter of a pound; but they were of good flesh\nand flavour, and when broiled upon the coals, lacked only a little salt\nto be delicious.\n\nIn any by-time Alan must teach me to use my sword, for my ignorance\nhad much distressed him; and I think besides, as I had sometimes\nthe upper-hand of him in the fishing, he was not sorry to turn to an\nexercise where he had so much the upper-hand of me. He made it somewhat\nmore of a pain than need have been, for he stormed at me all through the\nlessons in a very violent manner of scolding, and would push me so close\nthat I made sure he must run me through the body. I was often tempted\nto turn tail, but held my ground for all that, and got some profit of\nmy lessons; if it was but to stand on guard with an assured countenance,\nwhich is often all that is required. So, though I could never in the\nleast please my master, I was not altogether displeased with myself.\n\nIn the meanwhile, you are not to suppose that we neglected our chief\nbusiness, which was to get away.\n\n\"It will be many a long day,\" Alan said to me on our first morning,\n\"before the red-coats think upon seeking Corrynakiegh; so now we must\nget word sent to James, and he must find the siller for us.\"\n\n\"And how shall we send that word?\" says I. \"We are here in a desert\nplace, which yet we dare not leave; and unless ye get the fowls of the\nair to be your messengers, I see not what we shall be able to do.\"\n\n\"Ay?\" said Alan. \"Ye\'re a man of small contrivance, David.\"\n\nThereupon he fell in a muse, looking in the embers of the fire; and\npresently, getting a piece of wood, he fashioned it in a cross, the four\nends of which he blackened on the coals. Then he looked at me a little\nshyly.\n\n\"Could ye lend me my button?\" says he. \"It seems a strange thing to ask\na gift again, but I own I am laith to cut another.\"\n\nI gave him the button; whereupon he strung it on a strip of his\ngreat-coat which he had used to bind the cross; and tying in a little\nsprig of birch and another of fir, he looked upon his work with\nsatisfaction.\n\n\"Now,\" said he, \"there is a little clachan\" (what is called a hamlet\nin the English) \"not very far from Corrynakiegh, and it has the name of\nKoalisnacoan. There there are living many friends of mine whom I could\ntrust with my life, and some that I am no just so sure of. Ye see,\nDavid, there will be money set upon our heads; James himsel\' is to set\nmoney on them; and as for the Campbells, they would never spare siller\nwhere there was a Stewart to be hurt. If it was otherwise, I would go\ndown to Koalisnacoan whatever, and trust my life into these people\'s\nhands as lightly as I would trust another with my glove.\"\n\n\"But being so?\" said I.\n\n\"Being so,\" said he, \"I would as lief they didnae see me. There\'s bad\nfolk everywhere, and what\'s far worse, weak ones. So when it comes dark\nagain, I will steal down into that clachan, and set this that I have\nbeen making in the window of a good friend of mine, John Breck Maccoll,\na bouman* of Appin\'s.\"\n\n *A bouman is a tenant who takes stock from the landlord and\n shares with him the increase.\n\n\"With all my heart,\" says I; \"and if he finds it, what is he to think?\"\n\n\"Well,\" says Alan, \"I wish he was a man of more penetration, for by my\ntroth I am afraid he will make little enough of it! But this is what\nI have in my mind. This cross is something in the nature of the\ncrosstarrie, or fiery cross, which is the signal of gathering in our\nclans; yet he will know well enough the clan is not to rise, for there\nit is standing in his window, and no word with it. So he will say to\nhimsel\', THE CLAN IS NOT TO RISE, BUT THERE IS SOMETHING. Then he will\nsee my button, and that was Duncan Stewart\'s. And then he will say to\nhimsel\', THE SON OF DUNCAN IS IN THE HEATHER, AND HAS NEED OF ME.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said I, \"it may be. But even supposing so, there is a good deal\nof heather between here and the Forth.\"\n\n\"And that is a very true word,\" says Alan. \"But then John Breck will see\nthe sprig of birch and the sprig of pine; and he will say to himsel\' (if\nhe is a man of any penetration at all, which I misdoubt), ALAN WILL BE\nLYING IN A WOOD WHICH IS BOTH OF PINES AND BIRCHES. Then he will think\nto himsel\', THAT IS NOT SO VERY RIFE HEREABOUT; and then he will come\nand give us a look up in Corrynakiegh. And if he does not, David, the\ndevil may fly away with him, for what I care; for he will no be worth\nthe salt to his porridge.\"\n\n\"Eh, man,\" said I, drolling with him a little, \"you\'re very ingenious!\nBut would it not be simpler for you to write him a few words in black\nand white?\"\n\n\"And that is an excellent observe, Mr. Balfour of Shaws,\" says Alan,\ndrolling with me; \"and it would certainly be much simpler for me to\nwrite to him, but it would be a sore job for John Breck to read it. He\nwould have to go to the school for two-three years; and it\'s possible we\nmight be wearied waiting on him.\"\n\nSo that night Alan carried down his fiery cross and set it in the\nbouman\'s window. He was troubled when he came back; for the dogs had\nbarked and the folk run out from their houses; and he thought he had\nheard a clatter of arms and seen a red-coat come to one of the doors. On\nall accounts we lay the next day in the borders of the wood and kept a\nclose look-out, so that if it was John Breck that came we might be ready\nto guide him, and if it was the red-coats we should have time to get\naway.\n\nAbout noon a man was to be spied, straggling up the open side of the\nmountain in the sun, and looking round him as he came, from under his\nhand. No sooner had Alan seen him than he whistled; the man turned and\ncame a little towards us: then Alan would give another \"peep!\" and the\nman would come still nearer; and so by the sound of whistling, he was\nguided to the spot where we lay.\n\nHe was a ragged, wild, bearded man, about forty, grossly disfigured with\nthe small pox, and looked both dull and savage. Although his English\nwas very bad and broken, yet Alan (according to his very handsome use,\nwhenever I was by) would suffer him to speak no Gaelic. Perhaps the\nstrange language made him appear more backward than he really was; but\nI thought he had little good-will to serve us, and what he had was the\nchild of terror.\n\nAlan would have had him carry a message to James; but the bouman would\nhear of no message. \"She was forget it,\" he said in his screaming voice;\nand would either have a letter or wash his hands of us.\n\nI thought Alan would be gravelled at that, for we lacked the means of\nwriting in that desert.\n\nBut he was a man of more resources than I knew; searched the wood until\nhe found the quill of a cushat-dove, which he shaped into a pen; made\nhimself a kind of ink with gunpowder from his horn and water from the\nrunning stream; and tearing a corner from his French military commission\n(which he carried in his pocket, like a talisman to keep him from the\ngallows), he sat down and wrote as follows:\n\n\n\"DEAR KINSMAN,--Please send the money by the bearer to the place he kens\nof.\n\n\"Your affectionate cousin,\n\n\"A. S.\"\n\n\nThis he intrusted to the bouman, who promised to make what manner of\nspeed he best could, and carried it off with him down the hill.\n\nHe was three full days gone, but about five in the evening of the third,\nwe heard a whistling in the wood, which Alan answered; and presently the\nbouman came up the water-side, looking for us, right and left. He seemed\nless sulky than before, and indeed he was no doubt well pleased to have\ngot to the end of such a dangerous commission.\n\nHe gave us the news of the country; that it was alive with red-coats;\nthat arms were being found, and poor folk brought in trouble daily; and\nthat James and some of his servants were already clapped in prison at\nFort William, under strong suspicion of complicity. It seemed it was\nnoised on all sides that Alan Breck had fired the shot; and there was a\nbill issued for both him and me, with one hundred pounds reward.\n\nThis was all as bad as could be; and the little note the bouman had\ncarried us from Mrs. Stewart was of a miserable sadness. In it she\nbesought Alan not to let himself be captured, assuring him, if he fell\nin the hands of the troops, both he and James were no better than dead\nmen. The money she had sent was all that she could beg or borrow, and\nshe prayed heaven we could be doing with it. Lastly, she said, she\nenclosed us one of the bills in which we were described.\n\nThis we looked upon with great curiosity and not a little fear, partly\nas a man may look in a mirror, partly as he might look into the barrel\nof an enemy\'s gun to judge if it be truly aimed. Alan was advertised as\n\"a small, pock-marked, active man of thirty-five or thereby, dressed\nin a feathered hat, a French side-coat of blue with silver buttons,\nand lace a great deal tarnished, a red waistcoat and breeches of black,\nshag;\" and I as \"a tall strong lad of about eighteen, wearing an\nold blue coat, very ragged, an old Highland bonnet, a long homespun\nwaistcoat, blue breeches; his legs bare, low-country shoes, wanting the\ntoes; speaks like a Lowlander, and has no beard.\"\n\nAlan was well enough pleased to see his finery so fully remembered and\nset down; only when he came to the word tarnish, he looked upon his lace\nlike one a little mortified. As for myself, I thought I cut a miserable\nfigure in the bill; and yet was well enough pleased too, for since I had\nchanged these rags, the description had ceased to be a danger and become\na source of safety.\n\n\"Alan,\" said I, \"you should change your clothes.\"\n\n\"Na, troth!\" said Alan, \"I have nae others. A fine sight I would be, if\nI went back to France in a bonnet!\"\n\nThis put a second reflection in my mind: that if I were to separate\nfrom Alan and his tell-tale clothes I should be safe against arrest, and\nmight go openly about my business. Nor was this all; for suppose I was\narrested when I was alone, there was little against me; but suppose I\nwas taken in company with the reputed murderer, my case would begin to\nbe grave. For generosity\'s sake I dare not speak my mind upon this head;\nbut I thought of it none the less.\n\nI thought of it all the more, too, when the bouman brought out a green\npurse with four guineas in gold, and the best part of another in small\nchange. True, it was more than I had. But then Alan, with less than\nfive guineas, had to get as far as France; I, with my less than two, not\nbeyond Queensferry; so that taking things in their proportion, Alan\'s\nsociety was not only a peril to my life, but a burden on my purse.\n\nBut there was no thought of the sort in the honest head of my companion.\nHe believed he was serving, helping, and protecting me. And what could I\ndo but hold my peace, and chafe, and take my chance of it?\n\n\"It\'s little enough,\" said Alan, putting the purse in his pocket, \"but\nit\'ll do my business. And now, John Breck, if ye will hand me over my\nbutton, this gentleman and me will be for taking the road.\"\n\nBut the bouman, after feeling about in a hairy purse that hung in front\nof him in the Highland manner (though he wore otherwise the Lowland\nhabit, with sea-trousers), began to roll his eyes strangely, and at last\nsaid, \"Her nainsel will loss it,\" meaning he thought he had lost it.\n\n\"What!\" cried Alan, \"you will lose my button, that was my father\'s\nbefore me? Now I will tell you what is in my mind, John Breck: it is\nin my mind this is the worst day\'s work that ever ye did since ye was\nborn.\"\n\nAnd as Alan spoke, he set his hands on his knees and looked at the\nbouman with a smiling mouth, and that dancing light in his eyes that\nmeant mischief to his enemies.\n\nPerhaps the bouman was honest enough; perhaps he had meant to cheat and\nthen, finding himself alone with two of us in a desert place, cast back\nto honesty as being safer; at least, and all at once, he seemed to find\nthat button and handed it to Alan.\n\n\"Well, and it is a good thing for the honour of the Maccolls,\" said\nAlan, and then to me, \"Here is my button back again, and I thank you for\nparting with it, which is of a piece with all your friendships to me.\"\nThen he took the warmest parting of the bouman. \"For,\" says he, \"ye have\ndone very well by me, and set your neck at a venture, and I will always\ngive you the name of a good man.\"\n\nLastly, the bouman took himself off by one way; and Alan and I (getting our\nchattels together) struck into another to resume our flight.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nTHE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE MOOR\n\nSome seven hours\' incessant, hard travelling brought us early in the\nmorning to the end of a range of mountains. In front of us there lay a\npiece of low, broken, desert land, which we must now cross. The sun was\nnot long up, and shone straight in our eyes; a little, thin mist went up\nfrom the face of the moorland like a smoke; so that (as Alan said) there\nmight have been twenty squadron of dragoons there and we none the wiser.\n\nWe sat down, therefore, in a howe of the hill-side till the mist should\nhave risen, and made ourselves a dish of drammach, and held a council of\nwar.\n\n\"David,\" said Alan, \"this is the kittle bit. Shall we lie here till it\ncomes night, or shall we risk it, and stave on ahead?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said I, \"I am tired indeed, but I could walk as far again, if\nthat was all.\"\n\n\"Ay, but it isnae,\" said Alan, \"nor yet the half. This is how we stand:\nAppin\'s fair death to us. To the south it\'s all Campbells, and no to be\nthought of. To the north; well, there\'s no muckle to be gained by going\nnorth; neither for you, that wants to get to Queensferry, nor yet for\nme, that wants to get to France. Well, then, we\'ll can strike east.\"\n\n\"East be it!\" says I, quite cheerily; but I was thinking in to myself:\n\"O, man, if you would only take one point of the compass and let me take\nany other, it would be the best for both of us.\"\n\n\"Well, then, east, ye see, we have the muirs,\" said Alan. \"Once there,\nDavid, it\'s mere pitch-and-toss. Out on yon bald, naked, flat place,\nwhere can a body turn to? Let the red-coats come over a hill, they can\nspy you miles away; and the sorrow\'s in their horses\' heels, they would\nsoon ride you down. It\'s no good place, David; and I\'m free to say, it\'s\nworse by daylight than by dark.\"\n\n\"Alan,\" said I, \"hear my way of it. Appin\'s death for us; we have none\ntoo much money, nor yet meal; the longer they seek, the nearer they\nmay guess where we are; it\'s all a risk; and I give my word to go ahead\nuntil we drop.\"\n\nAlan was delighted. \"There are whiles,\" said he, \"when ye are altogether\ntoo canny and Whiggish to be company for a gentleman like me; but there\ncome other whiles when ye show yoursel\' a mettle spark; and it\'s then,\nDavid, that I love ye like a brother.\"\n\nThe mist rose and died away, and showed us that country lying as waste\nas the sea; only the moorfowl and the pewees crying upon it, and far\nover to the east, a herd of deer, moving like dots. Much of it was red\nwith heather; much of the rest broken up with bogs and hags and peaty\npools; some had been burnt black in a heath fire; and in another place\nthere was quite a forest of dead firs, standing like skeletons. A\nwearier-looking desert man never saw; but at least it was clear of\ntroops, which was our point.\n\nWe went down accordingly into the waste, and began to make our toilsome\nand devious travel towards the eastern verge. There were the tops of\nmountains all round (you are to remember) from whence we might be spied\nat any moment; so it behoved us to keep in the hollow parts of the moor,\nand when these turned aside from our direction to move upon its naked\nface with infinite care. Sometimes, for half an hour together, we must\ncrawl from one heather bush to another, as hunters do when they are hard\nupon the deer. It was a clear day again, with a blazing sun; the water\nin the brandy bottle was soon gone; and altogether, if I had guessed\nwhat it would be to crawl half the time upon my belly and to walk much\nof the rest stooping nearly to the knees, I should certainly have held\nback from such a killing enterprise.\n\nToiling and resting and toiling again, we wore away the morning; and\nabout noon lay down in a thick bush of heather to sleep. Alan took the\nfirst watch; and it seemed to me I had scarce closed my eyes before I\nwas shaken up to take the second. We had no clock to go by; and Alan\nstuck a sprig of heath in the ground to serve instead; so that as soon\nas the shadow of the bush should fall so far to the east, I might know\nto rouse him. But I was by this time so weary that I could have slept\ntwelve hours at a stretch; I had the taste of sleep in my throat; my\njoints slept even when my mind was waking; the hot smell of the heather,\nand the drone of the wild bees, were like possets to me; and every now\nand again I would give a jump and find I had been dozing.\n\nThe last time I woke I seemed to come back from farther away, and\nthought the sun had taken a great start in the heavens. I looked at the\nsprig of heath, and at that I could have cried aloud: for I saw I had\nbetrayed my trust. My head was nearly turned with fear and shame; and at\nwhat I saw, when I looked out around me on the moor, my heart was like\ndying in my body. For sure enough, a body of horse-soldiers had come\ndown during my sleep, and were drawing near to us from the south-east,\nspread out in the shape of a fan and riding their horses to and fro in\nthe deep parts of the heather.\n\nWhen I waked Alan, he glanced first at the soldiers, then at the mark\nand the position of the sun, and knitted his brows with a sudden, quick\nlook, both ugly and anxious, which was all the reproach I had of him.\n\n\"What are we to do now?\" I asked.\n\n\"We\'ll have to play at being hares,\" said he. \"Do ye see yon mountain?\"\npointing to one on the north-eastern sky.\n\n\"Ay,\" said I.\n\n\"Well, then,\" says he, \"let us strike for that. Its name is Ben Alder.\nit is a wild, desert mountain full of hills and hollows, and if we can\nwin to it before the morn, we may do yet.\"\n\n\"But, Alan,\" cried I, \"that will take us across the very coming of the\nsoldiers!\"\n\n\"I ken that fine,\" said he; \"but if we are driven back on Appin, we are\ntwo dead men. So now, David man, be brisk!\"\n\nWith that he began to run forward on his hands and knees with an\nincredible quickness, as though it were his natural way of going. All\nthe time, too, he kept winding in and out in the lower parts of the\nmoorland where we were the best concealed. Some of these had been burned\nor at least scathed with fire; and there rose in our faces (which were\nclose to the ground) a blinding, choking dust as fine as smoke. The\nwater was long out; and this posture of running on the hands and knees\nbrings an overmastering weakness and weariness, so that the joints ache\nand the wrists faint under your weight.\n\nNow and then, indeed, where was a big bush of heather, we lay awhile,\nand panted, and putting aside the leaves, looked back at the dragoons.\nThey had not spied us, for they held straight on; a half-troop, I think,\ncovering about two miles of ground, and beating it mighty thoroughly as\nthey went. I had awakened just in time; a little later, and we must have\nfled in front of them, instead of escaping on one side. Even as it was,\nthe least misfortune might betray us; and now and again, when a grouse\nrose out of the heather with a clap of wings, we lay as still as the\ndead and were afraid to breathe.\n\nThe aching and faintness of my body, the labouring of my heart, the\nsoreness of my hands, and the smarting of my throat and eyes in the\ncontinual smoke of dust and ashes, had soon grown to be so unbearable\nthat I would gladly have given up. Nothing but the fear of Alan lent me\nenough of a false kind of courage to continue. As for himself (and you\nare to bear in mind that he was cumbered with a great-coat) he had first\nturned crimson, but as time went on the redness began to be mingled\nwith patches of white; his breath cried and whistled as it came; and his\nvoice, when he whispered his observations in my ear during our halts,\nsounded like nothing human. Yet he seemed in no way dashed in spirits,\nnor did he at all abate in his activity, so that I was driven to marvel\nat the man\'s endurance.\n\nAt length, in the first gloaming of the night, we heard a trumpet sound,\nand looking back from among the heather, saw the troop beginning to\ncollect. A little after, they had built a fire and camped for the night,\nabout the middle of the waste.\n\nAt this I begged and besought that we might lie down and sleep.\n\n\"There shall be no sleep the night!\" said Alan. \"From now on, these\nweary dragoons of yours will keep the crown of the muirland, and none\nwill get out of Appin but winged fowls. We got through in the nick\nof time, and shall we jeopard what we\'ve gained? Na, na, when the day\ncomes, it shall find you and me in a fast place on Ben Alder.\"\n\n\"Alan,\" I said, \"it\'s not the want of will: it\'s the strength that I\nwant. If I could, I would; but as sure as I\'m alive I cannot.\"\n\n\"Very well, then,\" said Alan. \"I\'ll carry ye.\"\n\nI looked to see if he were jesting; but no, the little man was in dead\nearnest; and the sight of so much resolution shamed me.\n\n\"Lead away!\" said I. \"I\'ll follow.\"\n\nHe gave me one look as much as to say, \"Well done, David!\" and off he\nset again at his top speed.\n\nIt grew cooler and even a little darker (but not much) with the coming\nof the night. The sky was cloudless; it was still early in July, and\npretty far north; in the darkest part of that night, you would have\nneeded pretty good eyes to read, but for all that, I have often seen it\ndarker in a winter mid-day. Heavy dew fell and drenched the moor like\nrain; and this refreshed me for a while. When we stopped to breathe,\nand I had time to see all about me, the clearness and sweetness of\nthe night, the shapes of the hills like things asleep, and the fire\ndwindling away behind us, like a bright spot in the midst of the moor,\nanger would come upon me in a clap that I must still drag myself in\nagony and eat the dust like a worm.\n\nBy what I have read in books, I think few that have held a pen were ever\nreally wearied, or they would write of it more strongly. I had no care\nof my life, neither past nor future, and I scarce remembered there was\nsuch a lad as David Balfour. I did not think of myself, but just of each\nfresh step which I was sure would be my last, with despair--and of Alan,\nwho was the cause of it, with hatred. Alan was in the right trade as a\nsoldier; this is the officer\'s part to make men continue to do things,\nthey know not wherefore, and when, if the choice was offered, they would\nlie down where they were and be killed. And I dare say I would have made\na good enough private; for in these last hours it never occurred to me\nthat I had any choice but just to obey as long as I was able, and die\nobeying.\n\nDay began to come in, after years, I thought; and by that time we were\npast the greatest danger, and could walk upon our feet like men, instead\nof crawling like brutes. But, dear heart have mercy! what a pair we must\nhave made, going double like old grandfathers, stumbling like babes,\nand as white as dead folk. Never a word passed between us; each set his\nmouth and kept his eyes in front of him, and lifted up his foot and set\nit down again, like people lifting weights at a country play;* all the\nwhile, with the moorfowl crying \"peep!\" in the heather, and the light\ncoming slowly clearer in the east.\n\n * Village fair.\n\nI say Alan did as I did. Not that ever I looked at him, for I had enough\nado to keep my feet; but because it is plain he must have been as stupid\nwith weariness as myself, and looked as little where we were going, or\nwe should not have walked into an ambush like blind men.\n\nIt fell in this way. We were going down a heathery brae, Alan leading\nand I following a pace or two behind, like a fiddler and his wife; when\nupon a sudden the heather gave a rustle, three or four ragged men leaped\nout, and the next moment we were lying on our backs, each with a dirk at\nhis throat.\n\nI don\'t think I cared; the pain of this rough handling was quite\nswallowed up by the pains of which I was already full; and I was too\nglad to have stopped walking to mind about a dirk. I lay looking up in\nthe face of the man that held me; and I mind his face was black with the\nsun, and his eyes very light, but I was not afraid of him. I heard Alan\nand another whispering in the Gaelic; and what they said was all one to\nme.\n\nThen the dirks were put up, our weapons were taken away, and we were set\nface to face, sitting in the heather.\n\n\"They are Cluny\'s men,\" said Alan. \"We couldnae have fallen better.\nWe\'re just to bide here with these, which are his out-sentries, till\nthey can get word to the chief of my arrival.\"\n\nNow Cluny Macpherson, the chief of the clan Vourich, had been one of the\nleaders of the great rebellion six years before; there was a price on\nhis life; and I had supposed him long ago in France, with the rest of\nthe heads of that desperate party. Even tired as I was, the surprise of\nwhat I heard half wakened me.\n\n\"What,\" I cried, \"is Cluny still here?\"\n\n\"Ay, is he so!\" said Alan. \"Still in his own country and kept by his own\nclan. King George can do no more.\"\n\nI think I would have asked farther, but Alan gave me the put-off. \"I am\nrather wearied,\" he said, \"and I would like fine to get a sleep.\" And\nwithout more words, he rolled on his face in a deep heather bush, and\nseemed to sleep at once.\n\nThere was no such thing possible for me. You have heard grasshoppers\nwhirring in the grass in the summer time? Well, I had no sooner closed\nmy eyes, than my body, and above all my head, belly, and wrists, seemed\nto be filled with whirring grasshoppers; and I must open my eyes again\nat once, and tumble and toss, and sit up and lie down; and look at the\nsky which dazzled me, or at Cluny\'s wild and dirty sentries, peering out\nover the top of the brae and chattering to each other in the Gaelic.\n\nThat was all the rest I had, until the messenger returned; when, as it\nappeared that Cluny would be glad to receive us, we must get once more\nupon our feet and set forward. Alan was in excellent good spirits, much\nrefreshed by his sleep, very hungry, and looking pleasantly forward to\na dram and a dish of hot collops, of which, it seems, the messenger had\nbrought him word. For my part, it made me sick to hear of eating. I had\nbeen dead-heavy before, and now I felt a kind of dreadful lightness,\nwhich would not suffer me to walk. I drifted like a gossamer; the ground\nseemed to me a cloud, the hills a feather-weight, the air to have a\ncurrent, like a running burn, which carried me to and fro. With all\nthat, a sort of horror of despair sat on my mind, so that I could have\nwept at my own helplessness.\n\nI saw Alan knitting his brows at me, and supposed it was in anger; and\nthat gave me a pang of light-headed fear, like what a child may have. I\nremember, too, that I was smiling, and could not stop smiling, hard as\nI tried; for I thought it was out of place at such a time. But my good\ncompanion had nothing in his mind but kindness; and the next moment,\ntwo of the gillies had me by the arms, and I began to be carried forward\nwith great swiftness (or so it appeared to me, although I dare say it\nwas slowly enough in truth), through a labyrinth of dreary glens and\nhollows and into the heart of that dismal mountain of Ben Alder.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\nCLUNY\'S CAGE\n\nWe came at last to the foot of an exceeding steep wood, which scrambled\nup a craggy hillside, and was crowned by a naked precipice.\n\n\"It\'s here,\" said one of the guides, and we struck up hill.\n\nThe trees clung upon the slope, like sailors on the shrouds of a ship,\nand their trunks were like the rounds of a ladder, by which we mounted.\n\nQuite at the top, and just before the rocky face of the cliff sprang\nabove the foliage, we found that strange house which was known in the\ncountry as \"Cluny\'s Cage.\" The trunks of several trees had been wattled\nacross, the intervals strengthened with stakes, and the ground behind\nthis barricade levelled up with earth to make the floor. A tree, which\ngrew out from the hillside, was the living centre-beam of the roof.\nThe walls were of wattle and covered with moss. The whole house had\nsomething of an egg shape; and it half hung, half stood in that steep,\nhillside thicket, like a wasp\'s nest in a green hawthorn.\n\nWithin, it was large enough to shelter five or six persons with some\ncomfort. A projection of the cliff had been cunningly employed to be the\nfireplace; and the smoke rising against the face of the rock, and being\nnot dissimilar in colour, readily escaped notice from below.\n\nThis was but one of Cluny\'s hiding-places; he had caves, besides, and\nunderground chambers in several parts of his country; and following the\nreports of his scouts, he moved from one to another as the soldiers\ndrew near or moved away. By this manner of living, and thanks to the\naffection of his clan, he had not only stayed all this time in safety,\nwhile so many others had fled or been taken and slain: but stayed four\nor five years longer, and only went to France at last by the express\ncommand of his master. There he soon died; and it is strange to reflect\nthat he may have regretted his Cage upon Ben Alder.\n\nWhen we came to the door he was seated by his rock chimney, watching a\ngillie about some cookery. He was mighty plainly habited, with a knitted\nnightcap drawn over his ears, and smoked a foul cutty pipe. For all that\nhe had the manners of a king, and it was quite a sight to see him rise\nout of his place to welcome us.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Stewart, come awa\', sir!\" said he, \"and bring in your friend\nthat as yet I dinna ken the name of.\"\n\n\"And how is yourself, Cluny?\" said Alan. \"I hope ye do brawly, sir. And\nI am proud to see ye, and to present to ye my friend the Laird of Shaws,\nMr. David Balfour.\"\n\nAlan never referred to my estate without a touch of a sneer, when we\nwere alone; but with strangers, he rang the words out like a herald.\n\n\"Step in by, the both of ye, gentlemen,\" says Cluny. \"I make ye welcome\nto my house, which is a queer, rude place for certain, but one where I\nhave entertained a royal personage, Mr. Stewart--ye doubtless ken the\npersonage I have in my eye. We\'ll take a dram for luck, and as soon as\nthis handless man of mine has the collops ready, we\'ll dine and take a\nhand at the cartes as gentlemen should. My life is a bit driegh,\" says\nhe, pouring out the brandy; \"I see little company, and sit and twirl my\nthumbs, and mind upon a great day that is gone by, and weary for another\ngreat day that we all hope will be upon the road. And so here\'s a toast\nto ye: The Restoration!\"\n\nThereupon we all touched glasses and drank. I am sure I wished no ill\nto King George; and if he had been there himself in proper person, it\'s\nlike he would have done as I did. No sooner had I taken out the drain\nthan I felt hugely better, and could look on and listen, still a little\nmistily perhaps, but no longer with the same groundless horror and\ndistress of mind.\n\nIt was certainly a strange place, and we had a strange host. In his long\nhiding, Cluny had grown to have all manner of precise habits, like those\nof an old maid. He had a particular place, where no one else must sit;\nthe Cage was arranged in a particular way, which none must disturb;\ncookery was one of his chief fancies, and even while he was greeting us\nin, he kept an eye to the collops.\n\nIt appears, he sometimes visited or received visits from his wife and\none or two of his nearest friends, under the cover of night; but for the\nmore part lived quite alone, and communicated only with his sentinels\nand the gillies that waited on him in the Cage. The first thing in the\nmorning, one of them, who was a barber, came and shaved him, and gave\nhim the news of the country, of which he was immoderately greedy. There\nwas no end to his questions; he put them as earnestly as a child; and\nat some of the answers, laughed out of all bounds of reason, and would\nbreak out again laughing at the mere memory, hours after the barber was\ngone.\n\nTo be sure, there might have been a purpose in his questions; for\nthough he was thus sequestered, and like the other landed gentlemen of\nScotland, stripped by the late Act of Parliament of legal powers, he\nstill exercised a patriarchal justice in his clan. Disputes were brought\nto him in his hiding-hole to be decided; and the men of his country,\nwho would have snapped their fingers at the Court of Session, laid\naside revenge and paid down money at the bare word of this forfeited and\nhunted outlaw. When he was angered, which was often enough, he gave\nhis commands and breathed threats of punishment like any king; and his\ngillies trembled and crouched away from him like children before a hasty\nfather. With each of them, as he entered, he ceremoniously shook hands,\nboth parties touching their bonnets at the same time in a military\nmanner. Altogether, I had a fair chance to see some of the inner\nworkings of a Highland clan; and this with a proscribed, fugitive chief;\nhis country conquered; the troops riding upon all sides in quest of\nhim, sometimes within a mile of where he lay; and when the least of the\nragged fellows whom he rated and threatened, could have made a fortune\nby betraying him.\n\nOn that first day, as soon as the collops were ready, Cluny gave them\nwith his own hand a squeeze of a lemon (for he was well supplied with\nluxuries) and bade us draw in to our meal.\n\n\"They,\" said he, meaning the collops, \"are such as I gave his Royal\nHighness in this very house; bating the lemon juice, for at that time we\nwere glad to get the meat and never fashed for kitchen.* Indeed, there\nwere mair dragoons than lemons in my country in the year forty-six.\"\n\n * Condiment.\n\nI do not know if the collops were truly very good, but my heart rose\nagainst the sight of them, and I could eat but little. All the while\nCluny entertained us with stories of Prince Charlie\'s stay in the Cage,\ngiving us the very words of the speakers, and rising from his place\nto show us where they stood. By these, I gathered the Prince was a\ngracious, spirited boy, like the son of a race of polite kings, but not\nso wise as Solomon. I gathered, too, that while he was in the Cage, he\nwas often drunk; so the fault that has since, by all accounts, made such\na wreck of him, had even then begun to show itself.\n\nWe were no sooner done eating than Cluny brought out an old, thumbed,\ngreasy pack of cards, such as you may find in a mean inn; and his eyes\nbrightened in his face as he proposed that we should fall to playing.\n\nNow this was one of the things I had been brought up to eschew like\ndisgrace; it being held by my father neither the part of a Christian\nnor yet of a gentleman to set his own livelihood and fish for that of\nothers, on the cast of painted pasteboard. To be sure, I might have\npleaded my fatigue, which was excuse enough; but I thought it behoved\nthat I should bear a testimony. I must have got very red in the face,\nbut I spoke steadily, and told them I had no call to be a judge\nof others, but for my own part, it was a matter in which I had no\nclearness.\n\nCluny stopped mingling the cards. \"What in deil\'s name is this?\" says\nhe. \"What kind of Whiggish, canting talk is this, for the house of Cluny\nMacpherson?\"\n\n\"I will put my hand in the fire for Mr. Balfour,\" says Alan. \"He is an\nhonest and a mettle gentleman, and I would have ye bear in mind who says\nit. I bear a king\'s name,\" says he, cocking his hat; \"and I and any that\nI call friend are company for the best. But the gentleman is tired, and\nshould sleep; if he has no mind to the cartes, it will never hinder you\nand me. And I\'m fit and willing, sir, to play ye any game that ye can\nname.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" says Cluny, \"in this poor house of mine I would have you to ken\nthat any gentleman may follow his pleasure. If your friend would like to\nstand on his head, he is welcome. And if either he, or you, or any other\nman, is not preceesely satisfied, I will be proud to step outside with\nhim.\"\n\nI had no will that these two friends should cut their throats for my\nsake.\n\n\"Sir,\" said I, \"I am very wearied, as Alan says; and what\'s more, as\nyou are a man that likely has sons of your own, I may tell you it was a\npromise to my father.\"\n\n\"Say nae mair, say nae mair,\" said Cluny, and pointed me to a bed of\nheather in a corner of the Cage. For all that he was displeased enough,\nlooked at me askance, and grumbled when he looked. And indeed it must\nbe owned that both my scruples and the words in which I declared them,\nsmacked somewhat of the Covenanter, and were little in their place among\nwild Highland Jacobites.\n\nWhat with the brandy and the venison, a strange heaviness had come over\nme; and I had scarce lain down upon the bed before I fell into a kind\nof trance, in which I continued almost the whole time of our stay in the\nCage. Sometimes I was broad awake and understood what passed; sometimes\nI only heard voices, or men snoring, like the voice of a silly river;\nand the plaids upon the wall dwindled down and swelled out again, like\nfirelight shadows on the roof. I must sometimes have spoken or cried\nout, for I remember I was now and then amazed at being answered; yet\nI was conscious of no particular nightmare, only of a general, black,\nabiding horror--a horror of the place I was in, and the bed I lay in,\nand the plaids on the wall, and the voices, and the fire, and myself.\n\nThe barber-gillie, who was a doctor too, was called in to prescribe\nfor me; but as he spoke in the Gaelic, I understood not a word of his\nopinion, and was too sick even to ask for a translation. I knew well\nenough I was ill, and that was all I cared about.\n\nI paid little heed while I lay in this poor pass. But Alan and Cluny\nwere most of the time at the cards, and I am clear that Alan must have\nbegun by winning; for I remember sitting up, and seeing them hard at it,\nand a great glittering pile of as much as sixty or a hundred guineas on\nthe table. It looked strange enough, to see all this wealth in a nest\nupon a cliff-side, wattled about growing trees. And even then, I\nthought it seemed deep water for Alan to be riding, who had no better\nbattle-horse than a green purse and a matter of five pounds.\n\nThe luck, it seems, changed on the second day. About noon I was wakened\nas usual for dinner, and as usual refused to eat, and was given a dram\nwith some bitter infusion which the barber had prescribed. The sun was\nshining in at the open door of the Cage, and this dazzled and offended\nme. Cluny sat at the table, biting the pack of cards. Alan had stooped\nover the bed, and had his face close to my eyes; to which, troubled as\nthey were with the fever, it seemed of the most shocking bigness.\n\nHe asked me for a loan of my money.\n\n\"What for?\" said I.\n\n\"O, just for a loan,\" said he.\n\n\"But why?\" I repeated. \"I don\'t see.\"\n\n\"Hut, David!\" said Alan, \"ye wouldnae grudge me a loan?\"\n\nI would, though, if I had had my senses! But all I thought of then was\nto get his face away, and I handed him my money.\n\nOn the morning of the third day, when we had been forty-eight hours in\nthe Cage, I awoke with a great relief of spirits, very weak and weary\nindeed, but seeing things of the right size and with their honest,\neveryday appearance. I had a mind to eat, moreover, rose from bed of my\nown movement, and as soon as we had breakfasted, stepped to the entry of\nthe Cage and sat down outside in the top of the wood. It was a grey day\nwith a cool, mild air: and I sat in a dream all morning, only disturbed\nby the passing by of Cluny\'s scouts and servants coming with provisions\nand reports; for as the coast was at that time clear, you might almost\nsay he held court openly.\n\nWhen I returned, he and Alan had laid the cards aside, and were\nquestioning a gillie; and the chief turned about and spoke to me in the\nGaelic.\n\n\"I have no Gaelic, sir,\" said I.\n\nNow since the card question, everything I said or did had the power of\nannoying Cluny. \"Your name has more sense than yourself, then,\" said he\nangrily, \"for it\'s good Gaelic. But the point is this. My scout reports\nall clear in the south, and the question is, have ye the strength to\ngo?\"\n\nI saw cards on the table, but no gold; only a heap of little written\npapers, and these all on Cluny\'s side. Alan, besides, had an odd\nlook, like a man not very well content; and I began to have a strong\nmisgiving.\n\n\"I do not know if I am as well as I should be,\" said I, looking at Alan;\n\"but the little money we have has a long way to carry us.\"\n\nAlan took his under-lip into his mouth, and looked upon the ground.\n\n\"David,\" says he at last, \"I\'ve lost it; there\'s the naked truth.\"\n\n\"My money too?\" said I.\n\n\"Your money too,\" says Alan, with a groan. \"Ye shouldnae have given it\nme. I\'m daft when I get to the cartes.\"\n\n\"Hoot-toot! hoot-toot!\" said Cluny. \"It was all daffing; it\'s all\nnonsense. Of course you\'ll have your money back again, and the double of\nit, if ye\'ll make so free with me. It would be a singular thing for me\nto keep it. It\'s not to be supposed that I would be any hindrance to\ngentlemen in your situation; that would be a singular thing!\" cries he,\nand began to pull gold out of his pocket with a mighty red face.\n\nAlan said nothing, only looked on the ground.\n\n\"Will you step to the door with me, sir?\" said I.\n\nCluny said he would be very glad, and followed me readily enough, but he\nlooked flustered and put out.\n\n\"And now, sir,\" says I, \"I must first acknowledge your generosity.\"\n\n\"Nonsensical nonsense!\" cries Cluny. \"Where\'s the generosity? This is\njust a most unfortunate affair; but what would ye have me do--boxed\nup in this bee-skep of a cage of mine--but just set my friends to the\ncartes, when I can get them? And if they lose, of course, it\'s not to be\nsupposed----\" And here he came to a pause.\n\n\"Yes,\" said I, \"if they lose, you give them back their money; and if\nthey win, they carry away yours in their pouches! I have said before\nthat I grant your generosity; but to me, sir, it\'s a very painful thing\nto be placed in this position.\"\n\nThere was a little silence, in which Cluny seemed always as if he was\nabout to speak, but said nothing. All the time he grew redder and redder\nin the face.\n\n\"I am a young man,\" said I, \"and I ask your advice. Advise me as you\nwould your son. My friend fairly lost his money, after having fairly\ngained a far greater sum of yours; can I accept it back again? Would\nthat be the right part for me to play? Whatever I do, you can see for\nyourself it must be hard upon a man of any pride.\"\n\n\"It\'s rather hard on me, too, Mr. Balfour,\" said Cluny, \"and ye give\nme very much the look of a man that has entrapped poor people to their\nhurt. I wouldnae have my friends come to any house of mine to accept\naffronts; no,\" he cried, with a sudden heat of anger, \"nor yet to give\nthem!\"\n\n\"And so you see, sir,\" said I, \"there is something to be said upon my\nside; and this gambling is a very poor employ for gentlefolks. But I am\nstill waiting your opinion.\"\n\nI am sure if ever Cluny hated any man it was David Balfour. He looked\nme all over with a warlike eye, and I saw the challenge at his lips.\nBut either my youth disarmed him, or perhaps his own sense of justice.\nCertainly it was a mortifying matter for all concerned, and not least\nCluny; the more credit that he took it as he did.\n\n\"Mr. Balfour,\" said he, \"I think you are too nice and covenanting, but\nfor all that you have the spirit of a very pretty gentleman. Upon my\nhonest word, ye may take this money--it\'s what I would tell my son--and\nhere\'s my hand along with it!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\nTHE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE QUARREL\n\nAlan and I were put across Loch Errocht under cloud of night, and went\ndown its eastern shore to another hiding-place near the head of Loch\nRannoch, whither we were led by one of the gillies from the Cage. This\nfellow carried all our luggage and Alan\'s great-coat in the bargain,\ntrotting along under the burthen, far less than the half of which used\nto weigh me to the ground, like a stout hill pony with a feather; yet he\nwas a man that, in plain contest, I could have broken on my knee.\n\nDoubtless it was a great relief to walk disencumbered; and perhaps\nwithout that relief, and the consequent sense of liberty and lightness,\nI could not have walked at all. I was but new risen from a bed of\nsickness; and there was nothing in the state of our affairs to hearten\nme for much exertion; travelling, as we did, over the most dismal\ndeserts in Scotland, under a cloudy heaven, and with divided hearts\namong the travellers.\n\nFor long, we said nothing; marching alongside or one behind the other,\neach with a set countenance: I, angry and proud, and drawing what\nstrength I had from these two violent and sinful feelings; Alan angry\nand ashamed, ashamed that he had lost my money, angry that I should take\nit so ill.\n\nThe thought of a separation ran always the stronger in my mind; and the\nmore I approved of it, the more ashamed I grew of my approval. It would\nbe a fine, handsome, generous thing, indeed, for Alan to turn round and\nsay to me: \"Go, I am in the most danger, and my company only increases\nyours.\" But for me to turn to the friend who certainly loved me, and say\nto him: \"You are in great danger, I am in but little; your friendship\nis a burden; go, take your risks and bear your hardships alone----\" no,\nthat was impossible; and even to think of it privily to myself, made my\ncheeks to burn.\n\nAnd yet Alan had behaved like a child, and (what is worse) a treacherous\nchild. Wheedling my money from me while I lay half-conscious was scarce\nbetter than theft; and yet here he was trudging by my side, without a\npenny to his name, and by what I could see, quite blithe to sponge upon\nthe money he had driven me to beg. True, I was ready to share it with\nhim; but it made me rage to see him count upon my readiness.\n\nThese were the two things uppermost in my mind; and I could open my\nmouth upon neither without black ungenerosity. So I did the next worst,\nand said nothing, nor so much as looked once at my companion, save with\nthe tail of my eye.\n\nAt last, upon the other side of Loch Errocht, going over a smooth, rushy\nplace, where the walking was easy, he could bear it no longer, and came\nclose to me.\n\n\"David,\" says he, \"this is no way for two friends to take a small\naccident. I have to say that I\'m sorry; and so that\'s said. And now if\nyou have anything, ye\'d better say it.\"\n\n\"O,\" says I, \"I have nothing.\"\n\nHe seemed disconcerted; at which I was meanly pleased.\n\n\"No,\" said he, with rather a trembling voice, \"but when I say I was to\nblame?\"\n\n\"Why, of course, ye were to blame,\" said I, coolly; \"and you will bear\nme out that I have never reproached you.\"\n\n\"Never,\" says he; \"but ye ken very well that ye\'ve done worse. Are we to\npart? Ye said so once before. Are ye to say it again? There\'s hills and\nheather enough between here and the two seas, David; and I will own I\'m\nno very keen to stay where I\'m no wanted.\"\n\nThis pierced me like a sword, and seemed to lay bare my private\ndisloyalty.\n\n\"Alan Breck!\" I cried; and then: \"Do you think I am one to turn my\nback on you in your chief need? You dursn\'t say it to my face. My whole\nconduct\'s there to give the lie to it. It\'s true, I fell asleep upon\nthe muir; but that was from weariness, and you do wrong to cast it up to\nme----\"\n\n\"Which is what I never did,\" said Alan.\n\n\"But aside from that,\" I continued, \"what have I done that you should\neven me to dogs by such a supposition? I never yet failed a friend, and\nit\'s not likely I\'ll begin with you. There are things between us that I\ncan never forget, even if you can.\"\n\n\"I will only say this to ye, David,\" said Alan, very quietly, \"that I\nhave long been owing ye my life, and now I owe ye money. Ye should try\nto make that burden light for me.\"\n\nThis ought to have touched me, and in a manner it did, but the wrong\nmanner. I felt I was behaving badly; and was now not only angry with\nAlan, but angry with myself in the bargain; and it made me the more\ncruel.\n\n\"You asked me to speak,\" said I. \"Well, then, I will. You own yourself\nthat you have done me a disservice; I have had to swallow an affront: I\nhave never reproached you, I never named the thing till you did. And\nnow you blame me,\" cried I, \"because I cannae laugh and sing as if I was\nglad to be affronted. The next thing will be that I\'m to go down upon my\nknees and thank you for it! Ye should think more of others, Alan\nBreck. If ye thought more of others, ye would perhaps speak less about\nyourself; and when a friend that likes you very well has passed over an\noffence without a word, you would be blithe to let it lie, instead of\nmaking it a stick to break his back with. By your own way of it, it was\nyou that was to blame; then it shouldnae be you to seek the quarrel.\"\n\n\"Aweel,\" said Alan, \"say nae mair.\"\n\nAnd we fell back into our former silence; and came to our journey\'s end,\nand supped, and lay down to sleep, without another word.\n\nThe gillie put us across Loch Rannoch in the dusk of the next day, and\ngave us his opinion as to our best route. This was to get us up at once\ninto the tops of the mountains: to go round by a circuit, turning the\nheads of Glen Lyon, Glen Lochay, and Glen Dochart, and come down upon\nthe lowlands by Kippen and the upper waters of the Forth. Alan was\nlittle pleased with a route which led us through the country of his\nblood-foes, the Glenorchy Campbells. He objected that by turning to the\neast, we should come almost at once among the Athole Stewarts, a race of\nhis own name and lineage, although following a different chief, and come\nbesides by a far easier and swifter way to the place whither we were\nbound. But the gillie, who was indeed the chief man of Cluny\'s scouts,\nhad good reasons to give him on all hands, naming the force of troops\nin every district, and alleging finally (as well as I could understand)\nthat we should nowhere be so little troubled as in a country of the\nCampbells.\n\nAlan gave way at last, but with only half a heart. \"It\'s one of the\ndowiest countries in Scotland,\" said he. \"There\'s naething there that I\nken, but heath, and crows, and Campbells. But I see that ye\'re a man of\nsome penetration; and be it as ye please!\"\n\nWe set forth accordingly by this itinerary; and for the best part of\nthree nights travelled on eerie mountains and among the well-heads of\nwild rivers; often buried in mist, almost continually blown and rained\nupon, and not once cheered by any glimpse of sunshine. By day, we lay\nand slept in the drenching heather; by night, incessantly clambered upon\nbreak-neck hills and among rude crags. We often wandered; we were often\nso involved in fog, that we must lie quiet till it lightened. A fire was\nnever to be thought of. Our only food was drammach and a portion of cold\nmeat that we had carried from the Cage; and as for drink, Heaven knows\nwe had no want of water.\n\nThis was a dreadful time, rendered the more dreadful by the gloom of\nthe weather and the country. I was never warm; my teeth chattered in my\nhead; I was troubled with a very sore throat, such as I had on the isle;\nI had a painful stitch in my side, which never left me; and when I slept\nin my wet bed, with the rain beating above and the mud oozing below me,\nit was to live over again in fancy the worst part of my adventures--to\nsee the tower of Shaws lit by lightning, Ransome carried below on the\nmen\'s backs, Shuan dying on the round-house floor, or Colin Campbell\ngrasping at the bosom of his coat. From such broken slumbers, I would be\naroused in the gloaming, to sit up in the same puddle where I had slept,\nand sup cold drammach; the rain driving sharp in my face or running\ndown my back in icy trickles; the mist enfolding us like as in a gloomy\nchamber--or, perhaps, if the wind blew, falling suddenly apart and\nshowing us the gulf of some dark valley where the streams were crying\naloud.\n\nThe sound of an infinite number of rivers came up from all round. In\nthis steady rain the springs of the mountain were broken up; every glen\ngushed water like a cistern; every stream was in high spate, and had\nfilled and overflowed its channel. During our night tramps, it was\nsolemn to hear the voice of them below in the valleys, now booming like\nthunder, now with an angry cry. I could well understand the story of the\nWater Kelpie, that demon of the streams, who is fabled to keep wailing\nand roaring at the ford until the coming of the doomed traveller. Alan I\nsaw believed it, or half believed it; and when the cry of the river rose\nmore than usually sharp, I was little surprised (though, of course, I\nwould still be shocked) to see him cross himself in the manner of the\nCatholics.\n\nDuring all these horrid wanderings we had no familiarity, scarcely even\nthat of speech. The truth is that I was sickening for my grave, which\nis my best excuse. But besides that I was of an unforgiving disposition\nfrom my birth, slow to take offence, slower to forget it, and now\nincensed both against my companion and myself. For the best part of two\ndays he was unweariedly kind; silent, indeed, but always ready to help,\nand always hoping (as I could very well see) that my displeasure would\nblow by. For the same length of time I stayed in myself, nursing my\nanger, roughly refusing his services, and passing him over with my eyes\nas if he had been a bush or a stone.\n\nThe second night, or rather the peep of the third day, found us upon a\nvery open hill, so that we could not follow our usual plan and lie down\nimmediately to eat and sleep. Before we had reached a place of shelter,\nthe grey had come pretty clear, for though it still rained, the clouds\nran higher; and Alan, looking in my face, showed some marks of concern.\n\n\"Ye had better let me take your pack,\" said he, for perhaps the ninth\ntime since we had parted from the scout beside Loch Rannoch.\n\n\"I do very well, I thank you,\" said I, as cold as ice.\n\nAlan flushed darkly. \"I\'ll not offer it again,\" he said. \"I\'m not a\npatient man, David.\"\n\n\"I never said you were,\" said I, which was exactly the rude, silly\nspeech of a boy of ten.\n\nAlan made no answer at the time, but his conduct answered for him.\nHenceforth, it is to be thought, he quite forgave himself for the affair\nat Cluny\'s; cocked his hat again, walked jauntily, whistled airs, and\nlooked at me upon one side with a provoking smile.\n\nThe third night we were to pass through the western end of the country\nof Balquhidder. It came clear and cold, with a touch in the air like\nfrost, and a northerly wind that blew the clouds away and made the stars\nbright. The streams were full, of course, and still made a great noise\namong the hills; but I observed that Alan thought no more upon the\nKelpie, and was in high good spirits. As for me, the change of weather\ncame too late; I had lain in the mire so long that (as the Bible has it)\nmy very clothes \"abhorred me.\" I was dead weary, deadly sick and full\nof pains and shiverings; the chill of the wind went through me, and the\nsound of it confused my ears. In this poor state I had to bear from\nmy companion something in the nature of a persecution. He spoke a good\ndeal, and never without a taunt. \"Whig\" was the best name he had to give\nme. \"Here,\" he would say, \"here\'s a dub for ye to jump, my Whiggie! I\nken you\'re a fine jumper!\" And so on; all the time with a gibing voice\nand face.\n\nI knew it was my own doing, and no one else\'s; but I was too miserable\nto repent. I felt I could drag myself but little farther; pretty soon, I\nmust lie down and die on these wet mountains like a sheep or a fox, and\nmy bones must whiten there like the bones of a beast. My head was light\nperhaps; but I began to love the prospect, I began to glory in the\nthought of such a death, alone in the desert, with the wild eagles\nbesieging my last moments. Alan would repent then, I thought; he would\nremember, when I was dead, how much he owed me, and the remembrance\nwould be torture. So I went like a sick, silly, and bad-hearted\nschoolboy, feeding my anger against a fellow-man, when I would have\nbeen better on my knees, crying on God for mercy. And at each of Alan\'s\ntaunts, I hugged myself. \"Ah!\" thinks I to myself, \"I have a better\ntaunt in readiness; when I lie down and die, you will feel it like a\nbuffet in your face; ah, what a revenge! ah, how you will regret your\ningratitude and cruelty!\"\n\nAll the while, I was growing worse and worse. Once I had fallen, my leg\nsimply doubling under me, and this had struck Alan for the moment; but I\nwas afoot so briskly, and set off again with such a natural manner,\nthat he soon forgot the incident. Flushes of heat went over me, and then\nspasms of shuddering. The stitch in my side was hardly bearable. At last\nI began to feel that I could trail myself no farther: and with that,\nthere came on me all at once the wish to have it out with Alan, let my\nanger blaze, and be done with my life in a more sudden manner. He had\njust called me \"Whig.\" I stopped.\n\n\"Mr. Stewart,\" said I, in a voice that quivered like a fiddle-string,\n\"you are older than I am, and should know your manners. Do you think\nit either very wise or very witty to cast my politics in my teeth? I\nthought, where folk differed, it was the part of gentlemen to differ\ncivilly; and if I did not, I may tell you I could find a better taunt\nthan some of yours.\"\n\nAlan had stopped opposite to me, his hat cocked, his hands in his\nbreeches pockets, his head a little on one side. He listened, smiling\nevilly, as I could see by the starlight; and when I had done he began to\nwhistle a Jacobite air. It was the air made in mockery of General Cope\'s\ndefeat at Preston Pans:\n\n \"Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye waukin\' yet?\n And are your drums a-beatin\' yet?\"\n\nAnd it came in my mind that Alan, on the day of that battle, had been\nengaged upon the royal side.\n\n\"Why do ye take that air, Mr. Stewart?\" said I. \"Is that to remind me\nyou have been beaten on both sides?\"\n\nThe air stopped on Alan\'s lips. \"David!\" said he.\n\n\"But it\'s time these manners ceased,\" I continued; \"and I mean you shall\nhenceforth speak civilly of my King and my good friends the Campbells.\"\n\n\"I am a Stewart--\" began Alan.\n\n\"O!\" says I, \"I ken ye bear a king\'s name. But you are to remember,\nsince I have been in the Highlands, I have seen a good many of those\nthat bear it; and the best I can say of them is this, that they would be\nnone the worse of washing.\"\n\n\"Do you know that you insult me?\" said Alan, very low.\n\n\"I am sorry for that,\" said I, \"for I am not done; and if you distaste\nthe sermon, I doubt the pirliecue* will please you as little. You have\nbeen chased in the field by the grown men of my party; it seems a poor\nkind of pleasure to out-face a boy. Both the Campbells and the Whigs\nhave beaten you; you have run before them like a hare. It behoves you to\nspeak of them as of your betters.\"\n\n * A second sermon.\n\nAlan stood quite still, the tails of his great-coat clapping behind him\nin the wind.\n\n\"This is a pity,\" he said at last. \"There are things said that cannot be\npassed over.\"\n\n\"I never asked you to,\" said I. \"I am as ready as yourself.\"\n\n\"Ready?\" said he.\n\n\"Ready,\" I repeated. \"I am no blower and boaster like some that I could\nname. Come on!\" And drawing my sword, I fell on guard as Alan himself\nhad taught me.\n\n\"David!\" he cried. \"Are ye daft? I cannae draw upon ye, David. It\'s\nfair murder.\"\n\n\"That was your look-out when you insulted me,\" said I.\n\n\"It\'s the truth!\" cried Alan, and he stood for a moment, wringing his\nmouth in his hand like a man in sore perplexity. \"It\'s the bare truth,\"\nhe said, and drew his sword. But before I could touch his blade with\nmine, he had thrown it from him and fallen to the ground. \"Na, na,\" he\nkept saying, \"na, na--I cannae, I cannae.\"\n\nAt this the last of my anger oozed all out of me; and I found myself\nonly sick, and sorry, and blank, and wondering at myself. I would have\ngiven the world to take back what I had said; but a word once spoken,\nwho can recapture it? I minded me of all Alan\'s kindness and courage in\nthe past, how he had helped and cheered and borne with me in our evil\ndays; and then recalled my own insults, and saw that I had lost for ever\nthat doughty friend. At the same time, the sickness that hung upon\nme seemed to redouble, and the pang in my side was like a sword for\nsharpness. I thought I must have swooned where I stood.\n\nThis it was that gave me a thought. No apology could blot out what I had\nsaid; it was needless to think of one, none could cover the offence; but\nwhere an apology was vain, a mere cry for help might bring Alan back to\nmy side. I put my pride away from me. \"Alan!\" I said; \"if ye cannae help\nme, I must just die here.\"\n\nHe started up sitting, and looked at me.\n\n\"It\'s true,\" said I. \"I\'m by with it. O, let me get into the bield of a\nhouse--I\'ll can die there easier.\" I had no need to pretend; whether I\nchose or not, I spoke in a weeping voice that would have melted a heart\nof stone.\n\n\"Can ye walk?\" asked Alan.\n\n\"No,\" said I, \"not without help. This last hour my legs have been\nfainting under me; I\'ve a stitch in my side like a red-hot iron; I\ncannae breathe right. If I die, ye\'ll can forgive me, Alan? In my heart,\nI liked ye fine--even when I was the angriest.\"\n\n\"Wheesht, wheesht!\" cried Alan. \"Dinna say that! David man, ye ken--\" He\nshut his mouth upon a sob. \"Let me get my arm about ye,\" he continued;\n\"that\'s the way! Now lean upon me hard. Gude kens where there\'s a house!\nWe\'re in Balwhidder, too; there should be no want of houses, no, nor\nfriends\' houses here. Do ye gang easier so, Davie?\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said I, \"I can be doing this way;\" and I pressed his arm with my\nhand.\n\nAgain he came near sobbing. \"Davie,\" said he, \"I\'m no a right man at\nall; I have neither sense nor kindness; I could nae remember ye were\njust a bairn, I couldnae see ye were dying on your feet; Davie, ye\'ll\nhave to try and forgive me.\"\n\n\"O man, let\'s say no more about it!\" said I. \"We\'re neither one of us\nto mend the other--that\'s the truth! We must just bear and forbear, man\nAlan. O, but my stitch is sore! Is there nae house?\"\n\n\"I\'ll find a house to ye, David,\" he said, stoutly. \"We\'ll follow down\nthe burn, where there\'s bound to be houses. My poor man, will ye no be\nbetter on my back?\"\n\n\"O, Alan,\" says I, \"and me a good twelve inches taller?\"\n\n\"Ye\'re no such a thing,\" cried Alan, with a start. \"There may be a\ntrifling matter of an inch or two; I\'m no saying I\'m just exactly what\nye would call a tall man, whatever; and I dare say,\" he added, his voice\ntailing off in a laughable manner, \"now when I come to think of it, I\ndare say ye\'ll be just about right. Ay, it\'ll be a foot, or near hand;\nor may be even mair!\"\n\nIt was sweet and laughable to hear Alan eat his words up in the fear of\nsome fresh quarrel. I could have laughed, had not my stitch caught me so\nhard; but if I had laughed, I think I must have wept too.\n\n\"Alan,\" cried I, \"what makes ye so good to me? What makes ye care for\nsuch a thankless fellow?\"\n\n\"\'Deed, and I don\'t know\" said Alan. \"For just precisely what I thought\nI liked about ye, was that ye never quarrelled:--and now I like ye\nbetter!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\nIN BALQUHIDDER\n\nAt the door of the first house we came to, Alan knocked, which was of\nno very safe enterprise in such a part of the Highlands as the Braes of\nBalquhidder. No great clan held rule there; it was filled and disputed\nby small septs, and broken remnants, and what they call \"chiefless\nfolk,\" driven into the wild country about the springs of Forth and Teith\nby the advance of the Campbells. Here were Stewarts and Maclarens, which\ncame to the same thing, for the Maclarens followed Alan\'s chief in war,\nand made but one clan with Appin. Here, too, were many of that old,\nproscribed, nameless, red-handed clan of the Macgregors. They had always\nbeen ill-considered, and now worse than ever, having credit with no side\nor party in the whole country of Scotland. Their chief, Macgregor of\nMacgregor, was in exile; the more immediate leader of that part of them\nabout Balquhidder, James More, Rob Roy\'s eldest son, lay waiting his\ntrial in Edinburgh Castle; they were in ill-blood with Highlander and\nLowlander, with the Grahames, the Maclarens, and the Stewarts; and Alan,\nwho took up the quarrel of any friend, however distant, was extremely\nwishful to avoid them.\n\nChance served us very well; for it was a household of Maclarens that we\nfound, where Alan was not only welcome for his name\'s sake but known\nby reputation. Here then I was got to bed without delay, and a doctor\nfetched, who found me in a sorry plight. But whether because he was a\nvery good doctor, or I a very young, strong man, I lay bedridden for no\nmore than a week, and before a month I was able to take the road again\nwith a good heart.\n\nAll this time Alan would not leave me though I often pressed him, and\nindeed his foolhardiness in staying was a common subject of outcry with\nthe two or three friends that were let into the secret. He hid by day\nin a hole of the braes under a little wood; and at night, when the coast\nwas clear, would come into the house to visit me. I need not say if I\nwas pleased to see him; Mrs. Maclaren, our hostess, thought nothing good\nenough for such a guest; and as Duncan Dhu (which was the name of our\nhost) had a pair of pipes in his house, and was much of a lover of\nmusic, this time of my recovery was quite a festival, and we commonly\nturned night into day.\n\nThe soldiers let us be; although once a party of two companies and some\ndragoons went by in the bottom of the valley, where I could see them\nthrough the window as I lay in bed. What was much more astonishing, no\nmagistrate came near me, and there was no question put of whence I came\nor whither I was going; and in that time of excitement, I was as free of\nall inquiry as though I had lain in a desert. Yet my presence was known\nbefore I left to all the people in Balquhidder and the adjacent parts;\nmany coming about the house on visits and these (after the custom of the\ncountry) spreading the news among their neighbours. The bills, too, had\nnow been printed. There was one pinned near the foot of my bed, where\nI could read my own not very flattering portrait and, in larger\ncharacters, the amount of the blood money that had been set upon my\nlife. Duncan Dhu and the rest that knew that I had come there in Alan\'s\ncompany, could have entertained no doubt of who I was; and many others\nmust have had their guess. For though I had changed my clothes, I could\nnot change my age or person; and Lowland boys of eighteen were not so\nrife in these parts of the world, and above all about that time, that\nthey could fail to put one thing with another, and connect me with the\nbill. So it was, at least. Other folk keep a secret among two or three\nnear friends, and somehow it leaks out; but among these clansmen, it is\ntold to a whole countryside, and they will keep it for a century.\n\nThere was but one thing happened worth narrating; and that is the visit\nI had of Robin Oig, one of the sons of the notorious Rob Roy. He was\nsought upon all sides on a charge of carrying a young woman from\nBalfron and marrying her (as was alleged) by force; yet he stepped about\nBalquhidder like a gentleman in his own walled policy. It was he who had\nshot James Maclaren at the plough stilts, a quarrel never satisfied; yet\nhe walked into the house of his blood enemies as a rider* might into a\n public inn.* Commercial traveller.\n\nDuncan had time to pass me word of who it was; and we looked at one\nanother in concern. You should understand, it was then close upon the\ntime of Alan\'s coming; the two were little likely to agree; and yet if\nwe sent word or sought to make a signal, it was sure to arouse suspicion\nin a man under so dark a cloud as the Macgregor.\n\nHe came in with a great show of civility, but like a man among\ninferiors; took off his bonnet to Mrs. Maclaren, but clapped it on his\nhead again to speak to Duncan; and having thus set himself (as he would\nhave thought) in a proper light, came to my bedside and bowed.\n\n\"I am given to know, sir,\" says he, \"that your name is Balfour.\"\n\n\"They call me David Balfour,\" said I, \"at your service.\"\n\n\"I would give ye my name in return, sir,\" he replied, \"but it\'s one\nsomewhat blown upon of late days; and it\'ll perhaps suffice if I tell\nye that I am own brother to James More Drummond or Macgregor, of whom ye\nwill scarce have failed to hear.\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" said I, a little alarmed; \"nor yet of your father,\nMacgregor-Campbell.\" And I sat up and bowed in bed; for I thought best\nto compliment him, in case he was proud of having had an outlaw to his\nfather.\n\nHe bowed in return. \"But what I am come to say, sir,\" he went on, \"is\nthis. In the year \'45, my brother raised a part of the \'Gregara\' and\nmarched six companies to strike a stroke for the good side; and the\nsurgeon that marched with our clan and cured my brother\'s leg when it\nwas broken in the brush at Preston Pans, was a gentleman of the same\nname precisely as yourself. He was brother to Balfour of Baith; and if\nyou are in any reasonable degree of nearness one of that gentleman\'s\nkin, I have come to put myself and my people at your command.\"\n\nYou are to remember that I knew no more of my descent than any cadger\'s\ndog; my uncle, to be sure, had prated of some of our high connections,\nbut nothing to the present purpose; and there was nothing left me but\nthat bitter disgrace of owning that I could not tell.\n\nRobin told me shortly he was sorry he had put himself about, turned his\nback upon me without a sign of salutation, and as he went towards the\ndoor, I could hear him telling Duncan that I was \"only some kinless loon\nthat didn\'t know his own father.\" Angry as I was at these words, and\nashamed of my own ignorance, I could scarce keep from smiling that a\nman who was under the lash of the law (and was indeed hanged some three\nyears later) should be so nice as to the descent of his acquaintances.\n\nJust in the door, he met Alan coming in; and the two drew back and\nlooked at each other like strange dogs. They were neither of them big\nmen, but they seemed fairly to swell out with pride. Each wore a sword,\nand by a movement of his haunch, thrust clear the hilt of it, so that it\nmight be the more readily grasped and the blade drawn.\n\n\"Mr. Stewart, I am thinking,\" says Robin.\n\n\"Troth, Mr. Macgregor, it\'s not a name to be ashamed of,\" answered Alan.\n\n\"I did not know ye were in my country, sir,\" says Robin.\n\n\"It sticks in my mind that I am in the country of my friends the\nMaclarens,\" says Alan.\n\n\"That\'s a kittle point,\" returned the other. \"There may be two words to\nsay to that. But I think I will have heard that you are a man of your\nsword?\"\n\n\"Unless ye were born deaf, Mr. Macgregor, ye will have heard a good deal\nmore than that,\" says Alan. \"I am not the only man that can draw steel\nin Appin; and when my kinsman and captain, Ardshiel, had a talk with a\ngentleman of your name, not so many years back, I could never hear that\nthe Macgregor had the best of it.\"\n\n\"Do ye mean my father, sir?\" says Robin.\n\n\"Well, I wouldnae wonder,\" said Alan. \"The gentleman I have in my mind\nhad the ill-taste to clap Campbell to his name.\"\n\n\"My father was an old man,\" returned Robin.\n\n\"The match was unequal. You and me would make a better pair, sir.\"\n\n\"I was thinking that,\" said Alan.\n\nI was half out of bed, and Duncan had been hanging at the elbow of these\nfighting cocks, ready to intervene upon the least occasion. But when\nthat word was uttered, it was a case of now or never; and Duncan, with\nsomething of a white face to be sure, thrust himself between.\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" said he, \"I will have been thinking of a very different\nmatter, whateffer. Here are my pipes, and here are you two gentlemen who\nare baith acclaimed pipers. It\'s an auld dispute which one of ye\'s the\nbest. Here will be a braw chance to settle it.\"\n\n\"Why, sir,\" said Alan, still addressing Robin, from whom indeed he had\nnot so much as shifted his eyes, nor yet Robin from him, \"why, sir,\"\nsays Alan, \"I think I will have heard some sough* of the sort. Have ye\nmusic, as folk say? Are ye a bit of a piper?\"\n\n * Rumour.\n\n\"I can pipe like a Macrimmon!\" cries Robin.\n\n\"And that is a very bold word,\" quoth Alan.\n\n\"I have made bolder words good before now,\" returned Robin, \"and that\nagainst better adversaries.\"\n\n\"It is easy to try that,\" says Alan.\n\nDuncan Dhu made haste to bring out the pair of pipes that was his\nprincipal possession, and to set before his guests a mutton-ham and a\nbottle of that drink which they call Athole brose, and which is made of\nold whiskey, strained honey and sweet cream, slowly beaten together in\nthe right order and proportion. The two enemies were still on the very\nbreach of a quarrel; but down they sat, one upon each side of the peat\nfire, with a mighty show of politeness. Maclaren pressed them to taste\nhis mutton-ham and \"the wife\'s brose,\" reminding them the wife was out\nof Athole and had a name far and wide for her skill in that confection.\nBut Robin put aside these hospitalities as bad for the breath.\n\n\"I would have ye to remark, sir,\" said Alan, \"that I havenae broken\nbread for near upon ten hours, which will be worse for the breath than\nany brose in Scotland.\"\n\n\"I will take no advantages, Mr. Stewart,\" replied Robin. \"Eat and drink;\nI\'ll follow you.\"\n\nEach ate a small portion of the ham and drank a glass of the brose to\nMrs. Maclaren; and then after a great number of civilities, Robin took\nthe pipes and played a little spring in a very ranting manner.\n\n\"Ay, ye can blow\" said Alan; and taking the instrument from his rival,\nhe first played the same spring in a manner identical with Robin\'s; and\nthen wandered into variations, which, as he went on, he decorated with\na perfect flight of grace-notes, such as pipers love, and call the\n\"warblers.\"\n\nI had been pleased with Robin\'s playing, Alan\'s ravished me.\n\n\"That\'s no very bad, Mr. Stewart,\" said the rival, \"but ye show a poor\ndevice in your warblers.\"\n\n\"Me!\" cried Alan, the blood starting to his face. \"I give ye the lie.\"\n\n\"Do ye own yourself beaten at the pipes, then,\" said Robin, \"that ye\nseek to change them for the sword?\"\n\n\"And that\'s very well said, Mr. Macgregor,\" returned Alan; \"and in the\nmeantime\" (laying a strong accent on the word) \"I take back the lie. I\nappeal to Duncan.\"\n\n\"Indeed, ye need appeal to naebody,\" said Robin. \"Ye\'re a far better\njudge than any Maclaren in Balquhidder: for it\'s a God\'s truth that\nyou\'re a very creditable piper for a Stewart. Hand me the pipes.\" Alan\ndid as he asked; and Robin proceeded to imitate and correct some part of\nAlan\'s variations, which it seemed that he remembered perfectly.\n\n\"Ay, ye have music,\" said Alan, gloomily.\n\n\"And now be the judge yourself, Mr. Stewart,\" said Robin; and taking up\nthe variations from the beginning, he worked them throughout to so new a\npurpose, with such ingenuity and sentiment, and with so odd a fancy and\nso quick a knack in the grace-notes, that I was amazed to hear him.\n\nAs for Alan, his face grew dark and hot, and he sat and gnawed his\nfingers, like a man under some deep affront. \"Enough!\" he cried. \"Ye can\nblow the pipes--make the most of that.\" And he made as if to rise.\n\nBut Robin only held out his hand as if to ask for silence, and struck\ninto the slow measure of a pibroch. It was a fine piece of music in\nitself, and nobly played; but it seems, besides, it was a piece peculiar\nto the Appin Stewarts and a chief favourite with Alan. The first notes\nwere scarce out, before there came a change in his face; when the time\nquickened, he seemed to grow restless in his seat; and long before that\npiece was at an end, the last signs of his anger died from him, and he\nhad no thought but for the music.\n\n\"Robin Oig,\" he said, when it was done, \"ye are a great piper. I am not\nfit to blow in the same kingdom with ye. Body of me! ye have mair music\nin your sporran than I have in my head! And though it still sticks in\nmy mind that I could maybe show ye another of it with the cold steel,\nI warn ye beforehand--it\'ll no be fair! It would go against my heart to\nhaggle a man that can blow the pipes as you can!\"\n\nThereupon that quarrel was made up; all night long the brose was going\nand the pipes changing hands; and the day had come pretty bright, and\nthe three men were none the better for what they had been taking, before\nRobin as much as thought upon the road.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\nEND OF THE FLIGHT: WE PASS THE FORTH\n\nThe month, as I have said, was not yet out, but it was already far\nthrough August, and beautiful warm weather, with every sign of an early\nand great harvest, when I was pronounced able for my journey. Our money\nwas now run to so low an ebb that we must think first of all on speed;\nfor if we came not soon to Mr. Rankeillor\'s, or if when we came there he\nshould fail to help me, we must surely starve. In Alan\'s view, besides,\nthe hunt must have now greatly slackened; and the line of the Forth and\neven Stirling Bridge, which is the main pass over that river, would be\nwatched with little interest.\n\n\"It\'s a chief principle in military affairs,\" said he, \"to go where\nye are least expected. Forth is our trouble; ye ken the saying, \'Forth\nbridles the wild Hielandman.\' Well, if we seek to creep round about\nthe head of that river and come down by Kippen or Balfron, it\'s just\nprecisely there that they\'ll be looking to lay hands on us. But if we\nstave on straight to the auld Brig of Stirling, I\'ll lay my sword they\nlet us pass unchallenged.\"\n\nThe first night, accordingly, we pushed to the house of a Maclaren in\nStrathire, a friend of Duncan\'s, where we slept the twenty-first of the\nmonth, and whence we set forth again about the fall of night to make\nanother easy stage. The twenty-second we lay in a heather bush on the\nhillside in Uam Var, within view of a herd of deer, the happiest ten\nhours of sleep in a fine, breathing sunshine and on bone-dry ground,\nthat I have ever tasted. That night we struck Allan Water, and followed\nit down; and coming to the edge of the hills saw the whole Carse of\nStirling underfoot, as flat as a pancake, with the town and castle on a\nhill in the midst of it, and the moon shining on the Links of Forth.\n\n\"Now,\" said Alan, \"I kenna if ye care, but ye\'re in your own land again.\nWe passed the Hieland Line in the first hour; and now if we could but\npass yon crooked water, we might cast our bonnets in the air.\"\n\nIn Allan Water, near by where it falls into the Forth, we found a little\nsandy islet, overgrown with burdock, butterbur and the like low plants,\nthat would just cover us if we lay flat. Here it was we made our camp,\nwithin plain view of Stirling Castle, whence we could hear the drums\nbeat as some part of the garrison paraded. Shearers worked all day in\na field on one side of the river, and we could hear the stones going\non the hooks and the voices and even the words of the men talking. It\nbehoved to lie close and keep silent. But the sand of the little isle\nwas sun-warm, the green plants gave us shelter for our heads, we had\nfood and drink in plenty; and to crown all, we were within sight of\nsafety.\n\nAs soon as the shearers quit their work and the dusk began to fall,\nwe waded ashore and struck for the Bridge of Stirling, keeping to the\nfields and under the field fences.\n\nThe bridge is close under the castle hill, an old, high, narrow bridge\nwith pinnacles along the parapet; and you may conceive with how much\ninterest I looked upon it, not only as a place famous in history, but as\nthe very doors of salvation to Alan and myself. The moon was not yet up\nwhen we came there; a few lights shone along the front of the fortress,\nand lower down a few lighted windows in the town; but it was all mighty\nstill, and there seemed to be no guard upon the passage.\n\nI was for pushing straight across; but Alan was more wary.\n\n\"It looks unco\' quiet,\" said he; \"but for all that we\'ll lie down here\ncannily behind a dyke, and make sure.\"\n\nSo we lay for about a quarter of an hour, whiles whispering, whiles\nlying still and hearing nothing earthly but the washing of the water on\nthe piers. At last there came by an old, hobbling woman with a crutch\nstick; who first stopped a little, close to where we lay, and bemoaned\nherself and the long way she had travelled; and then set forth again up\nthe steep spring of the bridge. The woman was so little, and the night\nstill so dark, that we soon lost sight of her; only heard the sound of\nher steps, and her stick, and a cough that she had by fits, draw slowly\nfarther away.\n\n\"She\'s bound to be across now,\" I whispered.\n\n\"Na,\" said Alan, \"her foot still sounds boss* upon the bridge.\"\n\n * Hollow.\n\nAnd just then--\"Who goes?\" cried a voice, and we heard the butt of\na musket rattle on the stones. I must suppose the sentry had been\nsleeping, so that had we tried, we might have passed unseen; but he was\nawake now, and the chance forfeited.\n\n\"This\'ll never do,\" said Alan. \"This\'ll never, never do for us, David.\"\n\nAnd without another word, he began to crawl away through the fields; and\na little after, being well out of eye-shot, got to his feet again, and\nstruck along a road that led to the eastward. I could not conceive what\nhe was doing; and indeed I was so sharply cut by the disappointment,\nthat I was little likely to be pleased with anything. A moment back\nand I had seen myself knocking at Mr. Rankeillor\'s door to claim my\ninheritance, like a hero in a ballad; and here was I back again, a\nwandering, hunted blackguard, on the wrong side of Forth.\n\n\"Well?\" said I.\n\n\"Well,\" said Alan, \"what would ye have? They\'re none such fools as I\ntook them for. We have still the Forth to pass, Davie--weary fall the\nrains that fed and the hillsides that guided it!\"\n\n\"And why go east?\" said I.\n\n\"Ou, just upon the chance!\" said he. \"If we cannae pass the river, we\'ll\nhave to see what we can do for the firth.\"\n\n\"There are fords upon the river, and none upon the firth,\" said I.\n\n\"To be sure there are fords, and a bridge forbye,\" quoth Alan; \"and of\nwhat service, when they are watched?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said I, \"but a river can be swum.\"\n\n\"By them that have the skill of it,\" returned he; \"but I have yet to\nhear that either you or me is much of a hand at that exercise; and for\nmy own part, I swim like a stone.\"\n\n\"I\'m not up to you in talking back, Alan,\" I said; \"but I can see we\'re\nmaking bad worse. If it\'s hard to pass a river, it stands to reason it\nmust be worse to pass a sea.\"\n\n\"But there\'s such a thing as a boat,\" says Alan, \"or I\'m the more\ndeceived.\"\n\n\"Ay, and such a thing as money,\" says I. \"But for us that have neither\none nor other, they might just as well not have been invented.\"\n\n\"Ye think so?\" said Alan.\n\n\"I do that,\" said I.\n\n\"David,\" says he, \"ye\'re a man of small invention and less faith. But\nlet me set my wits upon the hone, and if I cannae beg, borrow, nor yet\nsteal a boat, I\'ll make one!\"\n\n\"I think I see ye!\" said I. \"And what\'s more than all that: if ye pass a\nbridge, it can tell no tales; but if we pass the firth, there\'s the boat\non the wrong side--somebody must have brought it--the country-side will\nall be in a bizz---\"\n\n\"Man!\" cried Alan, \"if I make a boat, I\'ll make a body to take it back\nagain! So deave me with no more of your nonsense, but walk (for that\'s\nwhat you\'ve got to do)--and let Alan think for ye.\"\n\nAll night, then, we walked through the north side of the Carse under\nthe high line of the Ochil mountains; and by Alloa and Clackmannan and\nCulross, all of which we avoided: and about ten in the morning, mighty\nhungry and tired, came to the little clachan of Limekilns. This is a\nplace that sits near in by the water-side, and looks across the Hope to\nthe town of the Queensferry. Smoke went up from both of these, and from\nother villages and farms upon all hands. The fields were being reaped;\ntwo ships lay anchored, and boats were coming and going on the Hope.\nIt was altogether a right pleasant sight to me; and I could not take\nmy fill of gazing at these comfortable, green, cultivated hills and the\nbusy people both of the field and sea.\n\nFor all that, there was Mr. Rankeillor\'s house on the south shore, where\nI had no doubt wealth awaited me; and here was I upon the north, clad in\npoor enough attire of an outlandish fashion, with three silver shillings\nleft to me of all my fortune, a price set upon my head, and an outlawed\nman for my sole company.\n\n\"O, Alan!\" said I, \"to think of it! Over there, there\'s all that heart\ncould want waiting me; and the birds go over, and the boats go over--all\nthat please can go, but just me only! O, man, but it\'s a heart-break!\"\n\nIn Limekilns we entered a small change-house, which we only knew to be a\npublic by the wand over the door, and bought some bread and cheese from\na good-looking lass that was the servant. This we carried with us in a\nbundle, meaning to sit and eat it in a bush of wood on the sea-shore,\nthat we saw some third part of a mile in front. As we went, I kept\nlooking across the water and sighing to myself; and though I took no\nheed of it, Alan had fallen into a muse. At last he stopped in the way.\n\n\"Did ye take heed of the lass we bought this of?\" says he, tapping on\nthe bread and cheese.\n\n\"To be sure,\" said I, \"and a bonny lass she was.\"\n\n\"Ye thought that?\" cries he. \"Man, David, that\'s good news.\"\n\n\"In the name of all that\'s wonderful, why so?\" says I. \"What good can\nthat do?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Alan, with one of his droll looks, \"I was rather in hopes\nit would maybe get us that boat.\"\n\n\"If it were the other way about, it would be liker it,\" said I.\n\n\"That\'s all that you ken, ye see,\" said Alan. \"I don\'t want the lass to\nfall in love with ye, I want her to be sorry for ye, David; to which end\nthere is no manner of need that she should take you for a beauty. Let me\nsee\" (looking me curiously over). \"I wish ye were a wee thing paler; but\napart from that ye\'ll do fine for my purpose--ye have a fine, hang-dog,\nrag-and-tatter, clappermaclaw kind of a look to ye, as if ye had\nstolen the coat from a potato-bogle. Come; right about, and back to the\nchange-house for that boat of ours.\"\n\nI followed him, laughing.\n\n\"David Balfour,\" said he, \"ye\'re a very funny gentleman by your way of\nit, and this is a very funny employ for ye, no doubt. For all that, if\nye have any affection for my neck (to say nothing of your own) ye will\nperhaps be kind enough to take this matter responsibly. I am going to\ndo a bit of play-acting, the bottom ground of which is just exactly as\nserious as the gallows for the pair of us. So bear it, if ye please, in\nmind, and conduct yourself according.\"\n\n\"Well, well,\" said I, \"have it as you will.\"\n\nAs we got near the clachan, he made me take his arm and hang upon it\nlike one almost helpless with weariness; and by the time he pushed\nopen the change-house door, he seemed to be half carrying me. The maid\nappeared surprised (as well she might be) at our speedy return; but\nAlan had no words to spare for her in explanation, helped me to a chair,\ncalled for a tass of brandy with which he fed me in little sips,\nand then breaking up the bread and cheese helped me to eat it like\na nursery-lass; the whole with that grave, concerned, affectionate\ncountenance, that might have imposed upon a judge. It was small wonder\nif the maid were taken with the picture we presented, of a poor, sick,\noverwrought lad and his most tender comrade. She drew quite near, and\nstood leaning with her back on the next table.\n\n\"What\'s like wrong with him?\" said she at last.\n\nAlan turned upon her, to my great wonder, with a kind of fury. \"Wrong?\"\ncries he. \"He\'s walked more hundreds of miles than he has hairs upon his\nchin, and slept oftener in wet heather than dry sheets. Wrong, quo\' she!\nWrong enough, I would think! Wrong, indeed!\" and he kept grumbling to\nhimself as he fed me, like a man ill-pleased.\n\n\"He\'s young for the like of that,\" said the maid.\n\n\"Ower young,\" said Alan, with his back to her.\n\n\"He would be better riding,\" says she.\n\n\"And where could I get a horse to him?\" cried Alan, turning on her with\nthe same appearance of fury. \"Would ye have me steal?\"\n\nI thought this roughness would have sent her off in dudgeon, as indeed\nit closed her mouth for the time. But my companion knew very well what\nhe was doing; and for as simple as he was in some things of life, had a\ngreat fund of roguishness in such affairs as these.\n\n\"Ye neednae tell me,\" she said at last--\"ye\'re gentry.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Alan, softened a little (I believe against his will) by\nthis artless comment, \"and suppose we were? Did ever you hear that\ngentrice put money in folk\'s pockets?\"\n\nShe sighed at this, as if she were herself some disinherited great lady.\n\"No,\" says she, \"that\'s true indeed.\"\n\nI was all this while chafing at the part I played, and sitting\ntongue-tied between shame and merriment; but somehow at this I could\nhold in no longer, and bade Alan let me be, for I was better already. My\nvoice stuck in my throat, for I ever hated to take part in lies; but my\nvery embarrassment helped on the plot, for the lass no doubt set down my\nhusky voice to sickness and fatigue.\n\n\"Has he nae friends?\" said she, in a tearful voice.\n\n\"That has he so!\" cried Alan, \"if we could but win to them!--friends and\nrich friends, beds to lie in, food to eat, doctors to see to him--and\nhere he must tramp in the dubs and sleep in the heather like a\nbeggarman.\"\n\n\"And why that?\" says the lass.\n\n\"My dear,\" said Alan, \"I cannae very safely say; but I\'ll tell ye what\nI\'ll do instead,\" says he, \"I\'ll whistle ye a bit tune.\" And with that\nhe leaned pretty far over the table, and in a mere breath of a whistle,\nbut with a wonderful pretty sentiment, gave her a few bars of \"Charlie\nis my darling.\"\n\n\"Wheesht,\" says she, and looked over her shoulder to the door.\n\n\"That\'s it,\" said Alan.\n\n\"And him so young!\" cries the lass.\n\n\"He\'s old enough to----\" and Alan struck his forefinger on the back part\nof his neck, meaning that I was old enough to lose my head.\n\n\"It would be a black shame,\" she cried, flushing high.\n\n\"It\'s what will be, though,\" said Alan, \"unless we manage the better.\"\n\nAt this the lass turned and ran out of that part of the house, leaving\nus alone together. Alan in high good humour at the furthering of his\nschemes, and I in bitter dudgeon at being called a Jacobite and treated\nlike a child.\n\n\"Alan,\" I cried, \"I can stand no more of this.\"\n\n\"Ye\'ll have to sit it then, Davie,\" said he. \"For if ye upset the pot\nnow, ye may scrape your own life out of the fire, but Alan Breck is a\ndead man.\"\n\nThis was so true that I could only groan; and even my groan served\nAlan\'s purpose, for it was overheard by the lass as she came flying in\nagain with a dish of white puddings and a bottle of strong ale.\n\n\"Poor lamb!\" says she, and had no sooner set the meat before us, than\nshe touched me on the shoulder with a little friendly touch, as much as\nto bid me cheer up. Then she told us to fall to, and there would be no\nmore to pay; for the inn was her own, or at least her father\'s, and he\nwas gone for the day to Pittencrieff. We waited for no second bidding,\nfor bread and cheese is but cold comfort and the puddings smelt\nexcellently well; and while we sat and ate, she took up that same place\nby the next table, looking on, and thinking, and frowning to herself,\nand drawing the string of her apron through her hand.\n\n\"I\'m thinking ye have rather a long tongue,\" she said at last to Alan.\n\n\"Ay\" said Alan; \"but ye see I ken the folk I speak to.\"\n\n\"I would never betray ye,\" said she, \"if ye mean that.\"\n\n\"No,\" said he, \"ye\'re not that kind. But I\'ll tell ye what ye would do,\nye would help.\"\n\n\"I couldnae,\" said she, shaking her head. \"Na, I couldnae.\"\n\n\"No,\" said he, \"but if ye could?\"\n\nShe answered him nothing.\n\n\"Look here, my lass,\" said Alan, \"there are boats in the Kingdom of\nFife, for I saw two (no less) upon the beach, as I came in by your\ntown\'s end. Now if we could have the use of a boat to pass under cloud\nof night into Lothian, and some secret, decent kind of a man to bring\nthat boat back again and keep his counsel, there would be two souls\nsaved--mine to all likelihood--his to a dead surety. If we lack that\nboat, we have but three shillings left in this wide world; and where\nto go, and how to do, and what other place there is for us except the\nchains of a gibbet--I give you my naked word, I kenna! Shall we go\nwanting, lassie? Are ye to lie in your warm bed and think upon us, when\nthe wind gowls in the chimney and the rain tirls on the roof? Are ye to\neat your meat by the cheeks of a red fire, and think upon this poor sick\nlad of mine, biting his finger ends on a blae muir for cauld and hunger?\nSick or sound, he must aye be moving; with the death grapple at his\nthroat he must aye be trailing in the rain on the lang roads; and when\nhe gants his last on a rickle of cauld stanes, there will be nae friends\nnear him but only me and God.\"\n\nAt this appeal, I could see the lass was in great trouble of mind,\nbeing tempted to help us, and yet in some fear she might be helping\nmalefactors; and so now I determined to step in myself and to allay her\nscruples with a portion of the truth.\n\n\"Did ever you hear,\" said I, \"of Mr. Rankeillor of the Ferry?\"\n\n\"Rankeillor the writer?\" said she. \"I daur say that!\"\n\n\"Well,\" said I, \"it\'s to his door that I am bound, so you may judge by\nthat if I am an ill-doer; and I will tell you more, that though I am\nindeed, by a dreadful error, in some peril of my life, King George has\nno truer friend in all Scotland than myself.\"\n\nHer face cleared up mightily at this, although Alan\'s darkened.\n\n\"That\'s more than I would ask,\" said she. \"Mr. Rankeillor is a kennt\nman.\" And she bade us finish our meat, get clear of the clachan as soon\nas might be, and lie close in the bit wood on the sea-beach. \"And ye can\ntrust me,\" says she, \"I\'ll find some means to put you over.\"\n\nAt this we waited for no more, but shook hands with her upon the\nbargain, made short work of the puddings, and set forth again from\nLimekilns as far as to the wood. It was a small piece of perhaps a score\nof elders and hawthorns and a few young ashes, not thick enough to veil\nus from passersby upon the road or beach. Here we must lie, however,\nmaking the best of the brave warm weather and the good hopes we now had\nof a deliverance, and planing more particularly what remained for us to\ndo.\n\nWe had but one trouble all day; when a strolling piper came and sat in\nthe same wood with us; a red-nosed, bleareyed, drunken dog, with a great\nbottle of whisky in his pocket, and a long story of wrongs that had been\ndone him by all sorts of persons, from the Lord President of the\nCourt of Session, who had denied him justice, down to the Bailies of\nInverkeithing who had given him more of it than he desired. It was\nimpossible but he should conceive some suspicion of two men lying all\nday concealed in a thicket and having no business to allege. As long as\nhe stayed there he kept us in hot water with prying questions; and after\nhe was gone, as he was a man not very likely to hold his tongue, we were\nin the greater impatience to be gone ourselves.\n\nThe day came to an end with the same brightness; the night fell quiet\nand clear; lights came out in houses and hamlets and then, one after\nanother, began to be put out; but it was past eleven, and we were long\nsince strangely tortured with anxieties, before we heard the grinding\nof oars upon the rowing-pins. At that, we looked out and saw the lass\nherself coming rowing to us in a boat. She had trusted no one with our\naffairs, not even her sweetheart, if she had one; but as soon as her\nfather was asleep, had left the house by a window, stolen a neighbour\'s\nboat, and come to our assistance single-handed.\n\nI was abashed how to find expression for my thanks; but she was no less\nabashed at the thought of hearing them; begged us to lose no time and to\nhold our peace, saying (very properly) that the heart of our matter was\nin haste and silence; and so, what with one thing and another, she had\nset us on the Lothian shore not far from Carriden, had shaken hands with\nus, and was out again at sea and rowing for Limekilns, before there was\none word said either of her service or our gratitude.\n\nEven after she was gone, we had nothing to say, as indeed nothing was\nenough for such a kindness. Only Alan stood a great while upon the shore\nshaking his head.\n\n\"It is a very fine lass,\" he said at last. \"David, it is a very fine\nlass.\" And a matter of an hour later, as we were lying in a den on\nthe sea-shore and I had been already dozing, he broke out again in\ncommendations of her character. For my part, I could say nothing, she\nwas so simple a creature that my heart smote me both with remorse and\nfear: remorse because we had traded upon her ignorance; and fear lest we\nshould have anyway involved her in the dangers of our situation.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\nI COME TO MR. RANKEILLOR\n\nThe next day it was agreed that Alan should fend for himself till\nsunset; but as soon as it began to grow dark, he should lie in the\nfields by the roadside near to Newhalls, and stir for naught until he\nheard me whistling. At first I proposed I should give him for a signal\nthe \"Bonnie House of Airlie,\" which was a favourite of mine; but he\nobjected that as the piece was very commonly known, any ploughman might\nwhistle it by accident; and taught me instead a little fragment of a\nHighland air, which has run in my head from that day to this, and will\nlikely run in my head when I lie dying. Every time it comes to me, it\ntakes me off to that last day of my uncertainty, with Alan sitting up in\nthe bottom of the den, whistling and beating the measure with a finger,\nand the grey of the dawn coming on his face.\n\nI was in the long street of Queensferry before the sun was up. It was a\nfairly built burgh, the houses of good stone, many slated; the town-hall\nnot so fine, I thought, as that of Peebles, nor yet the street so noble;\nbut take it altogether, it put me to shame for my foul tatters.\n\n\n\nAs the morning went on, and the fires began to be kindled, and the\nwindows to open, and the people to appear out of the houses, my concern\nand despondency grew ever the blacker. I saw now that I had no grounds\nto stand upon; and no clear proof of my rights, nor so much as of my own\nidentity. If it was all a bubble, I was indeed sorely cheated and left\nin a sore pass. Even if things were as I conceived, it would in all\nlikelihood take time to establish my contentions; and what time had I\nto spare with less than three shillings in my pocket, and a condemned,\nhunted man upon my hands to ship out of the country? Truly, if my hope\nbroke with me, it might come to the gallows yet for both of us. And as I\ncontinued to walk up and down, and saw people looking askance at me upon\nthe street or out of windows, and nudging or speaking one to another\nwith smiles, I began to take a fresh apprehension: that it might be no\neasy matter even to come to speech of the lawyer, far less to convince\nhim of my story.\n\nFor the life of me I could not muster up the courage to address any of\nthese reputable burghers; I thought shame even to speak with them in\nsuch a pickle of rags and dirt; and if I had asked for the house of such\na man as Mr. Rankeillor, I suppose they would have burst out laughing in\nmy face. So I went up and down, and through the street, and down to\nthe harbour-side, like a dog that has lost its master, with a strange\ngnawing in my inwards, and every now and then a movement of despair.\nIt grew to be high day at last, perhaps nine in the forenoon; and I was\nworn with these wanderings, and chanced to have stopped in front of\na very good house on the landward side, a house with beautiful, clear\nglass windows, flowering knots upon the sills, the walls new-harled* and\na chase-dog sitting yawning on the step like one that was at home. Well,\nI was even envying this dumb brute, when the door fell open and\nthere issued forth a shrewd, ruddy, kindly, consequential man in a\nwell-powdered wig and spectacles. I was in such a plight that no one set\neyes on me once, but he looked at me again; and this gentleman, as it\nproved, was so much struck with my poor appearance that he came straight\nup to me and asked me what I did.\n\n * Newly rough-cast.\n\nI told him I was come to the Queensferry on business, and taking heart\nof grace, asked him to direct me to the house of Mr. Rankeillor.\n\n\"Why,\" said he, \"that is his house that I have just come out of; and for\na rather singular chance, I am that very man.\"\n\n\"Then, sir,\" said I, \"I have to beg the favour of an interview.\"\n\n\"I do not know your name,\" said he, \"nor yet your face.\"\n\n\"My name is David Balfour,\" said I.\n\n\"David Balfour?\" he repeated, in rather a high tone, like one surprised.\n\"And where have you come from, Mr. David Balfour?\" he asked, looking me\npretty drily in the face.\n\n\"I have come from a great many strange places, sir,\" said I; \"but I\nthink it would be as well to tell you where and how in a more private\nmanner.\"\n\nHe seemed to muse awhile, holding his lip in his hand, and looking now\nat me and now upon the causeway of the street.\n\n\"Yes,\" says he, \"that will be the best, no doubt.\" And he led me back\nwith him into his house, cried out to some one whom I could not see\nthat he would be engaged all morning, and brought me into a little dusty\nchamber full of books and documents. Here he sate down, and bade me\nbe seated; though I thought he looked a little ruefully from his clean\nchair to my muddy rags. \"And now,\" says he, \"if you have any business,\npray be brief and come swiftly to the point. Nec gemino bellum Trojanum\norditur ab ovo--do you understand that?\" says he, with a keen look.\n\n\"I will even do as Horace says, sir,\" I answered, smiling, \"and carry\nyou in medias res.\" He nodded as if he was well pleased, and indeed his\nscrap of Latin had been set to test me. For all that, and though I was\nsomewhat encouraged, the blood came in my face when I added: \"I have\nreason to believe myself some rights on the estate of Shaws.\"\n\nHe got a paper book out of a drawer and set it before him open. \"Well?\"\nsaid he.\n\nBut I had shot my bolt and sat speechless.\n\n\"Come, come, Mr. Balfour,\" said he, \"you must continue. Where were you\nborn?\"\n\n\"In Essendean, sir,\" said I, \"the year 1733, the 12th of March.\"\n\nHe seemed to follow this statement in his paper book; but what that\nmeant I knew not. \"Your father and mother?\" said he.\n\n\"My father was Alexander Balfour, schoolmaster of that place,\" said I,\n\"and my mother Grace Pitarrow; I think her people were from Angus.\"\n\n\"Have you any papers proving your identity?\" asked Mr. Rankeillor.\n\n\"No, sir,\" said I, \"but they are in the hands of Mr. Campbell, the\nminister, and could be readily produced. Mr. Campbell, too, would give\nme his word; and for that matter, I do not think my uncle would deny\nme.\"\n\n\"Meaning Mr. Ebenezer Balfour?\" says he.\n\n\"The same,\" said I.\n\n\"Whom you have seen?\" he asked.\n\n\"By whom I was received into his own house,\" I answered.\n\n\"Did you ever meet a man of the name of Hoseason?\" asked Mr. Rankeillor.\n\n\"I did so, sir, for my sins,\" said I; \"for it was by his means and the\nprocurement of my uncle, that I was kidnapped within sight of this town,\ncarried to sea, suffered shipwreck and a hundred other hardships, and\nstand before you to-day in this poor accoutrement.\"\n\n\"You say you were shipwrecked,\" said Rankeillor; \"where was that?\"\n\n\"Off the south end of the Isle of Mull,\" said I. \"The name of the isle\non which I was cast up is the Island Earraid.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" says he, smiling, \"you are deeper than me in the geography. But so\nfar, I may tell you, this agrees pretty exactly with other informations\nthat I hold. But you say you were kidnapped; in what sense?\"\n\n\"In the plain meaning of the word, sir,\" said I. \"I was on my way to\nyour house, when I was trepanned on board the brig, cruelly struck down,\nthrown below, and knew no more of anything till we were far at sea. I\nwas destined for the plantations; a fate that, in God\'s providence, I\nhave escaped.\"\n\n\"The brig was lost on June the 27th,\" says he, looking in his book,\n\"and we are now at August the 24th. Here is a considerable hiatus, Mr.\nBalfour, of near upon two months. It has already caused a vast amount\nof trouble to your friends; and I own I shall not be very well contented\nuntil it is set right.\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir,\" said I, \"these months are very easily filled up; but yet\nbefore I told my story, I would be glad to know that I was talking to a\nfriend.\"\n\n\"This is to argue in a circle,\" said the lawyer. \"I cannot be convinced\ntill I have heard you. I cannot be your friend till I am properly\ninformed. If you were more trustful, it would better befit your time of\nlife. And you know, Mr. Balfour, we have a proverb in the country that\nevil-doers are aye evil-dreaders.\"\n\n\"You are not to forget, sir,\" said I, \"that I have already suffered by\nmy trustfulness; and was shipped off to be a slave by the very man that\n(if I rightly understand) is your employer?\"\n\nAll this while I had been gaining ground with Mr. Rankeillor, and in\nproportion as I gained ground, gaining confidence. But at this sally,\nwhich I made with something of a smile myself, he fairly laughed aloud.\n\n\"No, no,\" said he, \"it is not so bad as that. Fui, non sum. I was indeed\nyour uncle\'s man of business; but while you (imberbis juvenis custode\nremoto) were gallivanting in the west, a good deal of water has run\nunder the bridges; and if your ears did not sing, it was not for lack of\nbeing talked about. On the very day of your sea disaster, Mr. Campbell\nstalked into my office, demanding you from all the winds. I had never\nheard of your existence; but I had known your father; and from matters\nin my competence (to be touched upon hereafter) I was disposed to fear\nthe worst. Mr. Ebenezer admitted having seen you; declared (what seemed\nimprobable) that he had given you considerable sums; and that you had\nstarted for the continent of Europe, intending to fulfil your education,\nwhich was probable and praiseworthy. Interrogated how you had come to\nsend no word to Mr. Campbell, he deponed that you had expressed a great\ndesire to break with your past life. Further interrogated where you now\nwere, protested ignorance, but believed you were in Leyden. That is a\nclose sum of his replies. I am not exactly sure that any one believed\nhim,\" continued Mr. Rankeillor with a smile; \"and in particular he so\nmuch disrelished me expressions of mine that (in a word) he showed me to\nthe door. We were then at a full stand; for whatever shrewd suspicions\nwe might entertain, we had no shadow of probation. In the very article,\ncomes Captain Hoseason with the story of your drowning; whereupon all\nfell through; with no consequences but concern to Mr. Campbell, injury\nto my pocket, and another blot upon your uncle\'s character, which could\nvery ill afford it. And now, Mr. Balfour,\" said he, \"you understand\nthe whole process of these matters, and can judge for yourself to what\nextent I may be trusted.\"\n\nIndeed he was more pedantic than I can represent him, and placed more\nscraps of Latin in his speech; but it was all uttered with a fine\ngeniality of eye and manner which went far to conquer my distrust.\nMoreover, I could see he now treated me as if I was myself beyond a\ndoubt; so that first point of my identity seemed fully granted.\n\n\"Sir,\" said I, \"if I tell you my story, I must commit a friend\'s life\nto your discretion. Pass me your word it shall be sacred; and for what\ntouches myself, I will ask no better guarantee than just your face.\"\n\nHe passed me his word very seriously. \"But,\" said he, \"these are rather\nalarming prolocutions; and if there are in your story any little jostles\nto the law, I would beg you to bear in mind that I am a lawyer, and pass\nlightly.\"\n\nThereupon I told him my story from the first, he listening with his\nspectacles thrust up and his eyes closed, so that I sometimes feared\nhe was asleep. But no such matter! he heard every word (as I found\nafterward) with such quickness of hearing and precision of memory as\noften surprised me. Even strange outlandish Gaelic names, heard for that\ntime only, he remembered and would remind me of, years after. Yet when I\ncalled Alan Breck in full, we had an odd scene. The name of Alan had of\ncourse rung through Scotland, with the news of the Appin murder and the\noffer of the reward; and it had no sooner escaped me than the lawyer\nmoved in his seat and opened his eyes.\n\n\"I would name no unnecessary names, Mr. Balfour,\" said he; \"above all of\nHighlanders, many of whom are obnoxious to the law.\"\n\n\"Well, it might have been better not,\" said I, \"but since I have let it\nslip, I may as well continue.\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" said Mr. Rankeillor. \"I am somewhat dull of hearing, as\nyou may have remarked; and I am far from sure I caught the name exactly.\nWe will call your friend, if you please, Mr. Thomson--that there may\nbe no reflections. And in future, I would take some such way with any\nHighlander that you may have to mention--dead or alive.\"\n\nBy this, I saw he must have heard the name all too clearly, and had\nalready guessed I might be coming to the murder. If he chose to play\nthis part of ignorance, it was no matter of mine; so I smiled, said it\nwas no very Highland-sounding name, and consented. Through all the rest\nof my story Alan was Mr. Thomson; which amused me the more, as it was a\npiece of policy after his own heart. James Stewart, in like manner,\nwas mentioned under the style of Mr. Thomson\'s kinsman; Colin Campbell\npassed as a Mr. Glen; and to Cluny, when I came to that part of my tale,\nI gave the name of \"Mr. Jameson, a Highland chief.\" It was truly the\nmost open farce, and I wondered that the lawyer should care to keep it\nup; but, after all, it was quite in the taste of that age, when there\nwere two parties in the state, and quiet persons, with no very high\nopinions of their own, sought out every cranny to avoid offence to\neither.\n\n\"Well, well,\" said the lawyer, when I had quite done, \"this is a great\nepic, a great Odyssey of yours. You must tell it, sir, in a sound\nLatinity when your scholarship is riper; or in English if you please,\nthough for my part I prefer the stronger tongue. You have rolled\nmuch; quae regio in terris--what parish in Scotland (to make a homely\ntranslation) has not been filled with your wanderings? You have shown,\nbesides, a singular aptitude for getting into false positions; and, yes,\nupon the whole, for behaving well in them. This Mr. Thomson seems to\nme a gentleman of some choice qualities, though perhaps a trifle\nbloody-minded. It would please me none the worse, if (with all his\nmerits) he were soused in the North Sea, for the man, Mr. David, is a\nsore embarrassment. But you are doubtless quite right to adhere to him;\nindubitably, he adhered to you. It comes--we may say--he was your true\ncompanion; nor less paribus curis vestigia figit, for I dare say you\nwould both take an orra thought upon the gallows. Well, well, these days\nare fortunately by; and I think (speaking humanly) that you are near\nthe end of your troubles.\"\n\nAs he thus moralised on my adventures, he looked upon me with so much\nhumour and benignity that I could scarce contain my satisfaction. I had\nbeen so long wandering with lawless people, and making my bed upon the\nhills and under the bare sky, that to sit once more in a clean, covered\nhouse, and to talk amicably with a gentleman in broadcloth, seemed\nmighty elevations. Even as I thought so, my eye fell on my unseemly\ntatters, and I was once more plunged in confusion. But the lawyer saw\nand understood me. He rose, called over the stair to lay another plate,\nfor Mr. Balfour would stay to dinner, and led me into a bedroom in the\nupper part of the house. Here he set before me water and soap, and a\ncomb; and laid out some clothes that belonged to his son; and here, with\nanother apposite tag, he left me to my toilet.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\nI GO IN QUEST OF MY INHERITANCE\n\nI made what change I could in my appearance; and blithe was I to look in\nthe glass and find the beggarman a thing of the past, and David Balfour\ncome to life again. And yet I was ashamed of the change too, and, above\nall, of the borrowed clothes. When I had done, Mr. Rankeillor caught\nme on the stair, made me his compliments, and had me again into the\ncabinet.\n\n\"Sit ye down, Mr. David,\" said he, \"and now that you are looking a\nlittle more like yourself, let me see if I can find you any news. You\nwill be wondering, no doubt, about your father and your uncle? To be\nsure it is a singular tale; and the explanation is one that I blush to\nhave to offer you. For,\" says he, really with embarrassment, \"the matter\nhinges on a love affair.\"\n\n\"Truly,\" said I, \"I cannot very well join that notion with my uncle.\"\n\n\"But your uncle, Mr. David, was not always old,\" replied the lawyer,\n\"and what may perhaps surprise you more, not always ugly. He had a fine,\ngallant air; people stood in their doors to look after him, as he\nwent by upon a mettle horse. I have seen it with these eyes, and I\ningenuously confess, not altogether without envy; for I was a plain lad\nmyself and a plain man\'s son; and in those days it was a case of Odi te,\nqui bellus es, Sabelle.\"\n\n\"It sounds like a dream,\" said I.\n\n\"Ay, ay,\" said the lawyer, \"that is how it is with youth and age. Nor\nwas that all, but he had a spirit of his own that seemed to promise\ngreat things in the future. In 1715, what must he do but run away to\njoin the rebels? It was your father that pursued him, found him in a\nditch, and brought him back multum gementem; to the mirth of the whole\ncountry. However, majora canamus--the two lads fell in love, and that\nwith the same lady. Mr. Ebenezer, who was the admired and the beloved,\nand the spoiled one, made, no doubt, mighty certain of the victory;\nand when he found he had deceived himself, screamed like a peacock.\nThe whole country heard of it; now he lay sick at home, with his silly\nfamily standing round the bed in tears; now he rode from public-house\nto public-house, and shouted his sorrows into the lug of Tom, Dick, and\nHarry. Your father, Mr. David, was a kind gentleman; but he was weak,\ndolefully weak; took all this folly with a long countenance; and one\nday--by your leave!--resigned the lady. She was no such fool, however;\nit\'s from her you must inherit your excellent good sense; and she\nrefused to be bandied from one to another. Both got upon their knees\nto her; and the upshot of the matter for that while was that she showed\nboth of them the door. That was in August; dear me! the same year I came\nfrom college. The scene must have been highly farcical.\"\n\nI thought myself it was a silly business, but I could not forget my\nfather had a hand in it. \"Surely, sir, it had some note of tragedy,\"\nsaid I.\n\n\"Why, no, sir, not at all,\" returned the lawyer. \"For tragedy implies\nsome ponderable matter in dispute, some dignus vindice nodus; and this\npiece of work was all about the petulance of a young ass that had been\nspoiled, and wanted nothing so much as to be tied up and soundly belted.\nHowever, that was not your father\'s view; and the end of it was, that\nfrom concession to concession on your father\'s part, and from one height\nto another of squalling, sentimental selfishness upon your uncle\'s, they\ncame at last to drive a sort of bargain, from whose ill results you have\nrecently been smarting. The one man took the lady, the other the estate.\nNow, Mr. David, they talk a great deal of charity and generosity; but in\nthis disputable state of life, I often think the happiest consequences\nseem to flow when a gentleman consults his lawyer, and takes all the law\nallows him. Anyhow, this piece of Quixotry on your father\'s part, as\nit was unjust in itself, has brought forth a monstrous family of\ninjustices. Your father and mother lived and died poor folk; you were\npoorly reared; and in the meanwhile, what a time it has been for the\ntenants on the estate of Shaws! And I might add (if it was a matter I\ncared much about) what a time for Mr. Ebenezer!\"\n\n\"And yet that is certainly the strangest part of all,\" said I, \"that a\nman\'s nature should thus change.\"\n\n\"True,\" said Mr. Rankeillor. \"And yet I imagine it was natural enough.\nHe could not think that he had played a handsome part. Those who knew\nthe story gave him the cold shoulder; those who knew it not, seeing one\nbrother disappear, and the other succeed in the estate, raised a cry of\nmurder; so that upon all sides he found himself evited. Money was all\nhe got by his bargain; well, he came to think the more of money. He was\nselfish when he was young, he is selfish now that he is old; and the\nlatter end of all these pretty manners and fine feelings you have seen\nfor yourself.\"\n\n\"Well, sir,\" said I, \"and in all this, what is my position?\"\n\n\"The estate is yours beyond a doubt,\" replied the lawyer. \"It matters\nnothing what your father signed, you are the heir of entail. But your\nuncle is a man to fight the indefensible; and it would be likely your\nidentity that he would call in question. A lawsuit is always expensive,\nand a family lawsuit always scandalous; besides which, if any of your\ndoings with your friend Mr. Thomson were to come out, we might find that\nwe had burned our fingers. The kidnapping, to be sure, would be a court\ncard upon our side, if we could only prove it. But it may be difficult\nto prove; and my advice (upon the whole) is to make a very easy bargain\nwith your uncle, perhaps even leaving him at Shaws where he has\ntaken root for a quarter of a century, and contenting yourself in the\nmeanwhile with a fair provision.\"\n\nI told him I was very willing to be easy, and that to carry family\nconcerns before the public was a step from which I was naturally much\naverse. In the meantime (thinking to myself) I began to see the outlines\nof that scheme on which we afterwards acted.\n\n\"The great affair,\" I asked, \"is to bring home to him the kidnapping?\"\n\n\"Surely,\" said Mr. Rankeillor, \"and if possible, out of court. For mark\nyou here, Mr. David: we could no doubt find some men of the Covenant who\nwould swear to your reclusion; but once they were in the box, we could\nno longer check their testimony, and some word of your friend Mr.\nThomson must certainly crop out. Which (from what you have let fall) I\ncannot think to be desirable.\"\n\n\"Well, sir,\" said I, \"here is my way of it.\" And I opened my plot to\nhim.\n\n\"But this would seem to involve my meeting the man Thomson?\" says he,\nwhen I had done.\n\n\"I think so, indeed, sir,\" said I.\n\n\"Dear doctor!\" cries he, rubbing his brow. \"Dear doctor! No, Mr. David,\nI am afraid your scheme is inadmissible. I say nothing against your\nfriend, Mr. Thomson: I know nothing against him; and if I did--mark\nthis, Mr. David!--it would be my duty to lay hands on him. Now I put it\nto you: is it wise to meet? He may have matters to his charge. He may\nnot have told you all. His name may not be even Thomson!\" cries the\nlawyer, twinkling; \"for some of these fellows will pick up names by the\nroadside as another would gather haws.\"\n\n\"You must be the judge, sir,\" said I.\n\nBut it was clear my plan had taken hold upon his fancy, for he kept\nmusing to himself till we were called to dinner and the company of Mrs.\nRankeillor; and that lady had scarce left us again to ourselves and a\nbottle of wine, ere he was back harping on my proposal. When and where\nwas I to meet my friend Mr. Thomson; was I sure of Mr. T.\'s discretion;\nsupposing we could catch the old fox tripping, would I consent to such\nand such a term of an agreement--these and the like questions he kept\nasking at long intervals, while he thoughtfully rolled his wine upon his\ntongue. When I had answered all of them, seemingly to his contentment,\nhe fell into a still deeper muse, even the claret being now forgotten.\nThen he got a sheet of paper and a pencil, and set to work writing and\nweighing every word; and at last touched a bell and had his clerk into\nthe chamber.\n\n\"Torrance,\" said he, \"I must have this written out fair against\nto-night; and when it is done, you will be so kind as put on your hat\nand be ready to come along with this gentleman and me, for you will\nprobably be wanted as a witness.\"\n\n\"What, sir,\" cried I, as soon as the clerk was gone, \"are you to venture\nit?\"\n\n\"Why, so it would appear,\" says he, filling his glass. \"But let us speak\nno more of business. The very sight of Torrance brings in my head a\nlittle droll matter of some years ago, when I had made a tryst with the\npoor oaf at the cross of Edinburgh. Each had gone his proper errand; and\nwhen it came four o\'clock, Torrance had been taking a glass and did\nnot know his master, and I, who had forgot my spectacles, was so blind\nwithout them, that I give you my word I did not know my own clerk.\" And\nthereupon he laughed heartily.\n\nI said it was an odd chance, and smiled out of politeness; but what held\nme all the afternoon in wonder, he kept returning and dwelling on this\nstory, and telling it again with fresh details and laughter; so that I\nbegan at last to be quite put out of countenance and feel ashamed for my\nfriend\'s folly.\n\nTowards the time I had appointed with Alan, we set out from the house,\nMr. Rankeillor and I arm in arm, and Torrance following behind with the\ndeed in his pocket and a covered basket in his hand. All through the\ntown, the lawyer was bowing right and left, and continually being\nbutton-holed by gentlemen on matters of burgh or private business; and I\ncould see he was one greatly looked up to in the county. At last we were\nclear of the houses, and began to go along the side of the haven and\ntowards the Hawes Inn and the Ferry pier, the scene of my misfortune. I\ncould not look upon the place without emotion, recalling how many that\nhad been there with me that day were now no more: Ransome taken, I could\nhope, from the evil to come; Shuan passed where I dared not follow him;\nand the poor souls that had gone down with the brig in her last plunge.\nAll these, and the brig herself, I had outlived; and come through these\nhardships and fearful perils without scath. My only thought should have\nbeen of gratitude; and yet I could not behold the place without sorrow\nfor others and a chill of recollected fear.\n\nI was so thinking when, upon a sudden, Mr. Rankeillor cried out, clapped\nhis hand to his pockets, and began to laugh.\n\n\"Why,\" he cries, \"if this be not a farcical adventure! After all that I\nsaid, I have forgot my glasses!\"\n\nAt that, of course, I understood the purpose of his anecdote, and knew\nthat if he had left his spectacles at home, it had been done on purpose,\nso that he might have the benefit of Alan\'s help without the awkwardness\nof recognising him. And indeed it was well thought upon; for now\n(suppose things to go the very worst) how could Rankeillor swear to\nmy friend\'s identity, or how be made to bear damaging evidence against\nmyself? For all that, he had been a long while of finding out his want,\nand had spoken to and recognised a good few persons as we came through\nthe town; and I had little doubt myself that he saw reasonably well.\n\nAs soon as we were past the Hawes (where I recognised the landlord\nsmoking his pipe in the door, and was amazed to see him look no older)\nMr. Rankeillor changed the order of march, walking behind with Torrance\nand sending me forward in the manner of a scout. I went up the hill,\nwhistling from time to time my Gaelic air; and at length I had the\npleasure to hear it answered and to see Alan rise from behind a bush. He\nwas somewhat dashed in spirits, having passed a long day alone skulking\nin the county, and made but a poor meal in an alehouse near Dundas. But\nat the mere sight of my clothes, he began to brighten up; and as soon as\nI had told him in what a forward state our matters were and the part I\nlooked to him to play in what remained, he sprang into a new man.\n\n\"And that is a very good notion of yours,\" says he; \"and I dare to say\nthat you could lay your hands upon no better man to put it through than\nAlan Breck. It is not a thing (mark ye) that any one could do, but takes\na gentleman of penetration. But it sticks in my head your lawyer-man\nwill be somewhat wearying to see me,\" says Alan.\n\nAccordingly I cried and waved on Mr. Rankeillor, who came up alone and\nwas presented to my friend, Mr. Thomson.\n\n\"Mr. Thomson, I am pleased to meet you,\" said he. \"But I have forgotten\nmy glasses; and our friend, Mr. David here\" (clapping me on the\nshoulder), \"will tell you that I am little better than blind, and that\nyou must not be surprised if I pass you by to-morrow.\"\n\nThis he said, thinking that Alan would be pleased; but the Highlandman\'s\nvanity was ready to startle at a less matter than that.\n\n\"Why, sir,\" says he, stiffly, \"I would say it mattered the less as we\nare met here for a particular end, to see justice done to Mr. Balfour;\nand by what I can see, not very likely to have much else in common. But\nI accept your apology, which was a very proper one to make.\"\n\n\"And that is more than I could look for, Mr. Thomson,\" said Rankeillor,\nheartily. \"And now as you and I are the chief actors in this enterprise,\nI think we should come into a nice agreement; to which end, I propose\nthat you should lend me your arm, for (what with the dusk and the want\nof my glasses) I am not very clear as to the path; and as for you, Mr.\nDavid, you will find Torrance a pleasant kind of body to speak with.\nOnly let me remind you, it\'s quite needless he should hear more of your\nadventures or those of--ahem--Mr. Thomson.\"\n\nAccordingly these two went on ahead in very close talk, and Torrance and\nI brought up the rear.\n\nNight was quite come when we came in view of the house of Shaws. Ten\nhad been gone some time; it was dark and mild, with a pleasant, rustling\nwind in the south-west that covered the sound of our approach; and as we\ndrew near we saw no glimmer of light in any portion of the building. It\nseemed my uncle was already in bed, which was indeed the best thing for\nour arrangements. We made our last whispered consultations some fifty\nyards away; and then the lawyer and Torrance and I crept quietly up and\ncrouched down beside the corner of the house; and as soon as we were\nin our places, Alan strode to the door without concealment and began to\nknock.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\nI COME INTO MY KINGDOM\n\nFor some time Alan volleyed upon the door, and his knocking only roused\nthe echoes of the house and neighbourhood. At last, however, I could\nhear the noise of a window gently thrust up, and knew that my uncle\nhad come to his observatory. By what light there was, he would see Alan\nstanding, like a dark shadow, on the steps; the three witnesses were\nhidden quite out of his view; so that there was nothing to alarm an\nhonest man in his own house. For all that, he studied his visitor awhile\nin silence, and when he spoke his voice had a quaver of misgiving.\n\n\"What\'s this?\" says he. \"This is nae kind of time of night for decent\nfolk; and I hae nae trokings* wi\' night-hawks. What brings ye here? I\nhave a blunderbush.\"\n\n * Dealings.\n\n\"Is that yoursel\', Mr. Balfour?\" returned Alan, stepping back and\nlooking up into the darkness. \"Have a care of that blunderbuss; they\'re\nnasty things to burst.\"\n\n\"What brings ye here? and whae are ye?\" says my uncle, angrily.\n\n\"I have no manner of inclination to rowt out my name to the\ncountry-side,\" said Alan; \"but what brings me here is another story,\nbeing more of your affair than mine; and if ye\'re sure it\'s what ye\nwould like, I\'ll set it to a tune and sing it to you.\"\n\n\"And what is\'t?\" asked my uncle.\n\n\"David,\" says Alan.\n\n\"What was that?\" cried my uncle, in a mighty changed voice.\n\n\"Shall I give ye the rest of the name, then?\" said Alan.\n\nThere was a pause; and then, \"I\'m thinking I\'ll better let ye in,\" says\nmy uncle, doubtfully.\n\n\"I dare say that,\" said Alan; \"but the point is, Would I go? Now I will\ntell you what I am thinking. I am thinking that it is here upon this\ndoorstep that we must confer upon this business; and it shall be here or\nnowhere at all whatever; for I would have you to understand that I am as\nstiffnecked as yoursel\', and a gentleman of better family.\"\n\nThis change of note disconcerted Ebenezer; he was a little while\ndigesting it, and then says he, \"Weel, weel, what must be must,\" and\nshut the window. But it took him a long time to get down-stairs, and a\nstill longer to undo the fastenings, repenting (I dare say) and taken\nwith fresh claps of fear at every second step and every bolt and bar. At\nlast, however, we heard the creak of the hinges, and it seems my uncle\nslipped gingerly out and (seeing that Alan had stepped back a pace or\ntwo) sate him down on the top doorstep with the blunderbuss ready in his\nhands.\n\n\"And, now\" says he, \"mind I have my blunderbush, and if ye take a step\nnearer ye\'re as good as deid.\"\n\n\"And a very civil speech,\" says Alan, \"to be sure.\"\n\n\"Na,\" says my uncle, \"but this is no a very chanty kind of a proceeding,\nand I\'m bound to be prepared. And now that we understand each other,\nye\'ll can name your business.\"\n\n\"Why,\" says Alan, \"you that are a man of so much understanding, will\ndoubtless have perceived that I am a Hieland gentleman. My name has nae\nbusiness in my story; but the county of my friends is no very far from\nthe Isle of Mull, of which ye will have heard. It seems there was a\nship lost in those parts; and the next day a gentleman of my family was\nseeking wreck-wood for his fire along the sands, when he came upon a lad\nthat was half drowned. Well, he brought him to; and he and some other\ngentleman took and clapped him in an auld, ruined castle, where from\nthat day to this he has been a great expense to my friends. My friends\nare a wee wild-like, and not so particular about the law as some that\nI could name; and finding that the lad owned some decent folk, and was\nyour born nephew, Mr. Balfour, they asked me to give ye a bit call and\nconfer upon the matter. And I may tell ye at the off-go, unless we can\nagree upon some terms, ye are little likely to set eyes upon him. For my\nfriends,\" added Alan, simply, \"are no very well off.\"\n\nMy uncle cleared his throat. \"I\'m no very caring,\" says he. \"He wasnae a\ngood lad at the best of it, and I\'ve nae call to interfere.\"\n\n\"Ay, ay,\" said Alan, \"I see what ye would be at: pretending ye don\'t\ncare, to make the ransom smaller.\"\n\n\"Na,\" said my uncle, \"it\'s the mere truth. I take nae manner of interest\nin the lad, and I\'ll pay nae ransome, and ye can make a kirk and a mill\nof him for what I care.\"\n\n\"Hoot, sir,\" says Alan. \"Blood\'s thicker than water, in the deil\'s name!\nYe cannae desert your brother\'s son for the fair shame of it; and if\nye did, and it came to be kennt, ye wouldnae be very popular in your\ncountry-side, or I\'m the more deceived.\"\n\n\"I\'m no just very popular the way it is,\" returned Ebenezer; \"and I\ndinnae see how it would come to be kennt. No by me, onyway; nor yet by\nyou or your friends. So that\'s idle talk, my buckie,\" says he.\n\n\"Then it\'ll have to be David that tells it,\" said Alan.\n\n\"How that?\" says my uncle, sharply.\n\n\"Ou, just this way,\" says Alan. \"My friends would doubtless keep your\nnephew as long as there was any likelihood of siller to be made of it,\nbut if there was nane, I am clearly of opinion they would let him gang\nwhere he pleased, and be damned to him!\"\n\n\"Ay, but I\'m no very caring about that either,\" said my uncle. \"I\nwouldnae be muckle made up with that.\"\n\n\"I was thinking that,\" said Alan.\n\n\"And what for why?\" asked Ebenezer.\n\n\"Why, Mr. Balfour,\" replied Alan, \"by all that I could hear, there were\ntwo ways of it: either ye liked David and would pay to get him back; or\nelse ye had very good reasons for not wanting him, and would pay for us\nto keep him. It seems it\'s not the first; well then, it\'s the second;\nand blythe am I to ken it, for it should be a pretty penny in my pocket\nand the pockets of my friends.\"\n\n\"I dinnae follow ye there,\" said my uncle.\n\n\"No?\" said Alan. \"Well, see here: you dinnae want the lad back; well,\nwhat do ye want done with him, and how much will ye pay?\"\n\nMy uncle made no answer, but shifted uneasily on his seat.\n\n\"Come, sir,\" cried Alan. \"I would have you to ken that I am a gentleman;\nI bear a king\'s name; I am nae rider to kick my shanks at your hall\ndoor. Either give me an answer in civility, and that out of hand; or by\nthe top of Glencoe, I will ram three feet of iron through your vitals.\"\n\n\"Eh, man,\" cried my uncle, scrambling to his feet, \"give me a meenit!\nWhat\'s like wrong with ye? I\'m just a plain man and nae dancing master;\nand I\'m tryin to be as ceevil as it\'s morally possible. As for that wild\ntalk, it\'s fair disrepitable. Vitals, says you! And where would I be\nwith my blunderbush?\" he snarled.\n\n\"Powder and your auld hands are but as the snail to the swallow against\nthe bright steel in the hands of Alan,\" said the other. \"Before your\njottering finger could find the trigger, the hilt would dirl on your\nbreast-bane.\"\n\n\"Eh, man, whae\'s denying it?\" said my uncle. \"Pit it as ye please, hae\'t\nyour ain way; I\'ll do naething to cross ye. Just tell me what like ye\'ll\nbe wanting, and ye\'ll see that we\'ll can agree fine.\"\n\n\"Troth, sir,\" said Alan, \"I ask for nothing but plain dealing. In two\nwords: do ye want the lad killed or kept?\"\n\n\"O, sirs!\" cried Ebenezer. \"O, sirs, me! that\'s no kind of language!\"\n\n\"Killed or kept!\" repeated Alan.\n\n\"O, keepit, keepit!\" wailed my uncle. \"We\'ll have nae bloodshed, if you\nplease.\"\n\n\"Well,\" says Alan, \"as ye please; that\'ll be the dearer.\"\n\n\"The dearer?\" cries Ebenezer. \"Would ye fyle your hands wi\' crime?\"\n\n\"Hoot!\" said Alan, \"they\'re baith crime, whatever! And the killing\'s\neasier, and quicker, and surer. Keeping the lad\'ll be a fashious* job, a\nfashious, kittle business.\"\n\n * Troublesome.\n\n\"I\'ll have him keepit, though,\" returned my uncle. \"I never had naething\nto do with onything morally wrong; and I\'m no gaun to begin to pleasure\na wild Hielandman.\"\n\n\"Ye\'re unco scrupulous,\" sneered Alan.\n\n\"I\'m a man o\' principle,\" said Ebenezer, simply; \"and if I have to pay\nfor it, I\'ll have to pay for it. And besides,\" says he, \"ye forget the\nlad\'s my brother\'s son.\"\n\n\"Well, well,\" said Alan, \"and now about the price. It\'s no very easy for\nme to set a name upon it; I would first have to ken some small matters.\nI would have to ken, for instance, what ye gave Hoseason at the first\noff-go?\"\n\n\"Hoseason!\" cries my uncle, struck aback. \"What for?\"\n\n\"For kidnapping David,\" says Alan.\n\n\"It\'s a lee, it\'s a black lee!\" cried my uncle. \"He was never kidnapped.\nHe leed in his throat that tauld ye that. Kidnapped? He never was!\"\n\n\"That\'s no fault of mine nor yet of yours,\" said Alan; \"nor yet of\nHoseason\'s, if he\'s a man that can be trusted.\"\n\n\"What do ye mean?\" cried Ebenezer. \"Did Hoseason tell ye?\"\n\n\"Why, ye donnered auld runt, how else would I ken?\" cried Alan.\n\"Hoseason and me are partners; we gang shares; so ye can see for\nyoursel\' what good ye can do leeing. And I must plainly say ye drove a\nfool\'s bargain when ye let a man like the sailor-man so far forward in\nyour private matters. But that\'s past praying for; and ye must lie on\nyour bed the way ye made it. And the point in hand is just this: what\ndid ye pay him?\"\n\n\"Has he tauld ye himsel\'?\" asked my uncle.\n\n\"That\'s my concern,\" said Alan.\n\n\"Weel,\" said my uncle, \"I dinnae care what he said, he leed, and the\nsolemn God\'s truth is this, that I gave him twenty pound. But I\'ll be\nperfec\'ly honest with ye: forby that, he was to have the selling of the\nlad in Caroliny, whilk would be as muckle mair, but no from my pocket,\nye see.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Mr. Thomson. That will do excellently well,\" said the\nlawyer, stepping forward; and then mighty civilly, \"Good-evening, Mr.\nBalfour,\" said he.\n\nAnd, \"Good-evening, Uncle Ebenezer,\" said I.\n\nAnd, \"It\'s a braw nicht, Mr. Balfour,\" added Torrance.\n\nNever a word said my uncle, neither black nor white; but just sat where\nhe was on the top door-step and stared upon us like a man turned to\nstone. Alan filched away his blunderbuss; and the lawyer, taking him\nby the arm, plucked him up from the doorstep, led him into the kitchen,\nwhither we all followed, and set him down in a chair beside the hearth,\nwhere the fire was out and only a rush-light burning.\n\nThere we all looked upon him for a while, exulting greatly in our\nsuccess, but yet with a sort of pity for the man\'s shame.\n\n\"Come, come, Mr. Ebenezer,\" said the lawyer, \"you must not be\ndown-hearted, for I promise you we shall make easy terms. In the\nmeanwhile give us the cellar key, and Torrance shall draw us a bottle\nof your father\'s wine in honour of the event.\" Then, turning to me and\ntaking me by the hand, \"Mr. David,\" says he, \"I wish you all joy in your\ngood fortune, which I believe to be deserved.\" And then to Alan, with\na spice of drollery, \"Mr. Thomson, I pay you my compliment; it was\nmost artfully conducted; but in one point you somewhat outran my\ncomprehension. Do I understand your name to be James? or Charles? or is\nit George, perhaps?\"\n\n\"And why should it be any of the three, sir?\" quoth Alan, drawing\nhimself up, like one who smelt an offence.\n\n\"Only, sir, that you mentioned a king\'s name,\" replied Rankeillor; \"and\nas there has never yet been a King Thomson, or his fame at least has\nnever come my way, I judged you must refer to that you had in baptism.\"\n\nThis was just the stab that Alan would feel keenest, and I am free to\nconfess he took it very ill. Not a word would he answer, but stepped off\nto the far end of the kitchen, and sat down and sulked; and it was not\ntill I stepped after him, and gave him my hand, and thanked him by title\nas the chief spring of my success, that he began to smile a bit, and was\nat last prevailed upon to join our party.\n\nBy that time we had the fire lighted, and a bottle of wine uncorked; a\ngood supper came out of the basket, to which Torrance and I and Alan\nset ourselves down; while the lawyer and my uncle passed into the next\nchamber to consult. They stayed there closeted about an hour; at the end\nof which period they had come to a good understanding, and my uncle and\nI set our hands to the agreement in a formal manner. By the terms\nof this, my uncle bound himself to satisfy Rankeillor as to his\nintromissions, and to pay me two clear thirds of the yearly income of\nShaws.\n\nSo the beggar in the ballad had come home; and when I lay down that\nnight on the kitchen chests, I was a man of means and had a name in the\ncountry. Alan and Torrance and Rankeillor slept and snored on their hard\nbeds; but for me who had lain out under heaven and upon dirt and stones,\nso many days and nights, and often with an empty belly, and in fear\nof death, this good change in my case unmanned me more than any of the\nformer evil ones; and I lay till dawn, looking at the fire on the roof\nand planning the future.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\nGOOD-BYE\n\nSo far as I was concerned myself, I had come to port; but I had still\nAlan, to whom I was so much beholden, on my hands; and I felt besides a\nheavy charge in the matter of the murder and James of the Glens. On both\nthese heads I unbosomed to Rankeillor the next morning, walking to and\nfro about six of the clock before the house of Shaws, and with nothing\nin view but the fields and woods that had been my ancestors\' and were\nnow mine. Even as I spoke on these grave subjects, my eye would take a\nglad bit of a run over the prospect, and my heart jump with pride.\n\nAbout my clear duty to my friend, the lawyer had no doubt. I must help\nhim out of the county at whatever risk; but in the case of James, he was\nof a different mind.\n\n\"Mr. Thomson,\" says he, \"is one thing, Mr. Thomson\'s kinsman quite\nanother. I know little of the facts, but I gather that a great noble\n(whom we will call, if you like, the D. of A.)* has some concern and\nis even supposed to feel some animosity in the matter. The D. of A. is\ndoubtless an excellent nobleman; but, Mr. David, timeo qui nocuere deos.\nIf you interfere to balk his vengeance, you should remember there is\none way to shut your testimony out; and that is to put you in the dock.\nThere, you would be in the same pickle as Mr. Thomson\'s kinsman. You\nwill object that you are innocent; well, but so is he. And to be tried\nfor your life before a Highland jury, on a Highland quarrel and with\na Highland Judge upon the bench, would be a brief transition to the\ngallows.\"\n\n * The Duke of Argyle.\n\nNow I had made all these reasonings before and found no very good reply\nto them; so I put on all the simplicity I could. \"In that case, sir,\"\nsaid I, \"I would just have to be hanged--would I not?\"\n\n\"My dear boy,\" cries he, \"go in God\'s name, and do what you think is\nright. It is a poor thought that at my time of life I should be advising\nyou to choose the safe and shameful; and I take it back with an apology.\nGo and do your duty; and be hanged, if you must, like a gentleman. There\nare worse things in the world than to be hanged.\"\n\n\"Not many, sir,\" said I, smiling.\n\n\"Why, yes, sir,\" he cried, \"very many. And it would be ten times better\nfor your uncle (to go no farther afield) if he were dangling decently\nupon a gibbet.\"\n\nThereupon he turned into the house (still in a great fervour of mind,\nso that I saw I had pleased him heartily) and there he wrote me two\nletters, making his comments on them as he wrote.\n\n\"This,\" says he, \"is to my bankers, the British Linen Company, placing a\ncredit to your name. Consult Mr. Thomson, he will know of ways; and\nyou, with this credit, can supply the means. I trust you will be a good\nhusband of your money; but in the affair of a friend like Mr. Thomson,\nI would be even prodigal. Then for his kinsman, there is no better way\nthan that you should seek the Advocate, tell him your tale, and offer\ntestimony; whether he may take it or not, is quite another matter, and\nwill turn on the D. of A. Now, that you may reach the Lord Advocate well\nrecommended, I give you here a letter to a namesake of your own, the\nlearned Mr. Balfour of Pilrig, a man whom I esteem. It will look better\nthat you should be presented by one of your own name; and the laird of\nPilrig is much looked up to in the Faculty and stands well with Lord\nAdvocate Grant. I would not trouble him, if I were you, with any\nparticulars; and (do you know?) I think it would be needless to refer to\nMr. Thomson. Form yourself upon the laird, he is a good model; when you\ndeal with the Advocate, be discreet; and in all these matters, may the\nLord guide you, Mr. David!\"\n\nThereupon he took his farewell, and set out with Torrance for the Ferry,\nwhile Alan and I turned our faces for the city of Edinburgh. As we went\nby the footpath and beside the gateposts and the unfinished lodge, we\nkept looking back at the house of my fathers. It stood there, bare and\ngreat and smokeless, like a place not lived in; only in one of the top\nwindows, there was the peak of a nightcap bobbing up and down and back\nand forward, like the head of a rabbit from a burrow. I had little\nwelcome when I came, and less kindness while I stayed; but at least I\nwas watched as I went away.\n\nAlan and I went slowly forward upon our way, having little heart either\nto walk or speak. The same thought was uppermost in both, that we were\nnear the time of our parting; and remembrance of all the bygone days\nsate upon us sorely. We talked indeed of what should be done; and it\nwas resolved that Alan should keep to the county, biding now here, now\nthere, but coming once in the day to a particular place where I might be\nable to communicate with him, either in my own person or by messenger.\nIn the meanwhile, I was to seek out a lawyer, who was an Appin Stewart,\nand a man therefore to be wholly trusted; and it should be his part to\nfind a ship and to arrange for Alan\'s safe embarkation. No sooner was\nthis business done, than the words seemed to leave us; and though I\nwould seek to jest with Alan under the name of Mr. Thomson, and he with\nme on my new clothes and my estate, you could feel very well that we\nwere nearer tears than laughter.\n\nWe came the by-way over the hill of Corstorphine; and when we got\nnear to the place called Rest-and-be-Thankful, and looked down on\nCorstorphine bogs and over to the city and the castle on the hill, we\nboth stopped, for we both knew without a word said that we had come to\nwhere our ways parted. Here he repeated to me once again what had been\nagreed upon between us: the address of the lawyer, the daily hour at\nwhich Alan might be found, and the signals that were to be made by any\nthat came seeking him. Then I gave what money I had (a guinea or two of\nRankeillor\'s) so that he should not starve in the meanwhile; and then we\nstood a space, and looked over at Edinburgh in silence.\n\n\"Well, good-bye,\" said Alan, and held out his left hand.\n\n\"Good-bye,\" said I, and gave the hand a little grasp, and went off down\nhill.\n\nNeither one of us looked the other in the face, nor so long as he was in\nmy view did I take one back glance at the friend I was leaving. But as\nI went on my way to the city, I felt so lost and lonesome, that I could\nhave found it in my heart to sit down by the dyke, and cry and weep like\nany baby.\n\nIt was coming near noon when I passed in by the West Kirk and the\nGrassmarket into the streets of the capital. The huge height of the\nbuildings, running up to ten and fifteen storeys, the narrow arched\nentries that continually vomited passengers, the wares of the merchants\nin their windows, the hubbub and endless stir, the foul smells and the\nfine clothes, and a hundred other particulars too small to mention,\nstruck me into a kind of stupor of surprise, so that I let the crowd\ncarry me to and fro; and yet all the time what I was thinking of was\nAlan at Rest-and-be-Thankful; and all the time (although you would think\nI would not choose but be delighted with these braws and novelties)\nthere was a cold gnawing in my inside like a remorse for something\nwrong.\n\nThe hand of Providence brought me in my drifting to the very doors of\nthe British Linen Company\'s bank.'"