.. , 
 

 
 
" 'WIFE? WIFE? WHO TALKS OF WIVES TO MY DAUGHTER?"' 
 
Strong Mac 
 
 BY 
 
 S. R. Crockett 
 
 Author of " The Raid- 
 ers," "Joan of the 
 Sword Hand," "Cin- 
 derella," etc. xx xxx 
 
 Illustrated by 
 Maurice Grcijfenhagen 
 
 New York 
 
 anti Compattg 
 
 1904 
 
Copyright, 1902, by S. R. CROCKETT. 
 
 Published March, 1904. 
 
 BURR PRINTING HOUSE 
 NEW YORK 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. DECLARATION OF WAR . . . . . 
 
 II. THE LOWRAN DOMINIE 
 
 III. How ADORA GRACIE KEPT SCHOOL 
 
 IV. THE PLOUGHING MATCH . . . 
 
 V. A WOMAN SCORNED 
 
 VI. GREAT WAS THE FALL THEREOF . 
 
 VII. BOUND HAND AND FOOT WITH GRAVECLOTHES 
 
 VIII. THE SOUR MANNA OF REVENGE 
 
 IX. THE CLEUCH OF PLUCKAMIN 
 
 X. OH, THAT IT WERE YESTERDAY! . 
 
 XL WITHOUT ARE DOGS \ 
 
 XII. THE TALE OF DAID THE DEIL .... 
 
 XIII. THE CAMPAIGN 
 
 XIV. THE NEW WORLD OF LOWRAN 
 XV. A CONFIDENTIAL CONVERSATION 
 
 XVI. INFLUENCE BY RICOCHET .... 
 
 XVII. LOVE BY RESOLUTION 
 
 XVIII. THE BATTLE ENGAGES 
 
 XIX. THE SUB-SOIL OF CRIME 
 
 XX. AN OLD MAID'S TEA-PARTY .... 
 
 XXI. THE SHERIFF'S ROOM 
 
 XXII. THE DARK COMPANION 
 
 XXIII. AN HIGH DAY IN LOWRAN .... 
 
 XXIV. COUNTER- STROKE TREACHEROUS 
 
 XXV. WHAT DICKIE DICK FOUND ON THE GLEBE ROAD 
 
 XXVI. SANDY EWAN'S UNSEEN VISITOR . 
 
 XXVII. THE SECOND KNIFE THRUST .... 
 
 XXVIII. OUT OF GOOD EVIL 
 
 XXIX. THE DEEPEST DEPTH 
 
 XXX. ADORA FINDS HER SOUL 
 
 XXXI. THE WOLF'S CUB 
 
 XXXII. DEVIL'S WORK 
 
 XXXIII. THE CAPTAIN OF THE "FORTUNE'S QUEEN" . 
 
 XXXIV. ENEMY'S COUNTRY . 
 
 PAGE 
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 . 29 
 
 . 36 
 
 . 45 
 
 52 
 . 60 
 
 67 
 
 75 
 
 79 
 . 86 
 
 94 
 . 105 
 
 . 114 
 
 . 122 
 . 130 
 
 139 
 
 145 
 
 159 
 . I6 5 
 
 175 
 . 183 
 . 192 
 . 200 
 . 208 
 . 219 
 . 229 
 
 235 
 . 243 
 . 250 
 
 259 
 . 267 
 
 69559 
 
IV 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXXV. THE LATIMER TEMPER 279 
 
 XXXVI. THE PROPHETIC UTTERANCES OF CAPTAIN EBE- 
 
 NEZER SINCLAIR 286 
 
 XXXVII. COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE 293 
 
 XXXVIII. "By A MAJORITY!" 303 
 
 XXXIX. Two MEN AND THE WOMAN .... 314 
 
 XL. THE SHEIL OF THE BLACK WATER . . .322 
 
 XLI. THE HEART OF ADORA 333 
 
 XLII. "HOLD YOUR TONGUE, WOMAN !" . . . . 340 
 
 XLIII. BALGRACIE OF BALGRACIE 346 
 
 XLIV. THE NAME! . 353 
 
 XLV. LOVER OR FRIEND 362 
 
 XLVI. QUESTIONS TO ASK 370 
 
 XLVII. THE DOMINIE ASSERTS HIMSELF . . . .375 
 
 XL VII I. DAID'S CROWNING MERCY 384 
 
 XLIX. A FEW OPINIONS 390 
 
 L. THREADS DRAWN TOGETHER 396 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 " 'Wife? Wife? Who talks of 'wives' to my daugh- 
 ter?'" Frontispiece 
 
 " 'Ye besom/ he shouted, Til fell ye dead for that' " . .8 
 " 'My faith !' he cried, 'ye are bonnier than ever' " . -34 
 
 " 'Oh, you shouldn't, father,' she cried" 88 
 
 " 'And now,' said Adora Gracie . . . 'Listen' " . . . 126 
 " 'I shall see you flung to the door, as the dirt beneath 
 
 my feet' " 174 
 
 " 'Ye can e'en tell the story yoursel' ' " 200 
 
 "The two silently shook hands" ,,,... 314 
 
STRONG MAC 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 DECLARATION OF WAR. 
 
 A GREAT noise had been proceeding all the morning 
 from the schoolhouse of Lowran, a noise which would 
 without doubt have attracted the notice of the passers-by, 
 had there been any. But as there were none (except a 
 stray cat supposed to belong to Jake Allerdyce, the vil- 
 lage ne'er-do-weel, and her friend Cruncher, a Jaongrel 
 terrier of many picturesque attainments), the noise in 
 Lowran school passed without notice. 
 
 The schoolhouse was situated in a wood, with only a 
 square, grassless space, called the playground, before it. 
 A hundred yards away was the highroad to the village 
 of Lowran, a quarter of a mile down the hill. 
 
 It consisted of a single chamber with a porch, where 
 girls left their hats, and some of the country pupils their 
 dinner-baskets, and on whose steep roof the favourite boy 
 of the day clambered to ring the cracked school bell. The 
 dimensions of Lowran schoolroom were these: Eleven 
 strides of Donald Gracie, the schoolmaster, took him from 
 the writing benches at the upper end to the door of the 
 porch. With two more he could put himself into an 
 excellent strategic position, from which he could at once 
 command the outer door of entrance with one hand, and 
 with the other grope under the coats for hidden strag- 
 glers. Donald Grade's faith in human nature, never 
 strong, had suffered a sad shock on the day when, cas- 
 ually shutting the school door behind him for a moment, 
 he had found Daid McRobb, the "deil" of the school, sus- 
 
2 STRONG MAC 
 
 pended by his hands from the peg under his own over- 
 coat. Daid had answered to his name at the calling of 
 the roll a moment before, and there was a mark in the 
 register to show that he was within his duty. But here, 
 within twenty seconds of the closing of the roll-book, lo ! 
 Daid was found suspended by the clasped hands, his feet 
 lifted from the ground and his angelic face upturned, 
 when the schoolmaster drew aside the tails of his over- 
 coat. 
 
 Daid was soundly thrashed. That was a matter of 
 course. But Donald Gracie sat no whit the more com- 
 fortable on his chair of state for having settled Daid's 
 account. His faith in human nature had suffered. He 
 felt that he was being spied upon. 
 
 And the reason why he cared was simply this. There was 
 a certain bottle in the breast pocket of that overcoat not 
 a large, vulgar black bottle, but a slim, pocketable, round- 
 bottomed bottle, with a cork which could be drawn with- 
 out any noise. It was after Donald Gracie had drawn the 
 cork, but before he had set the bottle to his lips, that 
 he discovered Daid McRobb. 
 
 But upon this warm, misty morning of late autumn or 
 early winter (which you will) affairs in the schoolhouse 
 had become more serious. About the school, all down 
 the wheel tracks on either side of the guttery road, the 
 dead leaves lay dank and sodden. The thaw had come 
 after the first nip of frost, and with it the day of the great 
 ploughing match, in which Lowran met its neighbouring 
 parish of Kirkanders. 
 
 Now in Lowran the summer conditions of tuition are 
 as follows : The school consists of twenty to twenty-five 
 village bairns, mostly under the age of ten ; one or two 
 lassies somewhat older, the children of a few well-to-do 
 farmers who prefer a continuous education to receiving 
 manual assistance in the fields from their daughters. 
 Their sons take the matter in their own hands and refuse 
 to attend school on any terms. Besides these, only the 
 bees and the wood-birds, with a godsend alike to 
 
DECLARATION OF WAR 3 
 
 teacher and scholars the advent of Chattera, the pet 
 squirrel of the village and the property of Crob McRobb, 
 the father of the aforesaid Daid the Deil. 
 
 In winter, however, all was changed at the Lowran. 
 Dominie Gracie was allowed by all to "hae the knowledge 
 and eke the airt of imparting it" (here the country folk 
 looked at each other and nodded ever so slightly). "That 
 is, if only ," one of them would add. 
 
 "Aye, man, ye're speakin' I" 
 
 "Aye !" 
 
 3jC ****** 
 
 The schoolroom of Lowran was crowded in winter 
 especially so this 29th day of November of the 
 year of grace 1810, the day of the great inter-parochial 
 ploughing. There were young men of twenty present 
 Jock Fairies of the Holm, James McCulloch of House of 
 Muir, and Roy, his brother, both of whom travelled ten 
 miles down from the hills each morning. Besides these, 
 thirteen able-bodied youths of all ages from sixteen to 
 twenty crowded one entire side of the school, sitting at 
 desks with their faces to the windows, while at the oppo- 
 site end were an equal number of mature young women, 
 taking their winter's schooling after a summer spent in 
 the hayfield, the barn, the byre and the harvest rig. 
 
 The noise in the Lowran school came from the young 
 men's bench. It had been understood that the ploughing 
 match day was to be a holiday. It had been a holiday, 
 indeed, since the beginning of time. But for some reason 
 Donald Gracie, ordinarily so amenable to suggestion, had 
 on this occasion stiffened his back and denied the request 
 of his scholars denied it, too, with those bitter, sarcastic 
 words of which he had the secret. The girls, to whom 
 ploughing matches were naught, had laughed specially at 
 the discomfiture of Sandy Ewan, the son of the big farmer 
 of the Boreland of Kirkanders, who rode over every 
 morning on his own pony to be taught surveying and 
 mensuration by the all-accomplished Dominie of Lowran. 
 
 So it was small wonder that these strong-thewed Lords 
 
4 STRONG MAC 
 
 of the Congregation on the male side were in a state of 
 open revolt. Their ostensible leader was Muckle Sandy 
 Ewan, a great, raw-boned, horse- faced youth, with pale 
 eyes that seemed "dibbled" into his face, so deeply were 
 they set between his high cheek-bones and the hairless 
 ridges of his eyebrows. 
 
 "If I have any authority in this school," Donald Gracie 
 had said, "ye shall not go no, not one of you to these 
 worse than Roman Saturnalia. For if you disobey, I 
 will not only report you to your parents, but I will call 
 the roll every hour, and the loss of these six marks shall 
 be held to disqualify for the competition in which most 
 of the seniors are interested." 
 
 This was the annual "Laird of Lowran Prize," a local 
 foundation of the value of ten pounds a year, sufficient 
 with ordinary personal endeavour to see the winner 
 through a session at college even in these dear times. 
 
 The tumult began in low murmurings, which rumbled 
 from end to end of the senior boys' benches. The girls 
 opposite bent their heads diligently over their copy-books. 
 But the young men knew that these had eyes in the back 
 of their heads, and that many pairs of pretty ears ached 
 with listening. 
 
 Only in the cross-benches of the school, where the 
 small fry were huddled, did the work of the school go on 
 undisturbed. Donald Gracie stalked hither and thither 
 as usual, his taws under his arm. A stout ash-plant, 
 emblem of authority, hung on a couple of pins above his 
 desk, as a court of final appeal. 
 
 The Dominie of Lowran was a tall man, with weakish, 
 watery eyes perpetually blinking, well-formed features, 
 a broad white brow, hair wearing a little thin on top and 
 falling grey and soft on the rolling collar of his blue coat. 
 He took snuff constantly with a shaking hand and a cer- 
 tain air of the fallen angel, mingled with a sweet and 
 pathetic dignity that told of a spirit within which, though 
 it might sin, delighted not in iniquity nor walked willingly 
 in the way of sinners. In short, Donald Gracie was that 
 
DECLARATION OF WAR 5 
 
 particularly hopeless thing, a secret drinker. Once on 
 a time, long ago, he had been a minister. He was one 
 no longer. The past had shut down upon that, but ten 
 years ago certain old friends of his, moving influentially 
 in high places, had obtained for him the dominieship of 
 the parish of Lowran. And as year by year he sent 
 bursars and college prizemen from little hill-girt Lowran 
 to the universities, his fame waxed greater in the land. 
 And this though the shadow also grew upon his face 
 "tavert" was what the people called his aspect of Fallen 
 Seraph and though every scholar in the school had 
 watched through the keyhole in turn, and could imitate 
 the exact crook of the elbow with which the master con- 
 veyed the little round-bottomed bottle from his pocket to 
 his mouth when he thought himself alone in the porch. 
 
 The noise grew and grew, echoing from end to end of 
 the bench which looked toward the wood. Iron-shod 
 clogs stuffed with straw in many barns and great hob- 
 nailed boots began to clack and beat a sort of rhythmic 
 march tramp, tramp tramp-a-tramp ! Thus, with a 
 halt between, and all over again. 
 
 The Dominie's weak face grew slowly purple, and then 
 paled again so white that the weak, reddish eyes seemed 
 injected, and the nails of the shaking fingers were driven 
 into the palm. Thrice he mounted the desk and strove to 
 quell the turmoil. 
 
 "Tramp, tramp tramp-a-tramp I" 
 
 Then the sudden, quick-flaming anger of a weak man 
 came upon the Dominie. He reached up his hand and 
 lifted the ash-plant off the wooden pegs where it lay 
 above his head. The watching school hushed itself with 
 a sobbing intake of breath. There was a great silence. 
 The bench of girls lifted itself with one movement, and 
 where had been only ribbands, snoods of blue and black, 
 long plaited braids, plaits and knots of hair, or loose- 
 flowing tresses, row upon row of eager white faces 
 watched the Dominie's movements. 
 
 Donald Gracie took three strides to the top of the 
 
6 STRONG MAC 
 
 school and, lifting his hand high above his head, struck 
 the biggest youth in the school, Muckle Sandy Ewan, 
 heavily across the shoulders. 
 
 The tramp-a-tramp had instinctively stilled itself at his 
 approach. A certain respect for constituted authority 
 held those who had grown up under his hand in Lowran. 
 But there were three in that row of broad-shouldered lads 
 who were not of the parish, and of these the leader, both 
 by position and personal prowess, was undoubtedly Sandy 
 Ewan. 
 
 As the blow fell the school gasped. The next moment 
 Muckle Sandy had risen, his great horse face distorted 
 with anger. He caught the master by the throat, 
 wrenched the ash-plant out of his hand and threw him 
 backwards. 
 
 Donald Gracie fell heavily over a form and lay motion- 
 less and stunned, his flash of weak energy gone from him. 
 Biting his thick under lip till the flat protruding teeth 
 of his upper jaw showed wolfishly, Muckle Sandy stood 
 over the motionless black figure with the ash-plant in his 
 hand. 
 
 No one knows whether or not he intended to strike 
 the Dominie. That question will never be settled. For 
 just then a tall, slender girl, dusky of face as a gipsy, with 
 dark, flashing eyes and hair flying over her back, leaped, 
 rather than rose, from her seat at the head of the seniors' 
 bench and was upon the victor in a moment. She was 
 fifteen (or, it might be, sixteen) years of age, but gave 
 the observer that impression of maturity which comes so 
 early in Galloway to dark girls of the aboriginal Pictish 
 breed. 
 
 Then, lo! in a moment all was changed. Before the 
 school could breathe, before the Dominie could quaver a 
 feeble protesting hagyi, before Muckle Sandy Ewan had 
 time to lift his weapon, the ash-plant was wrenched out 
 of his hand and he received a couple of stinging cuts with 
 the supple end of it, one across either side of the horse 
 face, on the doughy cheeks of which presently appeared 
 
DECLARATION OF WAR 7 
 
 two welts, red and angry, neatly paired like carriage 
 horses, or rather like the winning team at the ploughing 
 match, and extending from the temple to the angle of 
 the jaw, where the ridge faded into the bull neck. 
 
 Muckle Sandy Ewan vented his feelings, after the first 
 intolerable smart of surprise, in a "gowl" of inarticulate 
 wrath. He sprang toward the girl, his hand clutching 
 to seize her. His fingers caught her light, poor gown. 
 It ripped under his grasp. The lace collar came away in 
 his hand. It had been pinned on, and now, the point of 
 one of these cutting downward in that rude clutch, a thin 
 line of red appeared upon the dusky tan of the girl's 
 neck. 
 
 Muckle Sandy, stepping over the Dominie, pulled the 
 girl toward him and made another snatch at the ash- 
 plant missed it, and for the third time it stung him vehe- 
 mently across one ear. 
 
 "Ye besom !" he shouted, "I'll fell ye dead for that !" 
 
 Muckle Sandy lifted up his great fist and undoubtedly 
 the next moment the girl would have been lying beside the 
 unconscious Dominie, had not something happened. 
 
 From the lower end of the bench a figure had detached 
 itself, lazily at first, certainly good-humouredly. 
 
 "Strong Mac!" chorused the school, breathless with ex- 
 pectation. 
 
 "Haste ye, Strong Mac !" cried a voice shrill and high, 
 that of "Deil" McRobb. "He will kill the lassie ! He's 
 awfu' when he's angry ! I ken !" 
 
 But Strong Mac did nothing hastily only everything 
 always at the right time. Muckle Sandy's hand was 
 already descending, when Strong Mac caught it from be- 
 hind and swung the assailant round, as a big dog swings 
 a little one when they are chained together. Muckle 
 Sandy had the girl's white collar still in his hand 
 as Strong Mac propelled him to the door, punted him 
 down the playground in standing leaps, and at last flung 
 him out on the road down the steps, where he lay looking 
 up at the road he had come in a. dazed way. 
 
8 STRONG MAC 
 
 Strong Mac stood over his enemy threateningly. 
 
 "D'ye want to fecht?" he demanded. 
 
 "Na, I dinna !" said Muckle Sandy Ewan. 
 
 "Gie me that collar, then !" 
 
 The collar was delivered up. 
 
 "Noo ye can gang to your plooin' match !" said Strong 
 Mac, with contempt, and betook himself back to the 
 school. He had never held any part of a girl's dress in 
 his hand before. There was a speck of red upon the 
 inside very tiny. Strong Mac started and flushed, 
 though he had seen blood often enough. But never 
 that. Then he remembered that he had not kicked Muckle 
 Sandy Ewan enough. He turned to repair the omission. 
 But for the time being the resolve came too late. He 
 received a stone as big as a goose egg between the 
 shoulder-blades, hurled with excellent aim, and a mock- 
 ing shout fell on his ear : 
 
 "Poacher deer-poacher sheep-stealer ! I'll see ye i' 
 the jail yet ! My faither said sae !" 
 
 Strong Mac smiled. He had heard such threats often 
 and they moved him not. Roy McCulloch had a brother 
 and a father. More, he had the side of the Black Muir, 
 which none knew like himself caves, morasses, forest, 
 moss-hags. He would like to see any one who could catch 
 him there ! 
 
 The school was buzzing like a hive when he entered. 
 It stilled instinctively as his broad shoulders blocked up 
 the doorway. 
 
 The girl was standing with her face a ghastly white. 
 She had tried to lift the Dominie, but could not manage 
 it alone. 
 
 "Help me with my father !" she said to Strong Mac. 
 
 "Shall I send them awa' ?" he queried, indicating the as- 
 sembled school with a jerk of his head. 
 
 The expression of the girl's face firmed under his eye. 
 
 "No," she said. "I'll teach the school, instead of my 
 father. And I'll call the roll every hour as he said he 
 would !" 
 
'YE BESOM,' HE SHOUTED, 'l FELL YE DEAD FOR THAT. 
 
DECLARATION OF WAR 9 
 
 "Faith, then I'll help ye, Dora Grade !" said Strong 
 Mac, setting his back to the closed door which led into 
 the porch. "Here, you, Jamie" (he indicated his brother), 
 an' you, Jock Fairies, carry the maister ben to his bed. 
 Ye ken where to gang. Bring him to and leave him. 
 Dora, call the roll. I'll see fair play." 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE LOWRAN DOMINIE. 
 
 ADORA, or Dora, Grade was "a manse bairn." That 
 is, she had been born not in the purple, but in the true blue 
 of Presbytery, the house of the pastor of a flock of human 
 souls. 
 
 And so measuring the descent, we begin to see whence 
 Donald Gracie got his bearing of Fallen Seraph. Never- 
 theless, no man of that name had during the fifty years 
 before this year of grace 1812 been a placed minister in 
 the Kirk of Scotland. Yet this the Dominie of Lowran 
 had been and also in his day the citizen of no mean city. 
 
 Time was when, with the highest hopes, a certain 
 younger son of the Laird of Balgracie (Balgracie of that 
 ilk) had been licensed to preach the Word. It seemed 
 throughout all the Lothians nothing less than a conde- 
 scension, and religion itself rose in general estimation 
 when young Donald Balgracie preached his first sermon. 
 So handsome he was, too, so certain of the highest pre- 
 ferment, that his words came home with tenfold force to 
 mothers of marriageable daughters. These on their own 
 account found him "interesting," though how he could 
 want to be a minister, when he might have arrayed himself 
 in scarlet and gone to the wars, was a mystery to them. 
 
 Balgracie of Balgracie was of an ancient family, some- 
 what sunk for a generation or two, but again restored to 
 more than its former glories by that notable Virginia 
 tobacco lord, Archibald Balgracie, who in 1789 succeeded 
 his childless elder brother in the family estates, and who 
 had used his great fortune (brought from the plantations) 
 
THE LOWRAN DOMINIE n 
 
 in buying back and adding to the former possessions of 
 the Balgracies. He built himself a new mansion-house, 
 and entertained in a manner which was the admiration or 
 the envy, the heart-breaking or the pride, of the three 
 Lothians, according as the inhabitants went abroad to 
 boast or remained at home to sneer. 
 
 The eldest son of the "tobacco lord" had succeeded 
 to the business in Glasgow, as he was in time to succeed to 
 the family estates. Donald the younger was, however, 
 the general favourite, and owing to the frequent absences 
 of his father and elder brother, it was his ill-fortune to be 
 reared at home by a triumvirate of aunts. These were 
 the sisters of his father women who remembered the 
 former things, the poverty, the scanting and scrimping, 
 the one lean serving-man in the tightly buttoned coat, his 
 hands grimed with the clods of the garden, smelling of 
 the stable, who had waited at table and lectured ,hem 
 upon their extravagant ways till the day when their 
 brother Archibald came home from the plantations a wid- 
 ower, with a boy of fifteen, a babe of seven months, and a 
 great fortune. 
 
 Girzie, Isbel and Adora Balgracie were variously 
 known in the neighbourhood as the Three Graces, the 
 Three Muses, the Three Fates, or the Three Furies, ac- 
 cording to the humour of the speaker. In their youths 
 the Balgracies had been tall, slender girls, and, not with- 
 out reason, had thought well of themselves. That was the 
 hour when, without bitterness and with no back-spang 
 of sarcasm, they had been called in easy assonance the 
 Three Graces of Balgracie. A little later they took to 
 writing verses. Tender they were and very sentimental, 
 conceived in the stiff rhyme royal of the period. You 
 may stumble across some of them still in the later num- 
 bers of the Scots Magazine when you are searching that 
 delectable chronicle for Gretna Green marriages, won- 
 derful providences, parish gossip, and early tidings of 
 the death of kings. 
 
 They are signed "Griselda," "Isabella," or "Adora," in 
 
12 STRONG MAC 
 
 turns. For the work of the Muses of Balgracie was a 
 strict collaboration. Adora, the youngest, wrote the 
 verses, humming the lines to herself as she went about her 
 daily work, crooning them over to the whirl of the spin- 
 ning-wheel and the twirl of the distaff. Then precise 
 Isabella corrected and pruned the expressions sucked 
 out the sap, as it were while last of all, practical Griselda 
 copied them in a clear, running hand and did the cor- 
 respondence with the editor in Edinburgh. 
 
 As for their other two nicknames, both those who called 
 them the Three Fates of Balgracie (because they were 
 nobody's fate) and those who in their days of the sere 
 leaf spoke of them as the Furies knew as little of their 
 kind hearts and unselfish lives as they did of the classics. 
 
 Yet had they been the most fateful of Furies, they could 
 hardly have done worse by Donald Balgracie. There can 
 be no doubt that the neglect of his father, the years which 
 divided him from his elder brother, and above all, the 
 ceaseless spoiling Donald Balgracie received from his 
 three maiden aunts, were responsible, in part at least, for 
 his downfall. After having been educated at home by an 
 indulgent tutor, then sent to college with much money 
 at his disposal, returning to Balgracie each summer to 
 lord it over the heritage of his brother (already up to his 
 ears in business in Glasgow), Donald found himself sud- 
 denly minister of a rich but lonely parish lying at the back 
 of the Pentlands. 
 
 With great promptness he provided against the lone- 
 liness by marrying his late landlady's daughter, a sweet 
 and simple girl, with the Edinburgh roses a-bloom on her 
 cheeks. 
 
 But his father was mortally offended, with the offence 
 of a man who has taken it for granted that all will go as 
 he wishes it without his needing to stir one of his little 
 fingers. From that time forth all Archibald Balgracie's 
 pride and hope was centred in his elder son, whom he 
 loved to see acting his part on the crowded mart, counter- 
 
THE LOWRAN DOMINIE 13 
 
 ing with inherited shrewdness the changing wants and 
 devices of customers. 
 
 But Donald had he not given him a good education 
 and all his own way ? Had he not piloted him by influence 
 into a respectable and lucrative position? And now, to 
 please himself, he must needs marry a beggar ! Well, let 
 him please himself and see what would come of it. 
 
 So Donald, that is to say, the Reverend Donald Bal- 
 gracie of the parish of Maxtone Easter, went his way apart 
 from his father. The triumvirate of aunts, Griselda, Isa- 
 bella and Adora, were forbidden to hold communication 
 with him even to think of him. And as for his brother 
 William in Glasgow, he had no desire to do either. 
 
 All might have gone well, however, with the household 
 in the Manse of Maxtone Easter if the life of the young 
 wife had been spared. In his dreams Donald Balgracie 
 often found himself sitting in the twilight with Lucy, his 
 wife, holding her hand and speaking low of that which 
 God was sending to them. 
 
 But when, a few months later, Donald Balgracie sat 
 alone in a wide house with a week-old infant wailing 
 overhead in the arms of the hired nurse, what wonder is 
 it that the man's heart sank within him? His was no 
 strong nature. He had never been taught self-control. 
 And so and so as the long winter passed draggingly, 
 endlessly, there came a change, noted of the people, over 
 their young minister. At first, with unusual charity, it had 
 been set down to grief for his wife, but after, the mat- 
 ter became all too plain, then clamant, then scandalous. 
 The Presbytery, always a little hostile, took the matter in 
 hand. Sons of the people themselves, they resented the 
 scions of rich families entering into the best heritages of 
 the Kirk. On the other hand, the people of Maxtone, 
 all but one or two, stood by their minister. 
 
 "He is young he will mend/' they said. "Grief hath 
 made him mad ! And moreover," they added, "what bet- 
 ter are you his judges you, moderator, with your roister- 
 
14 STRONG MAC 
 
 ous Market Mondays ? you, clerk of the Presbytery, with 
 your unhallowed card parties ? Answer us that." 
 
 But moderator and clerk answered not. They took ac- 
 tion instead. And at the age of twenty-nine Donald Bal- 
 gracie found himself a man outcast, degraded, unfrocked, 
 without means and with a little daughter to support. His 
 father's sole anxiety was that his son should vanish for- 
 ever out of his ken. He offered to send him to the 
 plantations, where he still had important interests, telling 
 him frankly that if he lived, he might consider himself 
 leniently dealt with, and if he died in the tobacco fields 
 why, so much the better for all concerned. 
 
 As for his three aunts, they only grieved and prayed 
 in secret, and at last gained a reluctant consent from their 
 brother that if Donald would give up the babe, they might 
 have the bringing of her up. 
 
 "And see that ye make a better job of the lass than ye 
 made of the lad !" Archibald Balgracie had added grimly 
 as he went out. 
 
 But Donald would in nowise consent to be parted from 
 his little Adora. As to that, at least, he was adamant. 
 And so, with influence made through one of his old col- 
 lege professors, the unfrocked minister became a parish 
 schoolmaster in far-off Galloway. Donald Balgracie be- 
 came Donald Gracie, and Adora his daughter grew up to 
 be the sweetest and winsomest little maid that ever trod 
 down the daisies in the Lowran fields. 
 
 Sole of all the parish the Dominie's story was known 
 to Dr. Cyrus Meiklewham, the minister. For so the pro- 
 fessor judged right. 
 
 "At least it shall not leap out upon him like a lion from 
 a bush!" he had said. And Dr. Cyrus Meiklewham, 
 though not clever, proved a dungeon of silent discretion. 
 
 For long after this downfall Donald Gracie walked be- 
 fore men irreproachable. True, the shadow did not 
 wholly depart from his face. The "fallen seraph" look 
 remained nay, perhaps grew more pathetic. The folk 
 whispered and smiled, but it was tolerantly. For much 
 
THE LOWRAN DOMINIE 15 
 
 is forgiven in Galloway to one with the name of a great 
 scholar. The Dominie's Latin was without equal. "And 
 what the worse is he of a human failing or twa 
 like yours and mine? And maybe, gin a' were kenned" 
 (so ran the shrewd comment), "there may be others in 
 the parish quite unfit to cast the first stane at the Domi- 
 nie." 
 
 So there was no open scandal, nothing indeed at all 
 like it, for many years. Nevertheless, Donald Gracie was 
 already an old man at forty-three, and his daughter Dora 
 had the shadow of a shadow upon her young face. The 
 moist eye, the slack lip, the flushed face, the trembling 
 hand, all told the same tale. The demon who had put out 
 his head at Maxtone Easter was not exorcised. Nor, per- 
 haps, could be by any power of man. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 HOW ADORA GRACIE KEPT SCHOOL. 
 
 "GANG ye ben and attend to your faither," said Strong 
 Mac to Adora, when his brother James and his compan- 
 ion came back from laying the master on his bed. "I'll 
 see to it that the schule is in fine fettle for the learnin' 
 when ye come back." 
 
 Adora sped upon her errand through the door which 
 connected the schoolroom with the master's house. Then, 
 with his back still against the porch entrance, Roy McCul- 
 loch lazily propounded his scholastic philosophy. 
 
 "Ye see," said he confidentially to the assembled schol- 
 ars, "there's you and here's me and in yonder's the las- 
 sie! There's the lassie to gie ye your lessons. (And she 
 can do it as weel as her faither !) There's you that's gaun 
 to learn them, and there's me to see that they are learnt. 
 Hae ye a' gotten haud o' that ?" 
 
 He turned to the bench of the young men, the some- 
 time haughty Lords of the Lowran Congregation. Few 
 of them were looking at him. Most regarded their copy- 
 books with an absolute attention. Some figured dili- 
 gently. 
 
 "It's to you I'm speakin' maistly !" he went on. "Lads, 
 listen to me. If there's ony three o' ye that are o' opinion 
 that I canna break their backs at yae time, stand oot here 
 and hae it ower afore the lassie comes back. For if 
 there's as muckle as a word or a black look frae ye after 
 that weel, ye ken me. Somebody will maybe get hurt !" 
 
 No one moved. The attention to work was absolute. 
 Nothing like it had been in Donald Gracie's time. 
 
HOW ADORA GRACIE KEPT SCHOOL 17 
 
 Still more lazily Strong Mac stretched himself in his 
 ruddy homespun clothes, and the blue rig-and-fur stock- 
 ings banded with strips of brown leather at the knee. His 
 brother Jamie looked across at him and winked. 
 
 "To your books !" said Roy McCulloch to his brother, 
 with a threatening gesture. And the whole bench of the 
 girls regarded him with admiration. 
 
 "And a' that for the sake of a dominie's lass!" whis- 
 pered Charlotte Webster, who was eighteen, and had had 
 two lads come wanting to carry her books on the same 
 night, which was considered a great honour in the school. 
 
 "Oh, he just does it to show aff !" said little Kate Han- 
 nay, "because he's strong. Lads are like that. I dare- 
 say he wad do as muckle for you." 
 
 Charlotte Webster, a peach-blossom blonde, sniffed con- 
 temptuously. 
 
 "Huh !" she said, wrinkling her nose, "it will be a lang 
 day and a short yin afore either Roy McCulloch or the 
 like o' him gets the chance. I wad like to see him dare 
 to speak to me. His faither is nae better than " 
 
 "Less talking there!" said Strong Mac calmly, look- 
 ing directly at the place on the girls' bench where sat the 
 disdainful blonde. Charlotte Webster bridled and tossed 
 her head. 
 
 "Aye, Chairlie, it's to you I'm speakin' noo !" 
 
 The girl turned upon him. 
 
 "Keep yoursel' to yoursel'," she said. "I'm no 'feared 
 o' ye. Ye canna lift your hand to a lassie you wi' your 
 talk o' breakin' backs and showin' aff !" 
 
 Strong Mac was not in the least put out by this direct 
 defiance. He did not take his back from the school door. 
 He only lazily crossed one foot over the other and re- 
 garded the square points of his huge boots. 
 
 "Na," he answered slowly, "I canna. That's true. But 
 maybe ye wad want me to tell the schule wha carried the 
 last luggie into the milk-house for ye on Saturday nicht 
 and wha ?" 
 
 But with a quick rising flush and a single swift appeal- 
 
i8 STRONG MAC 
 
 ing look, the blonde turned away and dropped her head 
 upon her copy-book. 
 
 The school tittered. It knew Charlotte Webster. In 
 a far corner somebody gasped and choked with suppressed 
 laughter. 
 
 "Deil McRobb, that's you," said Strong Mac, "that's 
 you. I ken yer sniffle ! Come here, Deil !" 
 
 The Deil approached, trembling in spite of his formida- 
 ble cognomen. 
 
 "It wasna me," he declared. "Look I'm laughin' 
 nane !" 
 
 The dictator of Lowran school lifted an ink bottle from 
 the master's desk. 
 
 "Drink the ink !" he commanded. 
 
 The Deil did so without the least compunction. 
 
 Then from his own class there arose first a whispering, 
 then a laugh. 
 
 "If ye please, Strong Mac," said a piping voice, "he 
 likes it. He aye drinks a' the ink, and we get pawmies 
 for it frae the Dominie !" 
 
 The Deil, licking his lips, turned toward his peers with 
 an expression which said clearly, "Wait, my bonnies, till 
 I get ye oot !" 
 
 "Weel, than'' said Strong Mac, "gang an' learn your 
 lesson standing on your head. That will keep ye quaite, 
 surely, Deil?" 
 
 He erected the Deil with the soles of his feet against 
 a convenient wall, arranged his spelling-book to suit these 
 unusual conditions of study, and left him to his medita- 
 tions. 
 
 At this moment Adora Gracie came in. She found the 
 school hushed in studious calm. Strong Mac stood on 
 guard at the door as she had left him. She nodded, as 
 much as to say that her father was in the fair way of re- 
 covery. 
 
 "Have they been a trouble to you ?" she asked in a low 
 tone of Roy McCulloch. 
 
 He shook his head almost sadly. 
 
HOW ADORA GRACIE KEPT SCHOOL 19 
 
 "Never a whush oot o' the head o' ony craitur amang 
 them!" he said. "What class will ye tak' first? The 
 Muckle Laitin?" 
 
 "I think so," said Adora, quietly. She went to her 
 father's desk, opened it and got out the version books and 
 a Vergil, well thumbed and with many notes scribbled 
 on the margin. 
 
 Strong Mac announced in a stentorian voice which 
 made the sparrows and robins picking up the crumbs from 
 the dinner-pokes outside fly off in a flurry : 
 
 "Muckle Laitin, stand to the chalk line !" 
 
 This announcement disarranged the bench occupied by 
 the Lords of the Congregation. For a long moment they 
 hesitated. Then slowly and reluctantly, one after an- 
 other, disengaged themselves, as if weighing alternatives. 
 Groups of two or three whispered together in clusters. 
 
 "Keep your heads sindry a wee farther/' crhd the 
 watchful Mac, "or maybe I'll bring them thegither raither 
 sharper than ye bargain for !" 
 
 Automatically the class formed itself, complete save for 
 one place at the bottom, which ought to have been filled by 
 Sandy Ewan, expelled for cause. Before Strong Mac 
 himself took this vacant place he solemnly reached down 
 the ash-plant, which had been replaced on the pegs above 
 the desk. 
 
 "Noo, lads, fair hornie," he cried, "ye ken the rules. 
 Yae palmie for a 'minie,' twa for a 'majie' an' three for 
 a 'maxie' ! And the Lord help me," he added, "for I ken 
 no a word o' the lesson this day. I declare, it's gane clear 
 oot o' my thick heid !" 
 
 At this announcement of pains and penalties an ominous 
 muttering made itself apparent, in the midst of which 
 Strong Mac heard the words, "We will no tak' our licks 
 frae a lassie !" 
 
 "Weel," said Strong Mac, "that's reasonable. But hear 
 ye me, EC McKimmon gin ye willna tak' your palmies 
 frae a lassie, ye shall tak' them frae me. Ye can hae your 
 choice, my man ! Drive on, Dora !" 
 
20 STRONG MAC 
 
 Adora Gracie was by far the best scholar in the school. 
 That went without saying. Two years ago, when she was 
 no more than thirteen, she had been at the head in every 
 subject at the annual examination by the Presbytery. 
 Now, she had been for two more years her father's com- 
 panion in his reading. He talked to her in all their walks 
 together. In the winter evenings they studied together. 
 Moreover, there was not within the Lowran school young 
 man or maid who would have dreamed of disputing that 
 preeminence. 
 
 But to "tak' it frae a lassie !" That was strong meat, 
 indeed. 
 
 However, it was Dora's arm executive (as it were), 
 even Strong Mac himself who first stumbled perhaps in- 
 tentionally and to encourage the others. At any rate, it 
 was an undoubted "maxie," the largest kind of error pos- 
 sible, and good, upon the face of it, or rather upon the 
 palm of it, for three stripes. 
 
 He stepped forward, ostentatiously drawing down his 
 cuff. 
 
 "Noo, Dora," he said, encouragingly, "lay on as if ye 
 were beating carpets ! Gar the stour flee !" 
 
 And Adora Gracie, who quite understood the impor- 
 tance of the occasion, put some pith into the operation. 
 
 "Harder!" whispered Strong Mac under his breath. 
 
 Whereupon Adora put a little of her agitation into the 
 last two strokes of the "maxie," so that the yelp which 
 Strong Mac emitted had at least so convincing a natural- 
 ness that the junior benches squeaked in sympathy. 
 
 After that it was easier. Jock Fairies misquoted a 
 Latin rule in his parsing and received a "majie," which, 
 as he said proudly, "left him wi' something to think 
 aboot." Daid the Deil giggled audibly thereat, and was 
 pounced upon for disturbing the school. He came for- 
 ward smiling at what he was about to receive. What he 
 did carry away with him changed the fashion of his coun- 
 tenance. He returned to his place with his mouth the 
 
HOW ADORA GRACIE KEPT SCHOOL 21 
 
 shape of an O, softly rubbing his palm upon the part of 
 his body, used by schoolboys as an emollient. 
 
 Only EC McKimmon, a sturdy youth from the borders 
 of the parish, and supposed to be a partisan of the ex- 
 pelled Muckle Sandy, looked for a moment like refusing 
 chastisement. But Adora was firm. Never had the sen- 
 ior Latinists seen so strict a master. 
 
 "Stand out, EC McKimmon!" she said. "That was a 
 'maxie'." 
 
 He hesitated, growling low. Adora stamped her foot. 
 
 "Here, Dora," cried Strong Mac, "gie me haud o' the 
 ash-plant !" 
 
 Thus was rebellion stamped out in Lowran school and 
 the faces of the law-abiding exalted. At the close of the 
 lesson the class returned to its several places and relations 
 upon the benches on the "wood" side of the school. 
 
 Adora had, in more senses than one, made her mark. 
 The classes which followed were child's play to the 
 "Muckle Laitin." 
 
 But now the noon recess approached and the 
 faces of the scholars brightened with expectation. What 
 would happen then? A low whispering began to pass 
 from bench to bench, which Strong Mac felt must be re- 
 pressed. He rose presently and went up to the desk 
 where Adora Gracie was looking over copy-books in a 
 business-like way, marking them according to her father's 
 system, with the degree of credit attaching to the neatness 
 and blotlessness of each. As Roy McCulloch approached 
 and saluted, Adora flashed a swift blue "M" across his 
 own page. It meant "Moderate," and involved staying 
 in at night for half an hour to write another. Strong Mac 
 chuckled. 
 
 "She's comin' on fine," he said to himself. "By my 
 faith, this schule will find itsel' teached afore we hae dune 
 wi' it her an' me !" 
 
 Adora looked up from her work with a cold and edu- 
 cational eye. 
 
22 STRONG MAC 
 
 "Well, McCulloch ?" she said, severely. 
 
 "If ye please, maister," he replied, "it's time for the 
 schule to be lettin' oot." 
 
 But under his breath he added, covered by the whis- 
 pered storm which his remark created, "Make me a mon- 
 itor, quick, and gang oot to see your faither. I want to 
 speak to them" 
 
 "Very well, McCulloch," she said, following his lead. 
 "Go to your seat !" 
 
 The murmur hushed as Adora tapped the desk. She 
 rose, gathered up her papers, read out the marks, and de- 
 livered the copy-books with comments complimentary or 
 the reverse. Then she locked the master's desk with her 
 father's snap of the lid. 
 
 "I am going out for a moment. See that there is good 
 behaviour. Roy McCulloch, I name you monitor" (she 
 hesitated a moment before achieving her phrase be- 
 tween "without prejudice" and "with powers," deciding 
 on the latter) "monitor with powers!" she added, em- 
 phatically. 
 
 Strong Mac rose lazily as the girl passed out by the 
 private door. 
 
 " 'With powers,' " he said. "Ye ken what that means. 
 Noo, I hae a word. It's this : Ye are to come back in the 
 afternoon. For ony boy that gangs to the plooin' match, 
 six ffae me ! For ony lassie that collogues wi' that brute 
 Muckle Sandy Ewan we'll no' let her in, no' though she 
 greets! And hark ye, cronies," he continued, suddenly 
 dropping his monitorial manner, "the less said aboot this 
 at hame the better. If we canna gar Lowran schule gang 
 on as it should without the help o' Kirkanders and Sandy 
 Ewan, it's a peety !" 
 
 With this final appeal to the fears of the boys, to the 
 curiosity of Eve's sex and to the patriotism of both, the 
 temporary "monitor" dismissed the school. 
 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE PLOUGHING MATCH. 
 
 THE ploughing match between the parish of Lowran 
 and that of Kirkanders was a most important fixture. It 
 was looked forward to with the greatest anxiety on the 
 part of both antagonists. The judges were selected from 
 the surrounding parishes, mainly from the Dullarg, Min- 
 nibole and Stonybyres. 
 
 On this occasion two of these were burly tenant farmers. 
 Joined with them was a sporting laird on his promotion 
 as Deputy Lieutenant, with the probable reversion of the 
 county seat in Parliament when the present (aged) occu- 
 pant retired. The three judges walked about through the 
 soft, droppy mist circled with visible haloes. Pride was 
 in their port, a flush on their cheeks : 
 
 "The half of whilk was pride o' place, 
 The ither half was malt!" 
 
 Which last was in no way surprising. For at the great 
 ploughing match (which was held alternately upon the 
 farm of Holm, as the nearest to the village, and upon the 
 Kirkanders farm of Boreland, tenanted by the father of 
 Muckle Sandy) it was expected of the tenant whose field 
 was ploughed that he should provide the most copious 
 refreshments. It was partly to keep his son out of the 
 way of this that Fairies Senior had insisted upon Jock 
 going to school as usual. And it was certainly a most 
 self-denying respect for the fifth commandment which, 
 after considerable debate with himself, led Jock on this 
 occasion to obey his father. 
 
 To go was one thing, however; to return at the hour 
 
24 STRONG MAC 
 
 of noon another. On his way home he had to pass the 
 field. He was yet a quarter of a mile off when an 
 odour of whiskey came to him down wind. Jock halted 
 and sniffed knowingly. 
 
 "Umm!" he said, meditatively. "I'se wager that 
 there's some gye queer plooin' on the Benty Rigs this day. 
 That's Lucky Greentree's barley broo, as I'm a leevin' 
 sinner ! I wad ken the smell o't in heeven !" 
 
 As Jock Fairies drew near the field, his heart began 
 to beat. He counted himself no mean ploughman, though 
 being his father's son and the heir to one of the largest 
 "nest-eggs" in the parish, it did not become him to show 
 his powers in an open competition. Yet since scenes 
 of excitement are rare in a country district, it was all the 
 harder upon the heir of Fairies of Holm to be obliged to 
 view the scene from the other side of the dyke. 
 
 The Benty Rigs was a field which had been chosen for 
 the varying, yet equable, conditions which it offered to the 
 competitors. It was generally level, but rose into a whale- 
 back in the middle, with a steep descent which necessi- 
 tated the use of guide posts along the ridge as the teams 
 went and came. 
 
 The "opening" of the furrow was in a light, sandy soil 
 near the dykeside, where the Holm Burn comes down to 
 join Lowran Water. The "turning" had to be accom- 
 plished more critically in soft, boggy soil, half clay, half 
 black peat on the edge of the rush-covered morass which 
 had given to the original field its name of the Benty Rigs. 
 
 Small wonder, then, that it was a sigh long and deep 
 which Jock Fairies sighed when he came in full sight of 
 the labouring teams, twenty of them, some taking the slope 
 of the ridge, some slowly dipping behind it, others turn- 
 ing into a new furrow with smacking undulations of the 
 reins and cries of encouragement to the horses. 
 
 The steam rose in clouds from the work-warmed ani- 
 mals into the moist air. The teams took the shoulder 
 of the ridge enveloped in a cloud of it. Pillars of cloud 
 rose visibly from beyond the crest of the hill, marking the 
 
THE PLOUGHING MATCH 25 
 
 positions of those which were out of sight. Wherever 
 you could get away from the pervasive odour of Lucky 
 Greentrees' whiskey, the dank, pointless, "back-end" air 
 smelt like washing day. 
 
 But the keenness of men and horses alike ! No haste, 
 however ; matters were far too serious for that. The eyes 
 of all their world were upon each. They behooved to be 
 wary, ready, resourceful, dashing, cautious all at once, 
 these pilots of the dry land, these dauntless navigators of 
 the red-streaming furrow. 
 
 There they go and, indeed, you would have sympa- 
 thised with our stalwart Peri at Paradise Gate had you 
 seen the show as Jock Fairies did from the far side of 
 the dyke, barriered off by the tables on which were set 
 out the oat-cake in farles and the black bottles of Lucky 
 Greentrees' malten brew. That man in the grey clothes 
 and leathern leggings was the gauger, or excise nan 
 the successor in office of a certain ill-starred customs offi- 
 cer of the name of Robert Burns. And he did not need to 
 make any professional examination to know that Lucky 
 Greentrees had satisfied His Majesty's dues on account 
 of the beverage at present supplied. No self-respecting 
 smuggler or illicit distiller would have disgraced himself 
 by touching it. 
 
 The judges walked to and fro importantly, lords of 
 all the sporting squire high-stocked, slim and jaunty in 
 the wasp-waisted London fashions of a year ago, the two 
 farmers in weather-beaten blue and bottle-green, with sil- 
 ver buttons as large as florins on their waistcoats and 
 starring the huge pocket-flaps of their surtouts. 
 
 The whole of the field was not taken up by the teams. 
 A large piece was marked off for the personal competition 
 to be decided in the afternoon. The order of the general 
 match was this : A Lowran man and one from Kirkanders 
 were placed time about beginning from the right of the 
 field. Each man had his portion which he must finish 
 within a given period. And the Laird of Rusco, his stop 
 watch in his hand, checked the times. 
 
26 STRONG MAC 
 
 Jock Fairies stood watching, with a great desire to par- 
 ticipate. The personal competitions were just about to 
 begin, as one after another of the twenty teams finished 
 their piece and with a great heave upon the plough-stilts 
 and a shout to the horses slid the share clear of the field 
 of combat. 
 
 It would, however, be some time before the judges fin- 
 ished their work. They cast up the number of "points," 
 and the total achieved by Lowran or Kirkanders decided 
 the fate of the day. That is, the "day general." The "day 
 particular," or, as it was importantly called, the "All- 
 comers' Single-handed Cup," was the blue ribbon of the 
 county, and the dandiest ploughmen from far and near 
 came to try their luck. Some of these borrowed a neigh- 
 bour's team. Others approached a former master with 
 . whom they had parted amicably, and obtained for the oc- 
 casion the use of a well-kenned and trusty "pair." For to 
 know one's horses is many points in favour of a plough- 
 man. 
 
 What was the anger of Jock Fairies to see with his own 
 eyes Muckle Sandy Ewan conducting a team from his 
 father's farm toward the rigs appointed for the Single- 
 hand competition. Sandy also saw Jock, as was abun- 
 dantly obvious from his greeting. 
 
 "Oh, Jock, lassie-boy Jock," he shouted, "gang and get 
 your pawmies frae a lassie. I'm gaun to win the Cup. 
 Rab Telfer says there's nane can beat me an' yin o' the 
 judges owes siller to my faither !" 
 
 Even "dancing-mad," as he acknowledged himself to 
 have been, Jock Fairies knew that this last was a vain as- 
 persion, and he only wished that the particular judge 
 referred to had been near enough to hear. But all three 
 were at the upper end of the field, watching the com- 
 petitors turning into the last home stretch. 
 
 Jock Fairies could bear the tantalising scene no longer. 
 He hurried home, rushed across the farmyard, in at the 
 back door, and without stopping for explanation helped 
 himself to a plate of broth from the pot which stood at the 
 
THE PLOUGHING MATCH 27 
 
 side of the fire simmering gently. Then he cut himseH 
 a slice or two of cold mutton-ham and devoured it between 
 two scones, using the "comfortable family broth" as a 
 beverage, bite and sup about with his impromptu sand- 
 wich. 
 
 In five minutes he was back again at the field. He 
 stopped half-heartedly at the open gate. He hesitated. 
 He was lost. Entering hurriedly, he hastened to the part 
 of the Benty Rigs where the portions for the "Single- 
 hand" were marked off. More than half of the compet- 
 itors had already commenced. Sandy Ewan had turned 
 once and was coming back. A little crowd of plough- 
 men who did not intend to try the double event, as well 
 as not a few ordinary spectators, clustered about the rig- 
 end, waiting for him to come in. 
 
 Sandy was a sturdy fellow, and had a natural eye for 
 ploughing. The Kirkanders folk were inclined to put 
 their money on him, not only because his father was their 
 richest man but because of the interest attaching to his 
 youth. It would be a feather in their cap if a Kirkanders 
 laddie fresh from school should win the Cup. 
 
 The hope of Lowran was a grey-headed old cotman 
 from the Upper Crae, whose eye was like that of the cap- 
 tain of a ship, and who always carried off the prizes for 
 working his horses the most quietly, as well as that for 
 the longest period of service under one master. Robin 
 Kirk was the name of him. 
 
 But though he was probably the most scientific plough- 
 man on the field, Robin was already tired with his work 
 in the general competition, while the furrows in the new 
 portion of the Benty Rigs were considerably more diffi- 
 cult, owing to a stiffish compost of clay in the hollow to 
 the left of the ridge. 
 
 "Oh, burn my stockin' feet !" cried Jock Fairies, "he's 
 beatin' Robin. The auld man hasna the weight to haud 
 her nose to the dour land ! We'll be disgraced fair dis- 
 graced and by that great nowt o' a Sandy Ewan." 
 
28 STRONG MAC 
 
 There was a slight cheer from the Kirkanders men as 
 Muckle Sandy came in. 
 
 "Perfect richt to a hair!" 'The exact deepness!" 
 "What a turn!" 
 
 These were some of the exclamations, half-smothered, 
 but most encouraging meant to be so, too. With a 
 pleased look on his face Muckle Sandy bent himself away 
 again, like a clever boat on a new tack. 
 
 "Oh, wha will we get wha will we get ?" moaned Jock 
 Fairies. "Oh, if Strong Mac wad only come. But he 
 willna, the waster ! He could ploo that great nowt Sandy 
 oot o' creation! But he willna he willna! He's just 
 fair daft aboot that Dominie's lassie! / wish a' lassies 
 were tieid!" 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 A WOMAN SCORNED. 
 
 AFTER the furious excitements of the morning the quiet 
 of the school playground began to prey a little upon the 
 nerves of Strong Mac. It was not often that he so roused 
 himself to action, and when he did it was generally on be- 
 half of another. He fell to wondering listlessly where 
 the others were, what they were doing. Presently he 
 thought of his brother. 
 
 "That Jamie will be at the plooin' match !" he mur- 
 mured, smiling at his own thought. "Wait till the after- 
 noon. I'll warm him." 
 
 This naturally took him to the master's ash-plant, in 
 which, when in exercise upon himself, he had remarked 
 a certain lack of the true convincing suppleness. He went 
 into the school again and took down the emblem of au- 
 thority. "Na, na," he said, shaking his head, "that's no' 
 as it should be! It ought to loup like an eel new ta'en 
 frae a stank !" 
 
 He tried it upon his palm. 
 
 "It's sair," he said, "but it hasna the richt convincin' 
 bite. I ken whaur to get a better." 
 
 He turned to go out again, and in the very doorway 
 encountered the great languishing blue eyes, the tall, well- 
 rounded form and infantile curves of Miss Charlotte 
 Webster. 
 
 "Oh, Roy, ye are no' gangin' oot because I am comin' 
 in?" she said, with a confiding glance and a coquettish 
 toss of her head. 
 
 "I am that!" said Strong Mac, ungallantly. 
 
 The girl sighed a little, looked down at her toe making 
 
30 STRONG MAC 
 
 patterns in the dust of the porch, and then glancing up at 
 him, said : "Bide I hae something to tell ye." 
 
 "What is't ?" said Strong Mac, hanging upon one foot. 
 "I hae an ash-plant to cut up the Holm Road." 
 
 "Oh," said Charlotte Webster, meaningly, "of course. 
 Ye wad do onything for her. Ye wadna bide a minute to 
 hear" 
 
 "To hear what? I haena time!" interrupted Strong 
 Mac. "Lasses are that silly." 
 
 "She is no* stay?' 
 
 "No, she's no'," said Strong Mac, dauntlessly. "There's 
 no' a lass in a thoosand could hae keepit the schule the day 
 and teached the Muckle Laitin like yon!" 
 
 "That's no' a' what lasses are guid for," said Charlotte. 
 "There's some wad do mair than that to pleasure a bonny 
 lad." 
 
 "Aye?" said Strong Mac, impersonally. 
 
 Charlotte Webster impatiently snatched a handkerchief 
 out of a side pocket under her little white apron, and 
 dabbed hard at her eyes as she turned away. 
 
 "Your heart's as hard " she paused for a compari- 
 son, and none presenting itself, she concluded lamely, "as 
 hard !" 
 
 Now in that age of frank admirations, Strong Mac had 
 been made advances to in this way before. He was a 
 bonny lad. There was no doubt of it. He wished the 
 girls wouldn't, and liked Adora Gracie because she never 
 did such things. Still, he was sorry if he had hurt any 
 one's feelings even Charlotte Webster's. 
 
 "I didna mean onything, Chairlie," he said, though 
 something told him that he might live to repent the weak- 
 ness. 
 
 Charlotte Webster turned sharply at the word, the white 
 kerchief in her hand. She came and laid her fingers 
 gently on his arm, and seeing that he stood still, she looked 
 up and murmured, "Ye are a bonny lad !" 
 
 But this was too much for the fine mountain-bred young 
 Spartan. 
 
A WOMAN SCORNED 31 
 
 "Oh, don't maul !" he cried, dropping her hand off his 
 cuff. "I hate maulers !" 
 
 The wide blue eyes flashed fire this time. The tears 
 stopped welling. 
 
 "Oh, and I hate you!" she cried. "I will never speak 
 to you again as long as I live." 
 
 But Mac knew the counter for that. He had needed to 
 use it before. 
 
 "Yes, you will," he said, ungraciously, "worse luck !" 
 
 And he went out, leaving Miss Webster ready to dis- 
 solve into angry tears. 
 
 "I wonder how she does it," she thought to herself. "I 
 wish I knew. He likes her best, though she's two years 
 younger than me, and no' half as bonny." 
 
 She pulled a little mirror out of her pocket and looked 
 long and carefully at herself. She had saved up to buy 
 it from Packman Geordie on his last journey, and had 
 had vast trouble in hiding it from her mother, who was a 
 religious woman of a severe type, and did not approve of 
 the pomps and vanities of this wicked world as exem- 
 plified in girls of sixteen carrying pocket-mirrors about 
 with them. 
 
 Likewise Charlotte had to retie her hair at Miss Keek's, 
 where she left her dinner-bag on the way to school. Miss 
 Keck Louisa Keck was the village dressmaker and 
 milliner, a withered old maid with a penchant for beauty 
 in others, whose praises had had the effect of making 
 Charlotte Webster inordinately vain. 
 
 A moment's perusal of her face satisfied Charlotte that 
 her failure was not owing to anything in herself. Every- 
 thing was right. Her ribbons were neatly tied, and went 
 beautifully with her hair, which (in her mother's ab- 
 sence) she wore massed low in the nape of the neck, after 
 a picture she had seen of the Empress of the French. 
 
 Charlotte smiled. It was the identical smile which Miss 
 Keck had declared to be irresistible. Charlotte languished, 
 and the piti fulness of the expression melted even herself. 
 And after all, she was despised for whom? For a 
 
32 STRONG MAC 
 
 girl of fifteen, lean as a rake, black as a crow, 
 just because she could do sums and knew Latin. What 
 was Latin ? Did any girl ever get a sweetheart by know- 
 ing Latin? She had never heard of one. Neither had 
 Miss Keck. Well, she could wait. After all, Roy McCul- 
 loch was but one a boy nothing more not so old as 
 herself. He might be strong. He was yes, what was 
 the word Miss Keck had used "handsome" that was it. 
 But it would all come right. She would show him. Per- 
 haps she had been too open thrown herself at him made 
 herself cheap. At any rate, he was not like the others. 
 And Miss Webster felt piqued. The attractiveness of that 
 which we thought we were sure of is suddenly more than 
 doubled when we find that we are not likely to get it. 
 
 In the meantime it struck her that Roy McCulloch ought 
 to be punished for the shameful way in which he had 
 spoken to her. Perhaps at that moment he was away in 
 the woods cutting a horrid stick to strike her with. He 
 would not think twice about that, she told herself. Per- 
 haps he would tell right out in the school what she had 
 said to him. He was capable of such treachery. Had he 
 not threatened about the carrying of the milk no, that 
 was not Roy, that was James ; but Roy must have seen, 
 and then threatened her in public. 
 
 She rose and went on tiptoe to his school-bag. It lay 
 in the covered desk which Roy shared with his brother 
 and Jock Fairies. There was a puzzle lock of string 
 on it. But Jamie McCulloch, in an hour of expansion, 
 had shown her the secret of it. So she opened it now, 
 after a little puckering of her smooth brows. 
 
 There was a gleam of something ruddy under the flap 
 of the brown leather bag. She poked cautiously to see if 
 it would prove to be alive. Then she slid the strap round, 
 and lo ! a beautiful pheasant lay before her. He had been 
 shot under the wing, and a red drop came off on her finger 
 as she turned him over. 
 
 "Ugh, nasty!" said Charlotte, shuddering at the sight 
 of blood. She looked further. In another compartment 
 
A WOMAN SCORNED 33 
 
 lay a little flask of something that rattled. Oh, she knew ! 
 These were pellets of lead with which men killed birds. 
 Then she unrolled several bullets wrapped in a place by 
 themselves. Here was wadding, and here, in an old dun- 
 coloured leathern flask, powder. Oh, if only she could 
 make it go off at the right time and frighten him that 
 is, without hurting him very much ! That would pay him 
 out for his insolence. But she did not know the way to 
 do it safely. 
 
 Ah, she had it. She knew what would make him sor- 
 rier. So she carefully carried the powder-horn to the 
 water-spout where the children drank, round the corner 
 of the school. She took the chained iron cup and, prizing 
 up the little measuring lever of the cut-off, she poured half 
 a cupful into the flask and gave it a shake. 
 
 "There," she said, with malicious glee, "that will learn 
 Roy McCulloch no* to think himsel' sae clever anither 
 time. And he will find oot by and by that he may learn 
 ither things frae lasses forbye Laitin !" 
 
 Which certainly, in due course, Strong Mac did dis- 
 cover. 
 
 Then, having made these thoughtful arrangements, 
 Miss Charlotte Webster shut the school door behind her 
 and went up the village street to pour her troubles into 
 the sympathetic ear of Miss Louisa Keck. 
 
 She had hardly reached the main road when she saw 
 two men advancing from the direction of the village. One 
 of them she knew as Jonathan Grier, the head keeper of 
 the Kell's Range estates and forest. The other, a young- 
 ish, bearded man, was unknown to her. 
 
 Jonathan, the keeper, stopped and hailed her. He was 
 in some distant way related to her mother, and on more 
 than one occasion had shown himself not unanxious to 
 call himself her cousin. And as he was a well-looking 
 unmarried man, Charlotte had not been too particular as to 
 genealogies. 
 
 "My faith, ye are bonnier than ever 1" he cried with the 
 
34 STRONG MAC 
 
 rough, country-bred geniality which in such cases passes 
 for wit. 
 
 Charlotte tossed her head and asked him how that might 
 concern him. 
 
 He replied that it concerned him a great deal, if the 
 thought of her kept him from getting his natural sleep in 
 the shooting season. 
 
 "And a' thae poachers to watch, too," he added. "I can 
 tell ye, Cousin Chairlie, that a puir gamewatcher canna 
 afford to hae his head filled wi' thochts o' bonnie lasses 
 at this time o' the year wi j the pheasants to keep an e'e 
 on, and the deer comin* doon aff the hills in droves." 
 
 A sudden temptation to astonish the head keeper took 
 hold on Charlotte Webster, mingled with an indignant 
 sense of the difference between his treatment of her and 
 that of the Other. She looked back at the schoolhouse. 
 There was Adora Gracie hanging out something on a 
 clothes-line. The girl stood clear and graceful against 
 the sky on the top of the knoll above the trees. As Char- 
 lotte looked she waved her hand to some one whom the 
 watcher could not see across the fields. Of course, Char- 
 lotte knew who that must be. Suddenly her mind was 
 made up. 
 
 "If I tell ye something," she said to Keeper Jonathan, 
 "yell say sure as daith that ye will never tell I telled ye !" 
 
 The keeper, rather astonished, gave the promise, glanc- 
 ing after his companion anxiously as he did so. The 
 bearded man had walked on a little way. 
 
 "And him?" continued Charlotte, pointing also to the 
 grey-eyed man. 
 
 "Oh, I will answer for him!" said the keeper, laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 "Weel," said Woman Scorned, "if ye want to ken whaur 
 some o' your pheasants wander to, ask Roy McCulloch o' 
 the Back Hoose o' the Muir to show ye his bag the nicht 
 as he gangs hame frae the schule !" 
 
 The men looked quickly at each other. 
 
 "Roy McCulloch, who's he?" said the bearded man, 
 
MY FAITH ! HE CRIED, * YE ARE BONNIER THAN EVER. 
 
A WOMAN SCORNED 35 
 
 speaking for the first time as he walked toward them, 
 switching his leg with a Malacca cane. 
 
 "A son of that infernal poacher up on the Out Muir !" 
 exclaimed Jonathan. "I would gie a pound note oot o' 
 my wage if I could grip him aye, or ony o' the clan o' 
 them!" 
 
 The men went on, intent upon their talk, without so 
 much as thanking Charlotte. 
 
 The young woman stood sulking, and then instead of 
 going in to see Miss Keck, turned up the Holm Road in 
 the direction of the ploughing match. 
 
 Perhaps it began to dawn upon her that she had better 
 have ignited the powder at once than set such a fuse 
 alight, and timed it to explode as Roy McCulloch took his 
 way homewards to the solitary cot of the House of Muir. 
 
 Iv 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 GREAT WAS THE FALL THEREOF. 
 
 To seek a fit and proper ash-plant Roy McCulloch had 
 gone over the dyke at the old smithy, and held up the 
 burn-side into the Holm plantations. Here he soon made 
 choice of half-a-dozen shoots, supple, tough, resilient, 
 mightily convincing to the natural palm. 
 
 With one of these in his hands to trim as he walked 
 along, and the rest in a bundle underneath his arm, Strong 
 Mac sauntered whistling toward the main road. Instinct- 
 ively he took a short cut at right angles to his former path, 
 and presently, as fate would have it, he came out upon the 
 woody ridge which faces the battleground of the Benty 
 Rigs. 
 
 The shouts and encouragements of the rival ploughmen, 
 the clinking of accoutrements, the stir and movement of 
 the people looking on, took all the boy in Roy McCulloch 
 by the throat. He stood mechanically paring and polish- 
 ing his scholastic tools, but his eyes were upon the scene 
 before him. To a lad from the wild moor solitudes, it 
 seemed as if the whole world were present at his feet. 
 
 Hardly could he restrain himself. His fingers itched 
 for the firm grip of the plough-stilts, for the tug and strain 
 of the horses, to feel the nervous twitch of the far-con- 
 trolling reins. It was in his heart that he could plough 
 as well or better than any man there. He had spent the 
 previous winter and spring as "orra," or odd man, on the 
 large farm of Craig Ronald, at the foot of the mountain 
 rise on which his father's cot was placed. The regular 
 practitioner had been taken ill, and Roy McCulloch had 
 not only undertaken his work, but had so improved upon 
 
GREAT WAS THE FALL THEREOF 37 
 
 it, both in speed and quality, that his furrows had become 
 a source of satisfaction and pride to his master, and of 
 envying and grieving to his professional peers. 
 
 As Roy stood there watching, his blood stirring oddly 
 within him, keen for conflict, emulous of fame, he grew 
 conscious of the cries of "Strong Mac! Strong Mac!" 
 with which the sight of his figure was greeted from the 
 field of battle. 
 
 But it was not till Jock Fairies came charging upon 
 him so hastily that in scrambling over he brought down 
 half-a-dozen stones from the road dyke, that he paid any 
 attention to them. Roy McCulloch thought they were 
 uttered mockingly because he had forbidden the school 
 to go near the ploughing match. 
 
 "Oh, Mac," panted Jock, tremulous with excitement, 
 "come quick ! For the Lord's sake haste ye, or Muckle 
 Sandy Ewan will carry awa' the Single-handed frae 
 Lowran that has been oors for twenty years. They hae 
 your auld 'turn-oot' frae Craig Ronald waitin' for ye. 
 Oh, haste ye haste ye fast ! Oh, the disgrace onybody 
 but Sandy Ewan ! Cast your coat and to it, Strong Mac ! 
 For the honour o' Lowran and to stop Muckle Sandy frae 
 crawin' a' the days o' his life !" 
 
 "But but," said Roy, a little dazed by the pour of 
 words, "I hae promised to be at the schule when the bell 
 rings. It's me that helpit the lass to keep it this mornin ? , 
 sae that they wadna tak' it frae her faither as they threepit 
 they wad do the last time." 
 
 "I ken I ken," said Jock, "but oh, man, hearken! 
 There's only yae rig o' bonny grund to ploo the last but 
 twa, and ye'll hae it feenished lang afore the afternoon. 
 Come on !" 
 
 The eagerness of contest latent in every man took 
 Strong Mac unawares. He was so easily victor in 
 wrestling, putting the stone and other diversions that this 
 seemed suddenly something well worth trying for. He 
 moved irresolutely down the slope, strode over Jock 
 Fairies's gap and stood in the road. By this time his old 
 
38 STRONG MAC 
 
 master, Mr. Charteris of Craig Ronald, was waving an 
 arm to him to hasten. He could see the arched backs and 
 shining flanks of Adam and Eve, his old working team, 
 and that fired him more than anything else. 
 
 "Haste ye, Roy," cried the farmer of Craig Ronald, 
 "they're waitin'. Cast your coat !" 
 
 The tempter triumphed. Roy cast his rods, trimmed 
 and untrimmed, under the dyke and ran hastily to the 
 plough. The man in charge yielded it with a grin. 
 
 "I'm no man for't try you ! Ye're welcome," he said. 
 "Haud her, man, haud her straight for the honour o' 
 auld Lowran !" 
 
 Adam and Eve turned to look over their shoulders at 
 the sound of Roy's step. He went about them once care- 
 fully to get the harness buckles to his mind, patted both 
 of them on their moist noses, was snuffed and blown all 
 over with evident satisfaction, and went back to the 
 plough tail with a bounding heart. 
 
 "Roy McCulloch! Next I" cried the starter in a sten- 
 torian voice. 
 
 "Strong Mac ! Strong Mac for Lowran !" shouted half- 
 a-dozen, led by the now almost frantic Jock Fairies, who 
 danced about in his eagerness like a hen on a hot gridle. 
 
 And the next moment Strong Mac felt the riss-ss-ssp 
 of the entering blade, the halt and heave as the iron took 
 the full deep furrow, and then he was half way up the 
 field before he knew it. The shouting sank behind him. 
 He felt the fresh potent smell of the newly turned earth 
 in his nostrils. 
 
 It went to his head likewise. His heart had been thun- 
 dering in his ears, but now there fell upon him a strange 
 calm. Adam and Eve were working with tempered stead- 
 iness. The rich brown soil fell away as easily as blue 
 water before the prow of a boat. Strong Mac felt the 
 power within him. His very soul went into the steel of 
 his wrist muscles. 
 
 He was breasting the little undulation of the ridge when 
 Muckle Sandy passed him, bending to his task with plenti- 
 
GREAT WAS THE FALL THEREOF 39 
 
 ful energy. As he caught sight of Roy McCulloch he 
 seemed to lose grip for a moment in his astonishment. 
 The plough bounded as from a hidden stone, and the grey 
 sheen of the polished iron showed a moment above the 
 Indian red of the soil. 
 
 But neither spoke. Both were far too intent on their work. 
 It chanced, however, that at that moment the three judges 
 were quite near. They had completed their task of judg- 
 ing the first portion of the match, though their decision 
 was as yet kept a profound secret, locked beneath their 
 hat brims. One of the two farmers noticed the leap of 
 Sandy Ewan's ploughshare. He walked to the spot down 
 one of the narrow causeways of green still left, fast dimin- 
 ishing, among the long red parallels of the ploughed land. 
 
 "What was the maiter wi' young Ewan ?" he said to the 
 other two. "There's nae stane there !" 
 
 But the truth was that all unexpectedly Muckle Sandy 
 had come upon an obstacle worse than any stone in the 
 way of his progress cup-wards. 
 
 After the second turn at the starting place there was no 
 more shouting among the crowd, only a three-quarter cir- 
 cle of intent faces, all bent upon the performance of work 
 in which every man present was an expert. 
 
 Wise heads were cocked to the side, as it were, to taste 
 the completed furrow. Eyes shrewd and grey followed the 
 next grip and take of the share as the teams drew steadily 
 away. Surely, Britannia never ruled the waves so 
 straightly as these grey-shining keels the undulating acres 
 of the Benty Rigs. 
 
 It was over. Strong Mac took his team out at the ap- 
 pointed place, drew up at the dykeside, patted Adam and 
 Eve, gave them a first rub with a borrowed cloth and 
 came to himself. 
 
 The school A dor a Grade his promise! 
 
 He was shamed, disgraced. Never could he look her 
 in the face again. Not at all in the way of love-making 
 or love-feeling. He never thought of that, but as one to 
 be trusted, a man of his word. 
 
40 STRONG MAC 
 
 Already the judges were walking up and down, pacing, 
 measuring, consulting. The two farmers stood medita- 
 tively scratching their chins. The smart young laird was 
 voluble of whispers, alternately sprightly and dramatic in 
 attitude. 
 
 But all suddenly Roy McCulloch had no pleasure in 
 aught that he had done. He started abruptly toward the 
 corner of the field where he had left his ash-plants. He 
 tucked them mechanically under his arm, vaulted lightly 
 into the road and marched gloomily off in the direction 
 of the schoolhouse of Lowran. 
 
 He heard, but heeded not, the shouting behind him. 
 
 "Come back hey, there! Mac! Strong Mac! Roy 
 McCulloch! Come back!" 
 
 But Strong Mac, deep in the shame of his soul, never 
 even turned his head. 
 
 He heard the patter of feet behind him, and presently 
 Jock Fairies dashed up with something in his hand. 
 
 "Come back," he said ; "man, ye hae won the Cup. I 
 heard them gie it oot! Ye are to come back for the 
 judges to do something I forget * congregation' ye, I 
 think they said !" 
 
 "I'm no' gaun back nane !" said Roy, strengthening his 
 negative in the French manner which is also good 
 Scots. 
 
 "Faith, then," said Jock, "I was thinkin' that. Ye are 
 a dour hound. Sae I jest fetched it. It was my faither 
 had the buyin' o't. Hae tak' it! It's stampit silver!" 
 
 "Throw it over the dyke !" growled Strong Mac. "I'm 
 shamed for ever!" 
 
 Jock Fairies gaped at him, with growing doubts of his 
 sanity. 
 
 "Glory !" he cried. "I wad gie a' my ain siller an' half 
 o' my faither's to be shamed in the same way. Man, do 
 ye ken that ye are the only man that has keepit Lowran 
 frae being het- faced in disgrace this day? For the match 
 has been gi'en against us. And if Sandy Ewan had won 
 
GREAT WAS THE FALL THEREOF 41 
 
 the Single-handed, no' a man o' us wad ever hae been able 
 to hand up his heid again." 
 
 "But I promised I was to keep the schule ! Me that 
 garred them a' promise. Me to gang to the plooin' 
 match !" 
 
 The son and heir of the farmer of Holm gasped. 
 
 "The schule?" he cried. "What's aboot the schule? 
 Ye can gang to the schule ony day. But the Single- 
 handed ! To beat a' Lowran and Kirkanders 1" 
 
 "It's, no' the schule it's my passed word !" said Strong 
 Mac, hopelessly. 
 
 "Hoots," said Jock Fairies, "it's only to a lassie. Juist 
 flairdie" (coax) "her a wee and it will be a' richt !" 
 
 "No it winna," said Strong Mac, grimly. Then after 
 a pause he added, "I'm gaun back. Sae are you !" 
 
 Jock Fairies turned, as if to flee at the word. 
 
 "Deil a step!" he cried, dourly. "What do you tak' 
 me for, Roy McCulloch? The wale o' the fun is to 
 come !" 
 
 "I'll tak' ye back to the schule we'll hae some fun 
 there, you an' me !" said Strong Mac, darkly. 
 
 Jock Fairies, with the vision of the cold collation wait- 
 ing on the judges and selected friends in his father's 
 dining-room, tried a bolt and rush. But Strong Mac had 
 him by the collar in a moment. 
 
 "Nane o' that," he murmured between his teeth as he 
 shook him. "It was you that made me forget, and it's you 
 that's gaun to gar me mind !" 
 
 "Weel," answered Jock Fairies, "ye needna joggle the 
 heid aff my body, at ony rate. I declare, I'm like a red 
 thistle wi' its neck broken !" 
 
 To this Strong Mac made no reply, and the two 
 marched silently abreast to the schoolhouse door. Jock 
 was carrying the "Single-handed" Cup carefully, as be- 
 came the bearer of a trophy. Also, he had news to tell. 
 On the whole, he was a happy boy. Ah ! if he had but 
 known, neither pride nor minted gold would have 
 tempted him to cross the threshold of the Lowran school. 
 
42 STRONG MAC 
 
 "Open the door !" Strong Mac ordered his companion. 
 
 "Gang in !" 
 
 Jock Fairies entered, holding the Cup in his hands 
 proudly, as if it had been the day of the annual "presenta- 
 tion," when the bairns requited their master with gifts 
 for his attentions of the year. 
 
 The close school scent of many breathings and damp 
 clothes met them full, as well as a curious waiting hush. 
 Adora Gracie was at the desk with a book in her hand. 
 She did not look at the pair as they came in. But the 
 school made up for this by gazing open-mouthed. 
 
 Deil McRobb emitted a little whinny of apprehension 
 as his eye fell on the supple ash-plants under Strong 
 Mac's arm. He had a presentiment, which in his own 
 mind amounted to certainty, that he was destined to make 
 closer acquaintance with some of these. 
 
 With an inflexible, determinate hand upon his collar, 
 Strong Mac shoved his companion up in front of the mas- 
 ter's desk, in which stood Adora, the book still in her 
 hand. 
 
 "Stan' there ! an' dinna ye budge !" he ordered. 
 
 "The Cup the 'Single-handed' ! Oh, lads, he's won it! 
 Strong Mac's won it !" 
 
 As these words left his lips Jock Fairies received a 
 buffet on the side of his head which almost made him drop 
 the trophy. 
 
 "Maister," said Strong Mac clearly, so that all the 
 school could hear, "I hae dune wrang I forgot mysel' 
 me that promised to help ye to stan' at your richt hand. 
 I was temptit. I gaed to the plooin' match me an' Jock 
 Fairies. But we hae corned back, me and him and thae !" 
 
 He held out the new ash-plants in both hands, and as 
 Adora did not take them, he piled them on the front of the 
 desk above the covered inkwell. 
 
 "But I hae thocht what to do," he went on. "There's 
 Jock that first did wrang, for he was there and he temptit 
 me. And there is me, that should hae kenned the better, 
 for it was me that forbade the schule to gang to the Benty 
 
GREAT WAS THE FALL THEREOF 43 
 
 Rigs. Noo, ye are the maister. It should be you that 
 should thresh us. But we are muckie and ayont your 
 strength to gar mind. This is what we will do. I'll un- 
 dertak' to mak' Jock here be vexed for his misdeeds, and 
 he'll do the same for me. Time aboot !" 
 
 He handed Jock Fairies one of the supple ash-plants, 
 giving it a preliminary swish through the air to test its 
 capacities. Then he selected one himself more at random. 
 Jock Fairies look astonished and laughed inanely. 
 
 "It'll be juist fun," he whispered, a little uncertainly. 
 
 "Aye, juist fun! Haud oot yer hand!" said Strong 
 Mac, in an even voice. 
 
 "No you first!" said Jock Fairies, as a guarantee of 
 good faith. 
 
 Jock raised the rod and with a sort of giggle brought it 
 down on his companion's hand, saving the stroke at the 
 end in a way known to boys. 
 
 Roy McCulloch received no more than the tap of a rat's 
 tail. 
 
 "Your time !" he said, with a grimness which might 
 have warned his comrade. 
 
 Jock Fairies held out his own hand and received a 
 stinger that drew an involuntary yell from him. 
 
 "That's no fair !" he cried. "I only hit you in fun." 
 
 "Did ye?" said Strong Mac. "Then the mair fule you ! 
 This is to gar you an' me mind the Lowran plooin' match 
 a' the days of oor lives !" 
 
 There was no doubt about the sincerity of Jock's inten- 
 tions when next he smote. Vengeance whistled in his 
 ash-plant. 
 
 "That's some better !" said Strong Mac, with a short in- 
 drawing of the breath. 
 
 Twenty apiece was the count and tale of their mutual 
 penance. Every one was satisfied the school especially so. 
 Those who chanced to be absent said they would rather 
 have missed a hundred ploughing matches than this his- 
 toric holocaust. 
 
44 STRONG MAC 
 
 "Lord, what a lickin' !" was the general verdict, given 
 with a delightful shiver. 
 
 Afterward Jock Fairies was called upon to give his ex- 
 periences. 
 
 "It was like this," he said. "At the very first I didna 
 think Strong Mac was in earnest. But after I warmed 
 him. He owned himsel' that my sixth and fourteenth 
 were fine an' searchin' for the conscience. An' mind ye, 
 that was a heap for Strong Mac to allow !" 
 
 "An' what ye gat was it awfu' sair?" they asked. 
 
 Jock Fairies silently exhibited his palms. 
 
 "I'll no' be able to lift a preen aff the floor for a day or 
 two, I'm thinkin' !" he said, not without some reasonable 
 pride. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 BOUND HAND AND FOOT WITH GRAVECLOTHES. 
 
 "FATHER/" Adora Gracie said, coming gently to the old 
 man's bedside an old man who was yet not old in years 
 "are you asleep ?" 
 
 The Dominie turned his head toward her slowly. His 
 eyes were wet, but he did not answer. 
 
 "What is wrang, father ?" she cried, kneeling by the 
 bedside. "Tell your Dora what it is !" 
 
 It was not the maudlin repentance of the "day after," 
 but rather the deeper remorse of the physically weak, 
 which made the schoolmaster reply, "I have been but an 
 ill father to you, my bairn. Pray God that ye may ere 
 long find a home of your own, where my sins will be pow- 
 erless to follow you !" 
 
 The girl took Donald Gracie about the neck. 
 
 "You must not indeed, you must not," she said. "It 
 is wicked of you to speak like that. I will never leave 
 you, father. I want no home but where you are." 
 
 The Dominie waved his hand toward the window. 
 
 "Sit ye there, Dora," he said, gently. "Let the light 
 fall on your face. I would speak with you. I am weak 
 very weak and ill. But in my weakness I have been 
 made to see things that formerly were hid from me." 
 
 The Dominie sat up in bed and looked long at his 
 daughter with an eager, inquiring gaze. 
 
 "Aye," he said at last, "surely you are of my father's 
 folk, even as I, to my sorrow, took after my mother's 
 kind. No, keep still a little longer. You have the brow 
 low and broad, the determined mouth, the head thrown 
 back, which all the all my father's kin possess !" 
 
46 STRONG MAC 
 
 "And my own mother?" inquired his daughter. "You 
 never speak to me of her." 
 
 "She is as the angels in heaven," said Donald Grade. 
 "Praise God that she was taken away from the things that 
 have come to pass." 
 
 "Am I like her ?" said Adora, with a hopeful accent. 
 
 "Whiles whiles," said the Dominie, softly. "When ye 
 are sleeping, or when ye sit on the stoup and hearken to! 
 the mavises, it comes to me that ye hae a gliff of her. But | 
 it passes. It passes. No, I cannot say you are like your j 
 mother. Ye are a Balgracie from snood to shoe-sole, if I 
 ever there was one !" 
 
 "A what, father?" 
 
 The accent of astonishment in the girl's voice recalled 
 the Dominie to himself. 
 
 "A Gracie I said Gracie !" he answered, quickly. 
 
 "But you said Bal-gracie, father." 
 
 "Did I ? I was not thinking," said her father, wearily. 
 "The name is used both ways where I come from !" 
 
 "Where was it that you married my mother?" the girl 
 went on, resolved once for all to be at the heart of the 
 secret. 
 
 "In the north far to the northward," he answered 
 her ; "and when she was lost to me, I came hither to leave 
 the past behind me!" 
 
 Adora thought it over and then said, "Was it after my 
 mother that I was called Adora ? There is no such name 
 hereaway !" 
 
 "No," answered the Dominie, "not after your mother, 
 but after a great-aunt the sister of my father. It is an 
 old family name." 
 
 "And are your people all dead ?" 
 
 The Dominie lifted his hand, like one who is about to 
 beat time to a slow tune. 
 
 "Dead dead all dead," he murmured. And then 
 lower he added, "Dead to me !" But the girl took only 
 the letter of his words. She left the window and, com- 
 ing near, seated herself beside him on the little stool. 
 
BOUND HAND AND FOOT 47 
 
 "Dear," she said, patting him on the thin hair above his 
 temples, "what does it matter ? You have me to look after 
 I you. Why, I kept the school to-day. Would you like 
 to hear how ?" 
 
 And without giving him time to deny her, she began to 
 tell him the wonderful history of the day of the plough- 
 | ing match, from which all after events in the history of 
 Lowran school were dated. 
 
 The Dominie listened, then presently he smiled. After 
 a while he laughed outright. 
 
 "What was the 'maxie' Roy McCulloch made?" he 
 asked. 
 
 The girl told him. 
 
 "Umm," growled the Dominie, "he's no great scholar 
 to make a speaking about, but he kens better than that !" 
 
 As the tale went on, the schoolmaster steadily regarded 
 his daughter. New ideas were rising in his heart. He 
 had thought her but a child, and lo ! he realised that in a 
 little while others would be looking under the brim of 
 her sunbonnet. 
 
 "How old are you, Dora?" he asked presently, inter- 
 rupting the tale of the repentance of Roy McCulloch. 
 
 "Nearly sixteen," she answered, with the cheerful pre- 
 viousness of youth as it looks forward across the years. 
 
 "Ah," sighed the Dominie, "it will come all too soon." 
 
 "What will come, father?" said the girl. "What has 
 come to you ?" 
 
 "My death-warrant !" 
 
 The girl rose hastily. 
 
 "Are you ill, father?" she said hurriedly. "Have you 
 had the pain again ?" 
 
 Donald Gracie took his daughter by the hand and made 
 her sit down again. 
 
 "No," he said, softly. "I would not be selfish. But 
 the day you leave me, that day shall be as a death-warrant 
 to me." 
 
 "But I will never leave you, father," said Adora Gracie, 
 
48 STRONG MAC 
 
 anxiously. "All I want is just to bide and make you 
 happy." 
 
 Then she tried cajolery. 
 
 "What a 'grumpus' of a Pater ^Eneas it is !" she cried, 
 slapping -his palm with her finger tips. "Always making 
 troubles for itself. Stay, I will bring it a dish of tea and 
 some of the scones it likes ! Then we will see if it can 
 still be ungrateful and 'grumpus' to its only daughter." 
 
 As she scudded out of the room the Dominie lay watch-! 
 ing her. The ache of a wasted life, the unavailing sorrow! 
 of a past not to be recalled, was eating into his soul. Yet| 
 even in the throes of remorse he looked several times at a! 
 chest of drawers which filled up the space between the! 
 window and the door. Once he half rose from his bed,j 
 and immediately fell back again, with a bitter expression 
 of anger and disgust upon his face. 
 
 "No no," he said to himself, "surely I cannot be such! 
 a hound. Better far that I should take a pistol and shootj 
 myself. There is no strength or manhood in me. If 1 1 
 cannot keep the door of my heart, why should I live toj 
 bring disgrace on her?" 
 
 Presently like a sunbeam Adora Gracie came dancing; 
 in, teacup in hand. 
 
 "Here it is," she cried, "just as you love it! This will 
 teach you to be thankful that you have a wise woman to 
 look after you. Drink it hot, 'grumpus/ and watch me| 
 dust !" 
 
 So saying, she began to go over the whole room sys- 
 tematically, the backs and bottoms of chairs included. 
 Then came tops of pictures, the little ledges of drawer 
 mouldings, then crevices and corners which no human 
 eye could reach for she was one who dusts for con- 
 science' sake, not to have praise of women. While at her 
 work, the tongue of Adora Gracie ran all the time on this 
 topic and on that. She told again with fresh details the 
 story of the ploughing match, speaking of the victory of 
 Strong Mac with something like prideful exultation, then 
 humorously of his repentance and concerning the unex- 
 
BOUND HAND AND FOOT 49 
 
 ampled duet of vengeance played by him and Jock Fairies, 
 till Donald Gracie shook with laughter in his bed. 
 
 Thus his daughter wiled him out of himself with the 
 witchery of her tongue and the imitations with which she 
 interspersed her narrative. Finally she went into the 
 dark schoolhouse and brought out Roy's new stock of ash- 
 plants, of which two already showed signs of wear and 
 tear. The old man laughed aloud. 
 
 "Ye are a witch, Dora/' he said, shaking his head. "I 
 fear me these lightsome ways of yours will cause heart- 
 ache to many." 
 
 The girl held up her hands in real dismay. 
 
 " 'Deed, then, faither," she said, dropping into the ver- 
 nacular, "but ye are dreadsome hard to please. Hand- 
 ache and back-ache have I caused in plenty this day, but 
 heart-ache is not on my conscience !" 
 
 The Dominie shook his finger at her with an air that 
 said, "Bide a wee !" 
 
 "And now," she cried, "I will leave you. You are to 
 go straight to sleep, and you will be all well in the morn- 
 ing. The doctor said so. I will come in to bid my old 
 'grumpus' good-night !" 
 
 She ran out again, and the dusk settled down upon the 
 chamber of Donald Gracie. The solitary candle made a 
 point of illumination so bright that all the rest of the 
 room was sunk in blackness of darkness. 
 
 The Dominie moved uneasily. He seemed to be re- 
 peating something to himself, which might have been a 
 prayer or some resolve put into words to give it greater 
 binding force upon the man's will. 
 
 It was a much more sedate maiden who returned in her 
 night garments to say good-night, a shawl round her 
 shoulders which the Dominie recognised as having been 
 about her mother's when she died. To the child's sim- 
 plicity it was but a wrap in which to slip upon occasion 
 into her father's room. To Donald Gracie it became a 
 symbol of the black robe with which Fate had enfolded 
 and destroyed his life. 
 
50 STRONG MAC 
 
 Without any prelude, according to her invariable cus- 
 tom since she was a child, Adora Gracie knelt at her 
 father's side to say her prayers. Often in years past she 
 had said them at the knee of a man rocking helplessly in 
 his chair, or dropping maudlin tears upon her hair. But 
 the Angel of the Presence, that one who doth always be- 
 hold the face of God, had been quick to draw a veil of mer- 
 ciful darkness between, so that the innocent had not been 
 offended. 
 
 To-night Donald Gracie, the unfrocked clergyman, the 
 secret drunkard, laid his hand on his daughter's head as 
 she prayed. He fixed his eyes on the window through 
 which the night looked in on the white-robed figure kneel- 
 ing by the bedside, and on the grey old man lying open- 
 eyed, rigid, with doom written on his countenance. 
 
 Then Adora rose up, kissed her father on the forehead, 
 said "Good-night, 'grumpus' call me if you need me !" 
 
 And so went her way to her narrow cot in the closet 
 overlooking the garden. 
 
 In five minutes she was sleeping the sleep of the tired 
 and the conscience-free, but Donald Gracie lay long listen- 
 ing to the drip-drip of the tall pines on the leaden roof of 
 the porch, as the moisture collected on the needles and fell 
 slowly plop-plop, regular and heavy as the ticking of a 
 minster clock. 
 
 A bird came and nestled against the sill. The ivy on 
 the wall tapped the pane. Over the fields the Gatehouse 
 dog explained to all the hills that he was alone and very 
 sorrowful. There was not yet a moon to bay at, so he 
 bayed because of that. 
 
 Plop-plop! It was dreary, indeed, thought the Dom- 
 inie. Besides, it was chill outside. On such a night one 
 might easily take one's death from cold. And if so, what 
 would come of that girl ? Moreover, his head ached and 
 he could not go to sleep. Yet sleep he must. What to 
 do? Yes, there was one thing. There in the bottom 
 drawer, at the near corner. He knew he could find it in 
 the dark without troubling any one ! 
 
BOUND HAND AND FOOT 51 
 
 Donald Grade was half out of bed, when through his 
 soul darted the rending illumination of sudden self-knowl- 
 edge. It was a voice from heaven, like the flashing of the 
 lightning of the Lord's anger from the east to the west. 
 
 "Oh, thou lost to shame, complete in sin/' it seemed 
 to say. "What? So soon after the oath sworn, with the 
 sound of the child's prayer yet upon thine ear ! And yet 
 thou would bind thyself more hopelessly in the Bondage. 
 Donald Balgracie once more beware lest God forget 
 to be gracious !" 
 
 And with a shuddering sigh, the Dominie sank back on 
 
 his bed and lay still. 
 
 ******* 
 
 Long he abode motionless. Whether or not he prayed, 
 no human being save himself can know. If he did, the 
 devil had his hook in every petition. They could not rise 
 upon the wings of insincerity. The heart denied what the 
 lips craved. 
 
 There was silence in the darkened chamber. The bed 
 creaked. There was silence again. Then a bird of the 
 night flew heavily against the window, and a man at busi- 
 ness with a drawer in the corner uttered a sharp, startled 
 cry. 
 
 A white figure, tall and slim, stood in the open door, 
 holding aloft a lighted candle. Beneath knelt the man who 
 had prayed, in his hand the Enemy of his Soul. 
 
 "Oh, father," cried the girl, "and you promised !" 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE SOUR MANNA OF REVENGE. 
 
 THERE is no hero worship like that of a small boy for a 
 great. It passes the love of woman in this that there i 
 no expectation of return in it. Toleration is all that i 
 expected. Personal chastisement only increases the fer- 
 vour of the worshipper. Neglect, ill words, blows, are 
 so many love tokens, fuel to feed the flames of adoration. 
 
 In the Lowran school there were at least twenty boys 
 who were willing to be slaves and foot runners to Strong 
 Mac. But only one of these had the necessary freedom 
 of action to enable him to follow the god of his idolatry 
 from point to point, ready to appear or to vanish, to fetch 
 or to carry, to speak or to be silent, according to the will 
 of the master. 
 
 This boy was Daid the Deil, son of Crob McRobb, the 
 good-for-nothing scapegrace and poacher-in-ordinary to 
 the village of Lowran. 
 
 Daid had remarkable advantages. He was not required 
 to be present at certain hours for meals. Indeed, that 
 would have been often a work of supererogation. For 
 in Crob McRobb's house the meals had a way of not being 
 there either. 
 
 Daid therefore dined, as he lived, lightly and at large. 
 A puddock-stool (so that it did not grow in a wood or on 
 a rotten tree) would serve to fill a vacancy. Daid had a 
 rule with regard to all mushrooms and toadstools which 
 he communicated to his companions as follows : 
 
 "Lathies, it's like this I comes to a muckle yin. I looks 
 him ower. Gin he's spotty abune or greeny aneath, I hae 
 
THE SOUR MANNA OF REVENGE 53 
 
 nae mair trokin' wi' him. But if he's an ordinary, sappy, 
 hairmless-lookin' animal, I juist eats a lump o' him, an' 
 lets a wee bit gang doon my throat, an' gin it begins to 
 burn as if I had swallied a red pepper faith, I mak' 
 straight for the nearest burn, and there I drink as muckle 
 water as I can haud. There's maybe learnit folk that kens 
 a better way, but that's guid eneuch for Daid ! Ye needna 
 often gang hungry if ye ken that !" 
 
 But this day of the Lowran ploughing-match Daid 
 McRobb had known that, soon or late, he would fare more 
 royally than upon puddock-stools. He would go up to 
 the Holm and Jock Fairies would give him broken meats. 
 Or if Jock would not if (as Daid the Deil expressed it) 
 "Jock took the sturdy" he, Daid the Deil, would provide 
 the broken meats for himself. If they were still whole 
 meats he would break them. The boy had all the keen 
 shiftfulness of a village outcast, the son of a petty 
 poacher, an annexer of other people's property in a small 
 way, a crafty encroacher upon other people's poultry 
 yards always in a small way. 
 
 Daid had been all these things in his time, but (bar the 
 poaching, which he pursued in the spirit of an academical 
 exercise) he had decided long ago that (comparative) 
 honesty was the best policy. Blackmail was his partic- 
 ular line. He could not influence the conduct of his 
 father, but he could find out where he had been. Some- 
 times Daid could even assort the plunder of the day as his 
 father lay asleep, overcome with the fatigues of an ardu- 
 ous profession, together with too much "Lucky Green- 
 tree," and restore the property of protected persons to 
 them whether plough-culters, articles of harness, corn- 
 measures, sieves, or game chickens and "kain hens" kept 
 in mew for the next instalment of the Laird's dues. 
 
 Daid's terms were not out of the way. He was no Rob 
 Roy from yont the Lenfiox line. A bite and a sup at your 
 back door, a warm corner by the kitchen fire, an occa- 
 sional bed in the barn among the sacks when his father 
 had barred him out of the tumble-down outhouse he called 
 
54 STRONG MAC 
 
 home these made the modest sum of Daid's requirements. 
 But withal he was acquiring the rudiments of a character. 
 He did not now find himself chased out of a farmyard 
 upon sight, as had been the way when he was no better 
 than "that loon o' Crob McCrob's." He became "that 
 limb, wee Daid" which is a very different thing, the di- 
 minutive being as good as a bowl of porridge to him in 
 most places. 
 
 On this day of the ploughing match Daid had hovered 
 in the offing of his divinity's favour all day, watching him, 
 thinking how great, how noble, how incomparable, was 
 Strong Mac. His eyes were full of adoration. His very 
 soul was longing to be taken notice of, even if only to the 
 extent of having the attached body apostrophised and 
 kicked out of the way. It chanced, however, that Strong 
 Mac, had, vulgarly speaking, other fish to fry. It was, for 
 instance, nearly three of the clock on this November day 
 before Strong Mac had made his peace with Adora Gracie, 
 and with many promises to be "on hand" in the morning, 
 had swung the full satchel across his back and taken the 
 road up the glen toward the House of Muir, where he 
 lived with his father and his brother James. He was 
 alone, as he expected to be, Jamie McCulloch having gone 
 "wi' the lasses," as was his custom. To be particular, the 
 elder had accompanied Miss Charlie Webster home, for 
 the classical purpose of carrying her bag of books. 
 
 It was ten miles to the House of Muir by such road as 
 there was, a road that a deer-stalking pony would have 
 shied at. But Strong Mac did not propose to trouble the 
 road. He knew better than that. By taking the face of 
 the fell, striking into Pluckamin Cleuch and following the 
 left bank of the burn, he would come to a certain inconspic- 
 uous outcrop of rock, and under that rock, wrapped in an 
 old blanket and touched with grease against the damp, he 
 would find a gun. It had been hidden by himself, and 
 even if there was nothing to waste powder on in the dusk, 
 he had a hare or two snugly concealed which he had shot 
 in the morning. 
 
THE SOUR MANNA OF REVENGE 55 
 
 The pheasant he had brought to school with intent to 
 give it to Adora Grade, but the events of the day had 
 tried that young lady's temper. So when it was offered 
 after the escapade of the ploughing match, she had re- 
 plied, "Keep your poached pheasants for them that want 
 them ! I dinna !" 
 
 "It will make something nice for the for Mr. Gracie !" 
 Strong Mac suggested. 
 
 But with a woman, as Roy had yet to learn, repentance 
 and punishment do not clear scores as they do with a man. 
 These remain to be brought forward again upon occa- 
 sion, as in French criminal practice, "by way of preju- 
 dice/' So again Adora refused. 
 
 "I am obleeged to you, Roy McCulloch," she said, "but 
 my father does very well with what I have provided for 
 him and I have the writing copies to set !" 
 
 And this being of the nature of a hint tangible, caused 
 Strong Mac to set his bonnet on his head and stride away, 
 with a muttered "Good-e'en to ye, then !" 
 
 Now if Adora had known to what dangers she was ex- 
 posing her brave and unselfish ally she would not, even for 
 the sake of discipline, have made her declinature so posi- 
 tive. But this, of course, was out of her power. 
 
 There was, however, one who did know. And she 
 was also of the sex which will "cast up" to itself rather 
 than not at all. 
 
 The vengeance of Charlotte Webster had soured upon 
 her early. Well may the Scriptures declare, "Vengeance 
 is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord." For to most of the 
 breed of men revenge is, like the Israelites' desert manna, 
 meat that will not keep. To the more northerly nations, at 
 least, a blow stricken on the spot is more natural than the 
 slow going-down of sun after sun upon the wrath of man. 
 
 Charlotte Webster had spoken to her cousin, the head 
 game-watcher, solely from the instinct of a moment of 
 bitterness. When she came back to school in the after- 
 noon she had fully intended to tell Roy what she had done, 
 both as to his powder flask and also how it had "slipped 
 
 
56 STRONG MAC 
 
 out" about the pheasant. But Strong Mac's absence, and 
 then the exciting scene of mutual punishment, had unset- 
 tled her ideas again. She swerved from her purpose. 
 
 "He wad do a' that for her," she repeated over and 
 over to herself, "and he wad shake my hand aff his arm, 
 as if it were an adder or a puddock ! I'll let him see !" 
 
 This mood held till letting-out time, when, as Roy 
 had called kindly, "Good nicht t'ye, Chairlie !" she was 
 again shaken by doubts and decided to wait for him at the 
 gate. But Roy being (as we know) busy fleeching with 
 Adora to accept his pheasant, did not come out so sharply 
 as usual and his brother James did. 
 
 James was a year older than Roy, and of a different 
 nature. Less strong physically than Roy, he had more 
 quiet cunning "a good lad," his father called him, "but 
 speeritless, and a naitural wheedler after weemen !" 
 
 The judgment was severe, coming from the old cot- 
 tier of the House of Muir, but this night the trend of 
 affairs seemed to point to his father's discernment of his 
 elder son's character. 
 
 "Come on, Chairlie," said James McCulloch. "What 
 are ye waitin' for to see Roy? He'll no' be oot this 
 while, I'll warrant. He'll be flairdyin' up the Dominie's 
 lassie. It's weel he's satisfiet. I wadna be. Come on, 
 Chairlie, unless ye want to spoil sport! And I ken a 
 better than that a bonny lass like you, the bonniest i' the 
 pairish ! Or if ye do want to speak to Roy, tell me, an' I'll 
 cairry your message unless it be that " 
 
 Here he whispered in her ear. 
 
 "It's a lee I dinna !" cried the girl, flushing. "Neither 
 him nor you, Jamie McCulloch, nor ony McCulloch that 
 ever trod grass aneath their muckle feet." 
 
 "Aweel !" said Jamie, philosophically, "sae muckle the 
 better. For oor Roy's bespoken, and forbye, he cares 
 mair for a sawmon i' the weil, or a troot oot o' the burn, 
 than for a' the lasses in ten pairishes !" 
 
 "To say naething o' the Laird o' Lowran's pheasants/ 1 
 interjected Charlotte, with a curl of the lip. 
 
THE SOUR MANNA OF REVENGE 57 
 
 Now Jamie McCulloch had grave faults, but lack of 
 fidelity to his family and traditions was not one of them. 
 He kept his "flairdyin' " (as his father called it) and his 
 business relations in separate and water-tight compart- 
 ments. 
 
 "What ken ye aboot the Laird's pheasants?" he said 
 quickly, with a slight change in his voice apparent to the 
 ear feminine of Charlotte Webster. 
 
 "Me?" she answered at once. "I ken naething. I was 
 juist thinkin' what a bonny bird a pheasant was. My 
 faither minds when there was naething in the countryside 
 but the grouse an' the paitricks an' the muir hens %n' 
 the " 
 
 "But tell me, Chairlie," interrupted James, "what ken 
 ye aboot oor Roy an' the pheasants ?" 
 
 "I heard," said Charlotte softly, choosing her words, 
 "that whiles that it is weel kenned I mean " 
 
 "What is it?" demanded Roy's brother, with some of 
 the family asperity. "What are ye keepin' back?" 
 
 Charlotte Webster, who found herself bogged among 
 things which she dared not confess, had recourse to weap- 
 ons general. 
 
 "I'll greet in a meenite," she said, with eyes already 
 showery, "gin ye speak to me like that, Jamie McCulloch. 
 Now, then!" 
 
 "I'm no' speaking to ye like onything, Chairlie," said 
 Jamie, recalling himself to his own proper methods, and 
 slipping his arm round the girl's plump shoulder. "I am 
 ower fond o' ye. But tell me what ye ken a' ye ken !" 
 
 Now the first of these things Charlotte would attempt 
 the other was altogether beyond her. 
 
 "Weel, ye see, Jamie," she said, reassured by her posi- 
 tion, "the way o't is this. My cousin Jonathan is the 
 head keeper at Lowran, an' he whiles comes to oor hoose 
 to see my mither." 
 
 "And you, Charlotte, ye besom ?" inquired James, with 
 tender chiding. 
 
58 STRONG MAC 
 
 "Oh, juist daffin'!" said Charlotte, with conscientious 
 carelessness. 
 
 "I ken cousin's daffin' !" said Jamie, cunningly. "But 
 drive on !" 
 
 By this time they were well down the road which passes 
 the entrance of Pluckamin Cleuch. There was a double 
 turn in the highway, well known to Miss Webster and her 
 various escorts, just beyond this place. Once round it, 
 you could see Miss Webster's family mansion, and as a 
 consequence (for Mistress Webster, that efficient mother 
 in Israel, needed no spectacles) you also were in danger 
 of observation. All things have a purpose. The pur- 
 pose of the S-shape on the road will now be apparent 
 to all. 
 
 Charlotte always held out her hand for her bag at this 
 place. 
 
 "I'll no' trouble ye to come ony farther," was her for- 
 mula. "Ye maun be tired carryin' a' thae books !" 
 
 It was as she was saying this that a gunshot went off up 
 in the wood. Charlotte dropped the bag and caught at 
 her own breast with one hand. 
 
 "Oh, they hae gotten him !" she cried. "They hae shot 
 Roy an' it's my faut !" 
 
 "Hoot-toot!" said Jamie. "It will be a keeper lettin' 
 drive at a rabbit, mair like ! But if it's Roy he is brave 
 an' weel able to look after himsel' ! Forbye he may hae 
 pickit up a hare. I ken he took his gun wi' him this 
 mornin'." 
 
 But Charlotte had some reasons for thinking otherwise. 
 
 "Oh, no, he's deid and it's me that killed him!" she 
 cried, passionately. "I poured water intil his pooder 
 flask, and oh oh oh !" 
 
 The confession ended in a sobbing remorse, equally sin- 
 cere and inarticulate. 
 
 "Faith, it's true," said Jamie McCulloch. "That canna 
 be Roy's shootin', for he wad never bring the gun sae far 
 doon the hill." 
 
 And so, without even waiting to say good-bye, he left 
 
THE SOUR MANNA OF REVENGE 59 
 
 Charlotte standing forlornly in the loop of the road, her 
 school-bag abandoned among the muddy leaves in front 
 of her, and her eyes strained upon the dark woods of the 
 Cleuch of Pluckamin, which in the purple gloaming kept 
 their secret impenetrable. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE CLEUCH OF PLUCKAMIN. 
 
 Now this was what had happened : 
 
 Roy McCulloch, Daid's Master and Lord, strode care- 
 lessly on, his bag with the rejected pheasant and the 
 wet ammunition flask as a feather on his broad shoul- 
 ders. He cried "Good e'en" to one or two men in the act 
 of plunging head-first into low doorways, stragglers 
 mostly from the ploughing match in search of something 
 comfortable. 
 
 "Hae ye gotten the 'Single-handed' in your pooch?" 
 cried one as Roy passed the hedge change-house tenanted 
 by Lucky Greentree. "Come in here, man, an' we'll fill 
 it for ye wi' something stronger than moss-water!" 
 
 But Roy had forgotten all about the Cup and the 
 ploughing match, and strode on his way with no more 
 than an acknowledging wave of the hand. 
 
 Behind him, unseen in the dusk, dodged and ducked 
 from woodshed to pigstye, from midden-stead to cart- 
 shed, one Daid the Deil, Servant and Slave. 
 
 Daid never raised his eyes from the ground as he made 
 these swallow-like dashes. He was elaborately amusing 
 himself, that was all, if any one chanced to notice him. 
 He gave Joe Maxwell's pig what he called a "pork" in the 
 ribs with a stick just to hear it squeal, and was half way 
 down to Harvy Mason's stables before the pig's owner 
 could hirple to the door and shake a futile fist after him. 
 Arrived at the stable, he went to the exact spar to which 
 he knew "Tear-'em," Harvy Mason's big white mongrel, 
 would be chained. Harvy was the Cairn Edward carrier, 
 
THE CLEUCH OF PLUCKAMIN 61 
 
 and Tear-'em walked beneath the cart and lived upon 
 
 | the calves of the public. Daid rattled on the spars and 
 
 I booed through at Tear-'em till he raged himself into a 
 
 blind fury, which could only be expressed by suffocating 
 
 and blood-curdling grunts deep in his throat. This pleased 
 
 Daid. He imitated a cat-fight, and hist-ed Tear-'em upon 
 
 the combatants. 
 
 At this moment Strong Mac turned round. For any- 
 j thing connected with the feelings of an animal touched 
 him. He recognised the "baited" tones of Tear-'em, and 
 looked back to discover the cause. 
 
 Daid the Deil was balancing a hay-rake on his nos^ 
 with elaborate precautions. Apparently he had been do- 
 ing nothing else for the past hour. Innocence exuded 
 obviously from him. Love for all innocent and manly 
 sports was in the lines of his back. But Strong Mac was 
 not deceived. He knew Daid and he had heard the 
 dog's statement of the case. 
 
 "You, Deil," he cried, "let the dog alane, or Til fair 
 skin ye alive the morn !" And so went his way, sure that 
 he would be obeyed. 
 
 "There, noo," said Daid to himself admiringly, "he 
 kenned juist as weel as if he had seen me. And he'll mind 
 to lick me for it, too, the morn. He never forgets ony- 
 thing na, no' him !" 
 
 Thus are reputations made and the willing worshipper 
 built up in his faith. At the foot of the village Strong 
 Mac struck up the braeface, vaulting over a dry-stone 
 dyke and making straight for the corner of the Cleuch 
 of Pluckamin. This was (and is) a narrow gorge, 
 through which roars the drainage of the Loch of Pluck- 
 amin, a large and sombre sheet of water on the flat of the 
 moorland. The Cleuch was filled from end to end with 
 great pines that stretched their green spreading crowns 
 into the upper air. They hid their root in crevices of the 
 rock, gripping and clutching desperately till they had 
 made good their footing above still pool and roaring 
 waterfall. At the bottom there was a perilous scramble 
 
62 STRONG MAC 
 
 of a footpath along the edge of the burn, while the side 
 of the gully were covered with a tangle of alder and haze 
 birch and bramble. The Cleuch of Pluckamin was n 
 lady's bowling-green. The wild goat and the hill fo 
 found shelter there, and under its water-worn hoops c 
 rock, smooth and glistening, were pools and weir 
 unvisited by the sun from January to December. 
 
 Without a touch of fear or thought of danger, Stron 
 Mac dipped into the covert. He did it naturalb 
 as a frog drops back into a pond. Roy usually varied h 
 route homeward, but on this occasion he had to secui 
 his gun, which (as we know) lay hidden at the uppe 
 end of the Cleuch, just where it opens out upon the bar 
 brown face of the heather, and where the bushes stop sue 
 denly, as if cut by the scythe. 
 
 In silence Roy moved along the bottom of the glen. H 
 was a hunter by nature and a lifetime's practice, so li 
 could advance without disturbing the droopy birds chii 
 tering out their discontent with the damp November dri; 
 zle on the crotches of the pines. Blackbirds and thrushe 
 they were mostly, yammering and squabbling like schoc 
 children when the master's back is turned. On the oppc 
 site bank an outcast starling, a rare bird in Galloway i 
 those times, scolded venomously, while a storm-coc 
 mocked him brutally from a tree-top, cat-calling an 
 sneering after his kind as became the bully of the wood 
 
 Strong Mac, walking on feet that made no noise an 
 easing the branches back like a wild animal, they minde 
 not at all. Yet they were angry about something. Som 
 enemy or intruder had put them into that frame of mine 
 Roy McCulloch stopped and listened. He saw nothing 
 He heard nothing, but borne on the light breeze whic 
 blew down the Cleuch, like the down-draught of a chirr 
 ney, there came the smell of burning tobacco. 
 
 That, through all wild places, meant but one thin 
 a game-watcher! Instantly Mac became acutely cor 
 scious of the pheasant in his bag. True, he had not she 
 it on the lands .of .the Laird of Lowran, but upon those c 
 
THE CLEUCH OF PLUCKAMIN 63 
 
 Bennanbrack, farther up the water-side. But who was 
 
 there to prove that? Instead of returning to school and 
 
 | Adora, he, Roy McCulloch, would go to gaol for a mere 
 
 | bird. Had it been a couple of deer, now, that would have 
 
 been different but a silly lump of poultry. 
 
 He stood considering. The smell of tobacco came more 
 clearly. He could distinctly hear footsteps beneath him 
 down the Cleuch. If he took the side of the glen, he 
 would be trapped at the top without doubt. They would 
 have watchers posted there. 
 
 Then upon the moorland lad there fell the intense hatred 
 of the hillman for the wooded glens, which to him are so, 
 many traps. 
 
 "They wad never hae gotten me on the side o' Bennan- 
 brack, nor yet amang the clints o' the Grennoch !" 
 
 Sticks were breaking under clumsy treading down in 
 the deeps of the Cleuch. There came a whistling rush of 
 blackbirds, angry at being disturbed, the storm-cock 
 among them in a royal fluster, but still leading the bad 
 language. 
 
 Suddenly something dropped from a tree right in front 
 a monkey to the eye, thus a-swing among the branches 
 a boy presently, even Daid McRobb, still semi-arboreal 
 in his habits. 
 
 "Wheesht!" he whispered, taking Strong Mac by the 
 arm, all in a tremble of fear and importance. "They're 
 doon yonder, three o' them, followin' ye ! And Jona- 
 than Grier is waitin' wi' some mair at the Cleuch head. 
 Gie me the bag quick !" 
 
 Roy hesitated. He could not bring this boy into his 
 stupidities, nor let him bear the consequences of his mis- 
 demeanours against the law. 
 
 "Haste ye, Strong Mac!" hissed Daid in his ear. "I 
 ken this wood ye dinna. Gie me the bag!" 
 
 The instant the strap was slipped Daid gave it a double 
 turn about his thin shoulders, and began to draw himself 
 up into the tree from which he had descended. Where 
 he went after that no man knoweth. He had often before 
 
64 STRONG MAC 
 
 crossed the Cleuch from side to side on the tree-tops, with- 
 out any more motive than to find out whether he could 
 do it or not. And to-night he had the strongest of all 
 earthly (or other) motives for making the attempt that 
 he might please Strong Mac. 
 
 Relieved of his burden, Roy McCulloch went his way 
 up the glen, whistling easily, the noise behind him grow- 
 ing louder. 
 
 A hundred yards from the "muir-face," as Roy called 
 it, there was a narrow cut where a fallen boulder had 
 parted in two. The path went between the fragments. 
 
 "That's whaur they'll grip me," thought Strong Mac. 
 "I'll hae to tak' care an' keep my temper. I dinna want to 
 be pitten in the gaol for mishandlin' a game-watcher in 
 the dischairge o' his duty!" 
 
 As he predicted, even so the event fell out. 
 
 Roy had passed, whistling "The Wind that Shakes the 
 Barley," when between the stones three or four men fell 
 upon him, some catching him about the neck, some haul- 
 ing the legs from underneath him, while yet others came 
 crashing through the trees to the assistance of his cap- 
 tors, shouting, "Hae ye gotten him?" 
 
 "Gotten him? Aye," growled Jonathan Grier, the 
 head keeper, "an' deil's hait else. That lassie, Chairlie 
 Webster, maun hae been leein' to us, the besom. Wait 
 till I get my tongue on her !" 
 
 By this time Roy had been allowed to sit up, his captors 
 standing about him in various attitudes of disappointment. 
 
 "What are ye doin' here?" demanded the keeper, with 
 an oath. 
 
 "On my way hame frae the schule," Roy answered, 
 pleasantly. "It's mair sheltered on a nicht like this !" 
 
 "Nane o' your lip," retorted the keeper. "Turn oot 
 your pouches, and if ye hae as muckle as a hare grin or a 
 bit o' brass wire on ye, by my faith ye shall sleep i' the 
 lock-up this nicht. Ye are here after the pheasants we 
 hae had information." 
 
THE CLEUCH OF PLUCKAMIN 65 
 
 "Ow aye," said Roy, calmly, "it's easy to kill pheasants 
 wi' a Laitin grammar an' this !" 
 
 He held out the inscribed Cup, which he had put in the 
 large inner pocket of his coat to keep dry. 
 
 "What's that?" demanded another voice suddenly, 
 that of the young man with the brown face and short 
 tawny beard who had been the keeper's companion, but 
 who had taken no part in the struggle. 
 
 "A silver cup, sir! He's been stealin' frae the Big 
 Hoose, I'll warrant !" cried the keeper. 
 
 "Let me see it," said the bearded man in a tone of au- 
 thority. 
 
 The Cup was handed to him. He scrutinised it in the 
 fading twilight, holding it to the level of his eyes. 
 
 "Why, it's the Cup I gave to be competed for at the 
 ploughing match!" he said. "Where did you get this, 
 sirrah?" 
 
 "I won it at the ploughin' match," said Roy, easily. 
 
 "It's the Single-handed ! You win the Single-handed ! 
 That's a guid yin !" cried Keeper Jonathan. 
 
 "Aye, but it's true ! I saw him do it !" interrupted one 
 of the men. "I didna ken it was this lad ye war after, 
 Jonathan Grier, or I wad never hae steered step to catch 
 him no' though he had ta'en twenty back-loads of pheas- 
 ants aff your grund nesty belly-fillin' beasts (savin' 
 your presence, Laird) that do naething but fatten them- 
 sel's at the expense o' puir tenants!" 
 
 "Heartily said, Mains," replied the man with the beard, 
 good-humouredly. "I'm glad to hear that the Cup stays 
 in Lowran, especially since Kirkanders won the match! 
 But all the same, I'm glad also that the lad is carryin' 
 home a silver trophy honestly come by, rather than even 
 one back-load of my pheasants." 
 
 "Is there nocht we can haud him for, sir," groaned the 
 keeper, "after a' this gather up? It will be a' ower the 
 pairish by this time the morn. Oh, that misleart lassie ! 
 I thocht she had a pick at him, and that we were sure to 
 
66 STRONG MAC 
 
 catch him She lookit that mad when she was speakin' 
 aboot him !" 
 
 "That ye never can tell wi' the weemen," said Mains, 
 
 filling his pipe philosophically. 
 
 * * * # # # * 
 
 It was curious that as they went back down the Cleuch, 
 searching for a safe point at which to emerge upon the 
 open country, several of Roy's captors were struck by 
 large branches, fir cones, and stones which rattled down 
 from the tree-tops or detached themselves from the pre- 
 cipitous ledges of the Cleuch. At last Keeper Jonathan 
 Grier, who had been cocking his eye aloft ever since a fir- 
 cone ("the size of a pitatae-beetle," as he expressed it) 
 had taken him convincingly on the bridge of the nose, 
 lifted his gun and fired. 
 
 Some affirmed that they heard a faint scream, but noth- 
 ing fell, and the party stood wonderingly silent. The top 
 of the pine tree was black and dense against the sky. 
 
 "What did ye fire at, Jonathan a bogle or a wildcat?" 
 
 "Something that had nae richt to be there, I wot," said 
 Jonathan, "wildcat or no wildcat !" 
 
 "Come your ways !" said the new Laird of Lowran. "Ye 
 just saw nothing at all ! But there will be a drop of some- 
 thing warm for ye in the servants' hall. I'll step round 
 and order it to be sent in. Good-night !" 
 
 "Guid-e'en to ye, sir, an* your verra guid health !" 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 OH, THAT IT WERE YESTERDAY ! 
 
 THUS it was that, for the time being, Strong Mac es- 
 caped from the fowler's snare. He extricated himself out 
 of the wood at the Cleuch head, and then lay long with 
 his breast on the heather, and his ears, as he said, "laid 
 back on his neck with listening," before he ventured to 
 return for his gun. Having secured that, he crept 
 quietly to the edge of the Cleuch, peering down into its 
 dark depths, and giving the whistle by which he knew 
 Daid would recognise him if he had not already gone 
 home. An owl hooted, but presently the bird itself passed 
 close to him with a soft woof of feathers and a glint of a 
 face like a white mask. Other answer there was none. 
 
 Then over the broad surface of the moorland Strong 
 Mac set out for home with the long equable lope of the 
 wolf, easy, elastic, untiring. So perfect was now his 
 local knowledge that sometimes in the utter darkness he 
 would swerve a few yards to the right or the left, so as to 
 take the leap over a moss-hag at an easier place. Yet all 
 he had to guide him in such a case was the feel of the 
 ground beneath his feet ! 
 
 As he neared the march dyke of the tiny freehold of 
 House of Muir, Roy saw the bright light streaming from 
 the kitchen door out over the scrap of "park." A lan- 
 tern was flitting this way and that among the outhouses. 
 Roy McCulloch whistled three times. The lantern stopped 
 suddenly, as if the bearer listened, then it was waved three 
 times in reply. All was well. That was Jamie's signal. 
 His father would be indoors preparing the supper. 
 
68 STRONG MAC 
 
 "Where in the creation hae ye been?" cried Jamie in a 
 burst. "I heard a shot let aff an' ran up the Cleuch, but I 
 cam' on the keepers rowtin' through the bushes like sae 
 mony elephants, an' was obligated to keep the upper side 
 so as to hae the muir ahint me in case o' need !" 
 
 After a brief explanation Roy helped his brother to 
 finish the foddering of the cattle, and of the two shaggy 
 ponies which represented all the horseflesh of the House 
 of Muir. Folk asserted privately that these last were 
 used for bringing in the "winter provend," meaning there- 
 by roe deer killed on other people's property. But Sharon 
 McCulloch (who certainly ought to have known) stated 
 that "the shelties were the means, under providence and a 
 guid hazel rung, o' bringing in the fuel frae the flowe 
 the peats that the lairds hereabouts wad deny to a puir 
 man that didna ken his richts. Whilk man is no' Sharon 
 McCulloch o' the Hoose o' Muir!" 
 
 Then the young men went within doors. A bright fire 
 was burning in a wide fireplace. Pots and kettles were 
 round the walls in burnished rows. A pan was frizzling 
 cheerfully from a swing-bar. There was an odour of 
 "champit" potatoes in the land, which revealed to Roy 
 for the first time that he was hungry. He had not had 
 time to think of the matter before. 
 
 A strong-faced man with a bony frame, his great head 
 covered with a wildly tossed mane of grey hair, wheeled 
 sharply from the fire over which he had been bending. A 
 wooden skewer was in his hand, wherewith he had been 
 turning half-a-dozen large loch trout, which chattered and 
 buzzed in the pan as if, after long silence, they had sud- 
 denly become voluble with a lifetime of cheerful sound. 
 The man was not old to judge, that is, by the quick alert- 
 ness of his movements, by the effortless way in which he 
 hung the pan a few links higher or reached up to the raft- 
 ers to hand down a white pudding, and especially by the 
 penetrating eye of light blue which he turned upon his 
 son as he entered. 
 
 Yet the lines under the lower lids, the strong, bony 
 
OH, THAT IT WERE YESTERDAY! 69 
 
 throat and sinewy wrist, revealed the man who has 
 passed the three score and verges toward the additional 
 ten. Nevertheless there were not three men in the county 
 who would have ventured to come to grips with Sharon 
 McCulloch, called "the Auld Man o' the Muir." 
 
 He held his little handbreadth of land on peculiar terms. 
 During the time of the Leveller troubles, about the year 
 1723, his grandfather, one Jeremiah McCulloch, had ren- 
 dered a great service to the Laird of Bennanbrack no 
 less than the saving of his life and that of his son. Jere- 
 miah McCulloch was then a young man and stood high in 
 repute with all the neighbouring gentry as a clever lad, a 
 kennin' unscrupulous, maybe, but all the better of that in 
 these troublous times so long, that is, as he showed him- 
 self unscrupulous only on the right side. 
 
 Accordingly when he married and settled, the grateful 
 Laird of Bennanbrack (without consulting his man of 
 business) devised to Jeremiah McCulloch, "in recognition 
 of kindnesses received and as a reward of faithful service, 
 the lands of the House of Muir, extending from the march 
 of the Laird of Buttonbotham to where my land touches 
 the ground of the Laird of Low ran at the corner of the 
 march-dyke, thence in a straight line across to the Pluck- 
 amin Water, with all the and so forth the whole 
 amounting to rather more than three hundred acres, of 
 which ten are arable, on condition that on the 3ist of De- 
 cember of each year he shall deliver one cartload of peats 
 at the mansion house of Bennanbrack, such as may be fitly 
 usit for the Yule fire in the hall." 
 
 Now the grant of this oasis on the face of the muir to a 
 perpetual tenant sufficiently irritated the surrounding 
 lairds, the Laird of Lowran and him of Buttonbotham. 
 And it is shrewdly suspected that Chesney Barwinnock, 
 Esquire of Bennanbrack, being at perpetual loggerheads 
 with his fellows, had been motived to dispone his lands of 
 House of Muir for this laudable and neighbourly purpose. 
 But in the deed he gave another reason besides gratitude 
 toward the preserver of his life and lineage. He averred 
 
70 STRONG MAC 
 
 that "the bit grand does not lie weel to the rest of my 
 property." 
 
 However, it was not long after that Chesney Barwin- 
 nock, Esquire, D. L., gave up the ghost, and before he had 
 been able to carry gut his declared intention of building 
 a new house for Jeremiah McCulloch, suitable to the resi- 
 dence of a man who was now a landed proprietor and a 
 legal heritor in the parish of Lowran. 
 
 So it came about that to the original little two-roomed 
 cottage ("but-and-ben") occupied by the shepherd, Jere- 
 miah and his successor had added with their own hands, 
 and building with the rough, undressed stones from the 
 muir, bound together with lime brought up in creels on 
 pony back, the strangest ramble of chambers opening 
 one out of the other, all, however, being one story in 
 height. The farm buildings were set, roughly speaking, 
 in the form of a square, but the dwelling house itself 
 crawled over the brown bent like a game of dominoes. 
 
 So long, however, as Jeremiah, the first founder and 
 hero, lived, there was no open rupture. But in due time to 
 him there was born a son who, taking the road to Belfast, 
 carried on a traffic in Irish cattle by way of Loch Ryan. A 
 strong, rash, fightful man was this Ebenezer McCulloch, 
 biblically militant, that is,, and weightily dialectic with the 
 most convincing reasons for the faith that was in him. 
 
 Sharon, now the master of House of Muir, was the son 
 of this Ebenezer. In his youth he had been loaned every 
 summer-half of the year to his grandfather to help him 
 with the handful of hill acres and the sheep and nowt that 
 grazed upon them. While there he had picked up what 
 learning he could out of books on the hillside watching 
 the yowes, or snugged in the bieldy corner of some 
 "bucht" with the clear light of early summer breaking 
 overhead. 
 
 Then in the winter young Sharon McCulloch had sailed 
 on every sea, trading, smuggling, lifting cargoes of rum 
 at the Isle of Man, French brandy off Bayonne, tobacco 
 in the great salt loch which runs inland to Vigo, or riding 
 
OH, THAT IT WERE YESTERDAY ! 71 
 
 in the milky smother outside Bilbao., Harsh Catalan, red- 
 capped and ready with knife-blade, swart, voluble Valen- 
 cian, with the rings in his ears, half Moorish Murcian 
 this Ismaelite of a Sharon had met and communed with 
 all in their own tongue before he was fifteen years old. 
 
 But now for many years, even before his father's death, 
 he had given up his roving sea life. As elsewhere, the 
 smuggling trade led to no great fortune. Danger and 
 excitement made up its chief rewards. So Ebenezer, the 
 first trader, being gathered to his fathers and the adven- 
 ture beginning to pall, Sharon McCulloch looked one day 
 through the deserted rooms of House of Muir, which his 
 father had added and plenished, shook his head, and set 
 off next day to Kelton Hill Fair. There he looked round 
 for the sonsiest lass he could see not the bonniest, mark 
 you, but the healthiest and heartsomest. He picked out a 
 certain Mary Pringle, daughter of a cottier in Buittle. 
 Her he followed with quiet observance for the space of 
 an hour, and, having assured himself that her walk and 
 conversation were sedate, and that she was physically fit 
 (she knocked down with one free, open-handed cuff a 
 neighbour lad who attempted to salute her in public), 
 Sharon announced to himself that this was the girl for 
 him. 
 
 And so it turned out. He presented the case to the lady 
 in as many words, whereupon Mary and he went in search 
 of her father and mother, who were "howffed" at the 
 house of a gossip over a "dish o' tea wi' a cinder in't!" 
 
 "I hae fand a place, mither," said Mary Pringle. 
 
 "Ye hae?" said her mother. "And is this your mais- 
 ter?" 
 
 "Na he's my guidman !" answered Mary. 
 
 "And your maister, too!" corrected Sharon, promptly. 
 He felt that it was better to have a clear understanding 
 from the beginning. 
 
 Nevertheless Sharon McCulloch used Mary Pringle 
 well, keeping her, as she affirmed, "baith couthy and 
 caigy" in these upland solitudes where his home was. In 
 
72 STRONG MAC 
 
 the days while she had a pair of sturdy urchins to look 
 after, Mary McCulloch had had no great call to go far 
 from home. Her husband had made enough to keep them 
 comfortably. There was work enough to do with the 
 bit of corn in the hollow, the two or three cows in the 
 parks and the sheep on the hill. The man's wild ten- 
 dencies seemed to have died out. 
 
 Every market Monday he would saunter down to the 
 town and bring home his purchases on pony-back, walking 
 himself with long loping strides by its side. They called 
 him the Whaup Laird in those days, and Mary McCul- 
 loch watched for him from the door that she might spy 
 when he came down the far brae face. Then she put the 
 kettle on to boil. When he was at the march-dyke you 
 might have heard the ham skirling in the pan, and by the 
 time the stable door was shut on the shaggy pony all was 
 set in array upon the table. 
 
 But there fell a strange judgment upon Sharon and his 
 house, which changed all his life. The little property of 
 House of Muir was roughly the shape of an isosceles tri- 
 angle, with its apex pointing up the hill. There, also, was 
 the point where the three lairds' grounds met, and on a 
 heathery hillock high over the crofts and the homestead 
 Mary McCulloch loved to sit and knit, the children play- 
 ing about, while she watched for her husband's return 
 from the hills and lochs, from a visit to his fedual chief 
 at Bennanbrack, or yet further afield, from the market 
 town of Drumfern. 
 
 One day there had been a great hither-and-thithering 
 on the hills. The Lord Lieutenant of the County, on a 
 visit to my Lord Glenkells, was being shown the best sport 
 the countryside afforded. Deer were driven and hunted 
 and shot at with noise and tumult, while in the high corner 
 of their father's little property two children clapped their 
 hands to see the fine ruddy brown beasts go flying over 
 the dykes like birds, and to hear the blithe crack-cracking 
 of the guns. 
 
 Sharon McCulloch was late in coming home that day. 
 
OH, THAT IT WERE YESTERDAY ! 73 
 
 He had been detained by the need to call at a smithy and 
 have a shoe put on the pony. 
 
 So when he came to the House of Muir, lo ! the door was 
 open and the house vacant. At which he laughed to him- 
 self. 
 
 "Puir thing," he said, well pleased, "it will hae been a 
 treat to her. She doesna often see a stir of folk in this 
 wild place !" 
 
 And so he took his way up to the look-out knowe where- 
 on (to pleasure her) he had built a cairn, with a rude 
 bench of stone all about it. 
 
 Yes, she was there. He could see her white mutch tied 
 with a ribbon, and the black lace shawl he had brought her 
 all the way from Malaga. 
 
 And yonder, toddling toward him, came the children 
 hand in hand. They were both weeping bitterly, but it 
 was Roy who spoke. 
 
 "Minnie's sleepin' !" he said. "She winna wauken and 
 speak to us !" 
 
 His face suddenly ice, Sharon made one wild rush up 
 the slope. Mary had been shot as she sat dead without 
 having moved. She was leaning against the cairn and 
 looking down, as if at her knitting. The wool was still 
 on the wires. Not a stitch was dropped. A break in the 
 dyke revealed where a stag had passed in front of where 
 she sat. 
 
 For the rest, all were gone from the hill, hunters and 
 hunted, pursuers and pursued. The glen was empty of 
 beaters, gamcwatchers, carrying ponies, all the rout. // 
 might have been yesterday, thought Sharon McCulloch. 
 
 He awoke to find himself alone upon the hill with a dead 
 woman and two little children that cried. 
 
 ******* 
 
 From that day forth the man was changed. He went 
 no more regularly to market. Only when he had sheep 
 to sell he might be seen upon the drove road very early 
 in the morning, though already in the low country and 
 
74 STRONG MAC 
 
 clear of the hills. And no man knew the paths by which 
 he had driven his beasts so far unseen. 
 
 For the rest he declared war against those landlords 
 who had taken part in the careless, cruel sport by which 
 he had lost his wife. He bought and sold little, for his 
 larder was never empty of fresh venison. Some he would 
 entice upon his ground and shoot. Others he would bring 
 long distances after a night of stalking. He was watched, 
 pursued, lain in wait for all in vain. He could bring a 
 dead buck into the House of Muir through a cordon of 
 gamekeepers, and then as the morning broke they would 
 see him busy skinning it in the cart-shed. 
 
 As the lads grew up he trained them carefully, finding 
 in Roy an ally after his heart. All the smuggler's in- 
 herited skill, all the strength and vigour of the master 
 mariner who had kept the wildest crew of mixed Latin 
 races in check without bloodshed, seemed to have de- 
 scended to this boy. James was more like his mother, 
 and, though he could be trusted to watch, to follow and 
 to report, he was (as his father said) "no great things at 
 the fechtin' !" 
 
 This was the strange household of House of Muir to 
 which Strong Mac returned, bringing the "Single- 
 handed" trophy with him. 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 WITHOUT ARE DOGS. 
 
 SHARON McCuLLOCH and his two sons sat about the 
 table eating their supper. The former listened grimly to 
 the tale his sons told him, but he said nothing not even 
 when the Cup was placed before him. He only took it 
 in his hands and looked at it curiously. 
 
 "Where learned ye to plough ?" he said, turning the Sin- 
 gle-handed about in his long, supple fingers. 
 
 "Last winter doon yont there!" said Roy, with his 
 mouth full of alternate bacon and fried potato scone. He 
 indicated the farm at the foot of the hill, where he had 
 passed the previous winter, with a jerk of his thumb. 
 
 "Ye maun hae a straight e'e in your head," he said, add- 
 ing grimly : "I wush ye wad put some mair o' it into your 
 shootin' ! Ye missed that last roe at thirty yards, and if 
 I hadna been ahint ye the beast wad hae gotten awa' !" 
 
 "It's that auld besom," said Roy uneasily, looking at 
 his gun. "She winna throw where ye haud her na, no' 
 within three feet at thirty yards. Ye should try her your- 
 sel', faither!" 
 
 "Ill workmen ill tools !" said his father, sententiously. 
 "Roy, Roy, to make excuse is no' what I expected o' the 
 son o' Sharon McCulloch." 
 
 The words stung the boy. 
 
 "See here," he said, "you gie me the lend o' your rifle 
 and you tak' auld Bess there, and I'll gie ye three bulls' 
 eyes oot o' six at a mark the morn's mornin' !" 
 
 Sharon McCulloch chuckled. 
 
 "Marks," he cried, "marks! Nane o' your barn-ends 
 
76 STRONG MAC 
 
 for me ! The marks I like best are the bonny broon marks 
 that come loupin' ower oor mairch-dyke wi' horns on their 
 heads. Get doon the muckle Bible, James, and let us wor- 
 ship God!" 
 
 So these three, like David and his outlaw folk in their 
 cave at Engedi, set themselves, in a lull of the campaign 
 against the great ones of the earth, to sing the warrior 
 psalms and read the chronicles of warlike deeds out of the 
 Scriptures of the Old Testament. This night it was the 
 story of how Jonathan climbed the rock over against 
 Michmash, how he put the Philistines to rout, and the 
 story held them all fast. When Sharon McCulloch fin- 
 ished he made but one comment. 
 
 "Twenty men in half an acre o' grund that was a 
 Single-handed worth bringin' hame!" he said. "Let us 
 pray!" Then the stern-faced, gaunt old man prayed to 
 the God of battles, strong in the faith that he and his two 
 sons stood on their proper defences with the blessing of 
 Joshua's God, and Samson's God, and the God of all the 
 warring Judges and Kings. 
 
 And this was the substance of his prayer: 
 
 "Hold us in the hollow of thy hand, O Lord. Keep us 
 safe in this strait place, even as thou didst thy servant 
 Jonah in the belly of the whale. Give us good out-gate 
 as thou didst him, when the waters compass about our 
 souls, when the deeps close round, when the weeds are 
 wrapt about our heads. 
 
 "We are compassed by the hosts of ungodly that take 
 thy name in vain, and do wickedly all day long. Blood is 
 on their hands. Evil in their hearts. Like Abraham, may 
 we smite the four kings that are confederate against us, 
 Chedarlaomar, and Tidal, and Amraphel, and Arioch 
 whilk is to say my Lord Glenkells, that tarrieth long at 
 the wine-cup, and Barwhinnock o' Bennanbrack, that hath 
 done us much evil and intendeth more, and Bodden o' But- 
 tonbotham, that eggeth him on, and eke this new Laird 
 o' Lowran, Sidney Latimer, that hath this night raised 
 up his heel against us. Tumble them all into the slime 
 
WITHOUT ARE DOGS 77 
 
 pits of Siddim, good Lord. Gie them paiks in the Vale 
 of Mamre. Pursue them unto Hoba and take a great 
 prey, even within sight of the accursed pinnacles of Da- 
 mascus/' 
 
 So far had the worthy handler of the weapons of war 
 advanced in his supplications, when through the gusty 
 rise and fall of his voice a thin piping noise made itself 
 heard. It might have been only the wind moaning 
 through the keyhole, thought Roy. Winds whistled and 
 moaned and sobbed and whinnied at House of Muir all 
 the year round. It might also have been a dog whining for 
 admission. For all such were unanimously extruded be- 
 fore worship, except his father's ancient deerhound 
 Clownie, so called from a little Balmaghie farm whence he 
 had come long ago. 
 
 But this was not the wind, nor yet a dog anxious to lie 
 at the fire unkicked, but a low human cry, fitful, appealing. 
 Roy was rising hastily to his feet as his father brought his 
 prayer to a close with a final comprehensive anathema, 
 "Even as said the son of Jesse in the Shiggaion which he 
 made against the works of Cush the Benjaminite, so do 
 Thou confound their work. Put them to naught that 
 have prepared for us the instruments of death. Let them 
 fall into the pit they themselves have digged! Yea, as 
 David sang to the chief -musician upon Muth-labben, 'In 
 the net which they have laid, let their own foot be taken. 
 Let the wicked be snared in the work of his own hands ! 
 Higgaion. Selah. Amen !" 
 
 The last word was scarce out of his mouth when Sharon 
 McCulloch moved to the door, anticipating his sons. But 
 Roy looked over his shoulder, his old "besom" of a gun in 
 his hand. She could not well throw wide at that dis- 
 tance. It might be some new dodge of Jonathan Grier's. 
 And Roy smiled grimly and pityingly as he thought of 
 half a dozen keepers daring to beard the lion in his den. 
 
 But when the door was opened, nothing was to be seen 
 save the black night and the gaunt outline of the farm 
 buildings, still more velvety black across the yard. Nor 
 
78 STRONG MAC 
 
 was anything to be heard save the sough of the wet wind, 
 soft, clammy and spiritless, dank with the smell of 
 rotting leaves, that came up through the woods of Low- 
 ran and the Cleuch of Pluckamin. 
 
 Sharon took a step outward so that he might shut the 
 door behind him and get his eyes more tuned to the ob- 
 scurity of the night. As he did so his foot touched some- 
 thing curiously soft. He stooped. His fingers recoilec 
 with a thrill of apprehension. What was it the enemy 
 had laid at his door now ? 
 
 He lifted the small soft thing and carried it indoors 
 It was a boy, scratched as to face and hands, wet to the 
 skin, and, as Sharon McCulloch swiftly discovered, bleed- 
 ing from a gun-shot wound in the shoulder. 
 
 "It's Daid the Deil !" cried Roy in astonishment. "Wha 
 has brocht him here ?" 
 
 The two eyes, black as sloes, twinkled for a moment in 
 the wet chill whiteness of the pinched face. 
 
 "If ye please, Strong Mac," said a piping voice, "they 
 shot at me when I was in the tree, an* I fell in the burn 
 But I hae fetched hame your bag. No' yin o' them couk 
 get that frae Daid !" 
 
 And the lids shut down again on the black twinkling 
 sloes. 
 
 Thus it was that Daid the Deil won his spurs. It wa 
 his patent of knighthood when he came to himself tha 
 he found Strong Mac's arm about his neck, and he hearc 
 the voice of his king saying, "I dinna ken how he did it 
 There's mair spirit in his wee finger than in a' Lowran 
 schule!" 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE TALE OF DAID THE DEIL. 
 
 THEY sat with him all through the night. Daid the Deil 
 was laid where he had never been before, on a clean bed, 
 among warm blankets, and as he remarked, "between nap- 
 kins a' steekit thegither" which was his first impression 
 of sheets. For Sharon McCulloch had fetched some 
 strange notions home with him from foreign parts, and 
 would as soon have thought of sleeping on the floor as 
 of lying between blankets. 
 
 With no unskilful surgery Sharon extracted the pellets 
 of lead with which Daid's shoulder was torn. Luck- 
 ily for him, the main trunk of the fir against which the 
 boy had been leaning had received most of these. Still 
 there were enough left to burn red-hot into Daid's poor, 
 ill-nourished flesh. 
 
 Not that Daid cared. He, the son of the village poacher, 
 the common butt of Lowran, respected only for his in- 
 iquities, lay entranced in Paradise. He was thinking what 
 a small price an aching shoulder was to pay for bliss like 
 this. Then they encouraged him to tell his tale. He 
 felt like a weak mortal suddenly called upon to speak 
 in the full council of the gods. But the mortal had a 
 tongue and was equal to the occasion. 
 
 "Weel, ye see," Daid began, turning his beady eyes on 
 the three faces about his bed, all bent eagerly not to miss a 
 word ("Lie doon, ye beast!"), "I had been watchin' them 
 a' day. I had nae place to gang for onything to eat when 
 the schule let oot at denner-time. An' sae I waitit in the 
 hoose-end where the Dominie keeps his peats when he 
 
8o STRONG MAC 
 
 fetches them aff the stack. What was it I was waitin' 
 for? It was for you, Strong Mac. Ye ken ye whiles 
 gied me a bite that is, when ye mindit !" 
 
 Here Strong Mac groaned that he had forgotten so 
 often. 
 
 "I didna ken!" he said. "I never jaloosed that ye 
 needit it!" 
 
 "It didna maitter," said Daid the Deil, soothingly. "I 
 was brawly weel used to doin' withoot. But at ony rate, 
 ye bode in the schule talkin' to a lassie " 
 
 At this Sharon McCulloch looked very stern, but said 
 nothing. Roy very perceptibly lost his easy confidence. 
 As for James, he gurgled, and docketed the phrase for ref- 
 erence. It was a missile of price. 
 
 Such a silence fell that Daid hurried on, instantly con- 
 scious that the wheels of his narrative were driving 
 heavily. 
 
 "Then ye cam' oot, and I was for followin' ye; but I 
 saw ye hadna ta'en your deener, sae I kenned ye wad be 
 comin' back. Sae I bode whaur I was. Then I heard 
 the lassie talkin' to the gamekeepie, but ower far aff to 
 catch what they said yin to anither. But as a' that gameys 
 says is bad, I gaed through the plantation and hid ahint 
 the hedge, and there I heard them miscaain' ye, and 
 swearin' they wad catch ye an' that the misleart 
 hounds ! 
 
 "Sae when the schule was oot, I thocht that they wad 
 bear watchin'. The man in the grey claes wi' the beard 
 was up at the minister's I saw the twa o' them through 
 the window drinkin' red whuskey oot o' glasses as lang 
 as that!" (Daid shaped the palms of his hands into a 
 V.) Sae I kenned that he couldna be a gamekeepie! 
 Na, if he had been that, he wad hae corned ower the dyke 
 at the back and slinkit to the door a' for to sorn on the 
 minister's Janet ! That's what gameys do ! They are aye 
 for the cupboard. I ken !" 
 
 For the first time Sharon looked an inquiry at his sons, 
 But they shook their heads. Daid felt the interrogative. 
 
THE TALE OF DAID THE DEIL 81 
 
 "Oh, I sune fand oot wha he was," he said, triumph- 
 antly. "I slippit roond to Janet mysel'. She's nane siccan 
 a bad sort, though naturally saft wi' onything in knee- 
 breeks, is Janet Aitkin. I says to her, 'Janet/ I says, 'ye 
 are bonny will ye gie me a cauld tawtie, or onything?' 
 Sae of coorse she bade me be aff wi' my flairdie, or she 
 wad set the dowg on me as if I didna ken that the dowg 
 was at that moment lyin' on the parlour rug (besides 
 bein' a freend o' mine, onyway). But I juist waited on, 
 and when she gied me the tawtie I says to Janet, 'Ye hae 
 company up the stair ?' Wi' a beck o' my heid, like that, 
 I said it." 
 
 Daid illustrated, and then, with a wry face, suddenly 
 recollected his shoulder. 
 
 " 'Aye,' says Janet, 'sic company as there is no' like to 
 be in ony ither hoose in Lowran this month o' Sundays. 
 Yon's the Laird !' 
 
 "'Whatna Laird?' 
 
 " 'Hear till him !' she cried. 'Has the lift opened an' 
 the heaven been rainin' lairds for seven days an' seven 
 nichts? Yon's the new Laird o' Lowran Sidney Lati- 
 mer, Esquire and wi' letters after his name. He has 
 been i' the wars, they tell me.' ' 
 
 Old Sharon looked at his two sons with a very grim 
 face. 
 
 "Aye," he said, "he is only the seed o' Belial in the sec- 
 ond degree!" 
 
 Daid went on unmoved. 
 
 "I watched Jonathan bywhiles, but there was naething 
 to find oot aboot him. He gaed to the change-hoose and 
 stayed there. Sae I followed and did some messages for 
 auld Lucky. She's no' half a bad body, Lucky, if ye 
 keep the richt side o' her. An' when I could I slippit into 
 the bar. And then I heard that Jonathan was gatherin' 
 up a cleckin' o' keepers an' sic like trash to gang and 
 look for a fox, he said. But I soon kenned whatna fox 
 he was after. 
 
 "Then I gaed back to the schule to warn you, and cam' 
 
82 STRONG MAC 
 
 on you (as I thocht) gaun hame wi' a lassie. The mist 
 was thick. I didna ken the yin o' ye frae the ither, shame 
 be to me ! It wasna you, Roy, this time that was wi' the 
 lassie. Jamie there kens wha it was." 
 
 (At this point the missile which Jamie had been saving 
 up in his armoury lost its value. He discarded it hastily.) 
 
 "An' by the time I fand my mistak' and got back, Roy 
 was up the Cleuch o' Pluckamin an' awa' ! 
 
 "But I followed the vermin. Aye, Daid kenned the 
 road to win yont them, and that was amang the taps o' the 
 trees. Sae he fand ye and gat your bag, Roy. An' it 
 was a' his am faut that ony o' them ever saw him. For 
 as the brutes were gaun girnin' hame wi' their finger in 
 their mooth, he peltit them wi' branches an' sic like. Then 
 Jonathan Grier let aff his gun at him, and Daid could juist 
 haud on till they were doon the glen. Then he fell into 
 the pool aneath !" 
 
 "Was the new Laird there when there was shootin'?" 
 asked Sharon, very softly. It seemed a simple question, 
 but many things depended upon it. 
 
 "Aye," said Daid, with equal simplicity, "but I heard 
 him flytin' on Jonathan for drawin' the trigger. He wad 
 haud him responsible for ony mischief, he said. Jonathan 
 was to mind that." 
 
 "And then ?" queried Roy, eager for the end. 
 
 "Oh, the cauld water garred me to come to mysel'," 
 continued Daid. "I warsled oot an' up the bank. I lay 
 there a lang time, and syne I took the face o' the muir. It 
 was a weary lang road an' the nicht was bitter mirk. But 
 when yince I saw the licht afore me that I kenned was 
 your hoose, Strong Mac, it cam' easier. I juist says to 
 mysel', 'He's yonder, Daid!' 
 
 "An' sae I warsled through!" 
 
 ******* 
 
 The tale of Daid's travel sat heavy on the hearts of 
 the three Ismaels that night. It was not so much a 
 desire for revenge as a fixed determination to set things 
 on another footing which moved them. 
 
THE TALE OF DAID THE DEAL 83 
 
 At last, after long thought, Sharon beckoned his two 
 sons into the kitchen. Daid had fallen into a light doze, 
 perhaps cunningly assisted thereto iy the pharmacy of 
 Sharon. The head of the house desired to speak with his 
 own. 
 
 "Roy and James/' he said, "this canna be left as it is. 
 We maun win a richt to a road oot an* in to the Hoose 
 o' Muir withoot question, withoot deforcement, either 
 frae person, pailing, dyke, yett, barricade, ditch, or ither 
 obstacle. There's nae hoose in Scotland that hasna a 
 richt to a road to kirk an* market. Yet we hae to gang 
 this way and that under cloud o' nicht to win to the King's 
 Highway. No' that I deny it's pairtly oor ain faut 
 gangin' at one time by the Cleuch and at anither by Ben- 
 nanbrack, an' then aiblins the neist time doon the burn- 
 side. It becomes us to choose yin o' thae roads an' stick 
 to it. Let it be the Bennanbrack road, an' for these rea- 
 sons first, though it's the langest, it's the road that gangs 
 properly wi' the farm o' Hoose o' Muir. For ill as he 
 likes to think o't, we are a pendicle o' that estate wi' a 
 condition o' service to fulfil, and ony richts we hae we 
 get frae the grant o' the Laird o' Bennanbrack's grand- 
 faither !" 
 
 "Lord, what wad he gie noo to hae chockit his grandad 
 quietly the nicht afore he subscrivit that!" said James, 
 who had in him some of the spirit of the lawyer and saw 
 with a discerning eye the agonies of the present propri- 
 etor over the too generous folly of his ancestor in devising 
 House of Muir to the first McCulloch. 
 
 "Second," continued his father, "there's what we will 
 hae to begin and think aboot for anither year the delivery 
 o' that cairt o' peats at the muckle hoose o' Bennanbrack. 
 If they could see a single Yule past withoot us layin' them 
 doon, they could tak' awa' the Hoose o' Muir frae us for 
 ever an' a day." 
 
 "It's a guid thing, faither," said Roy, smiling, "that 
 it's no' the last day o' June instead o' December. They 
 could herd us better in the short nichts." 
 
84 STRONG MAC 
 
 'They will herd us close aneuch this year, ye may de- 
 pend/' said Sharon, knitting his bushy grey eyebrows 
 and letting his hands wander in the direction of a gun that 
 lay on the rack. He took it down and regarded closely 
 the mechanism of the lock. 
 
 "Sae frae this forward we will stick to the Bennanbrack 
 road on every occasion, except, as it were, in the dark, an' 
 when we hae larder business on foot." 
 
 It was thus that Sharon spoke of the chase of other 
 people's deer, in which he held that there could be no 
 property these being (as he expressed it) "the wild 
 things that God gied unto oor first forefather Adam, that 
 nae man can tame nor bind, neither the King nor the 
 Prince nor the great one o' the earth, nor the laws they 
 mak' to grind the face o' the poor. They shallna be bindin' 
 on Sharon McCulloch nor on his children. If a man wants 
 to mak' a property o' a deer as he does o' a sheep or a coo, 
 let him shut it up wi' fences, mark it wi' keel, order its 
 ootgoings and incomings. So be it. Then Sharon Mc- 
 Culloch will neither mix nor mell wi' ony man's deer 
 park nor stirk park, his pheasant yard nor his poultry 
 yard. But as lang as the bonny broon deer flee lichtfit 
 ower the muir, takin' the dykes like partricks and the 
 moss-hags like birds o' the air, sae lang will I, Sharon, 
 Laird o' Hoose o' Muir, in virtue o' the pooer God gied to 
 Adam the first man, haud mysel' lord o' the wild deer that 
 rins, an' o' the wild bird that flees, o' the fish that sooms 
 and the serpent that crawls on his belly upon the face of 
 theyird!" 
 
 "The lairds micht hae the ethers for me and welcome !" 
 murmured Roy to himself, but aloud he said, "Hae ye 
 thought on how to get the peats to Bennanbrack this 
 year?" 
 
 Sharon McCulloch shook his head slowly. 
 
 "Yae thing at a time, Roy," he answered, gently. 
 "There's the road to be opened and keepit open in spite o' 
 their teeth. But I doot na that mony a thing will rise in 
 
THE TALE OF BADE THE DEIL 85 
 
 oor minds afore the Yule peats maun be laid doon at the 
 door o' Chesney Barwhinnock o' Bennanbrack." 
 
 "And the schulin'?" said James, who had his reasons 
 for asking. Roy also looked a little anxious. 
 
 "That's as may be/' answered Sharon, gravely. 
 "There's the road free to ye. It will do no harm to 
 mak' sure that it is clear nicht and mornin'. To-morrow 
 at daybreak we will lay the axe to the root o' the tree, and 
 break a road for our feet to walk upon to the King's High- 
 way/' 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE CAMPAIGN. 
 
 ON the day that the House of Muir Right-of-Way was 
 to be vindicated Adora Grade woke early. Or rather, she 
 had slept but little. In the dead heart of the night she 
 had lain long awake, awake with a mind unnaturally clear, 
 acute, lucid with an almost infernal lucidity. She saw the 
 life of her father her own life, both past and to come. 
 She knew like the demonstration of a proposition in Eu- 
 clid that if he went on as he was doing, Donald Gracie 
 would kill himself and that before long. 
 
 And then? 
 
 At first she did not think of herself, so full was she of 
 commending her father to the Eternal Mercy. But after 
 the second question arose. What of herself? She knew 
 the amount of worldly gear in the possession of Donald 
 Gracie the furniture and about three pounds in the 
 tea caddy. The minister and session would appoint a 
 new schoolmaster and she would be thrust out on the 
 wet road, homeless as one of the ash-leaves that had fallen 
 at sunrise on the morning of the last frost, and now lay 
 dank and trampled among the mire. 
 
 Yet though Adora had lain sleepless for hours, with the 
 happy inconsequence of youth, at six of the morning she 
 fell asleep, and it was at eight that Donald Gracie him- 
 self stood at her bedside with a cup of tea in his hand. It 
 was his peace offering, simply given, as simply accepted. 
 He had come to himself with a taste in his mouth, bitter 
 like wormwood, and a thirst which told him in the first 
 waking moment what had happened. 
 
THE CAMPAIGN 87 
 
 , He had sought the floor with his naked foot, risen, 
 swayed a moment uncertainly with an aching head and a 
 sinking heart, thought of and resisted with passionate dis- 
 gust a certain temptation, and stolen away to light the 
 kitchen fire, though yet the trees were no darker than the 
 skies, and the morning breeze was only beginning to shake 
 the great drops of distilled moisture aslant upon the win- 
 dow of the kitchen and plumply upon the leaden roof of 
 the porch. 
 
 Then when the Dominie had washed and dressed him- 
 self, when he had pumped water on the back of his neck 
 and drank two cups of scalding tea rapidly, he was ready 
 to take the third and choicest to the bedside of his 
 daughter. 
 
 "Oh, you shouldn't, father!" she cried, when she saw 
 what he had done. "It is wicked to let me lie sleeping 
 when you " 
 
 His face altered. He feared Adora was about to break 
 their unspoken convention and refer in the morning to 
 the events of the night before. 
 
 "I am very well this morning," he interrupted a little 
 stiffly. 
 
 "But have you forgotten," she cried, sitting up with the 
 cup of tea untouched in her hand, "have you forgotten 
 that you had an accident in school yesterday ? You fell 
 and hurt your head on a bench !" 
 
 "So I did so I did !" he said. "It is true. I had for- 
 gotten !" 
 
 Adora thought wisely that there was no use saying any- 
 thing about Muckle Sandy Ewan to her father. If any 
 one had to fight that battle, she would. 
 
 "And you kept the school, Adora!" he said, tenderly. 
 "There is no one like you !" 
 
 "Nonsense, Pater ^neas !" she cried. "And if I did, 
 I had to get Roy McCulloch to help me. That was no 
 great thing to boast of when you got the tea all alone. 
 But are you sure that your head is better ? Let me look 
 at it!" 
 
88 STRONG MAC 
 
 The swelling was certainly reduced, but there was still 
 considerable contusion. 
 
 "I will take the school again to-day," Adora an- 
 nounced, and then, a sudden thought striking her, she 
 added, "But you will come in and help me with the ver- 
 sions." 
 
 "Ah !" said her father, "yes, with the versions though 
 I could very well correct those here." 
 
 "The minister might come in," said Adora, craftily, who 
 wished to keep her father under her eye. "You would 
 not want the Doctor to find only me in the desk. It is 
 not that you need do anything !" 
 
 As she spoke certain visions began to vanish from the 
 mind of Donald. Then a bright thought struck him. 
 
 "Friday," he said. "Why, this is not version day !" 
 
 "No," answered the girl promptly, "but I shall want you 
 to set those for next week !" 
 
 "Ah !" said Donald Gracie, sighing softly. 
 
 ******* 
 
 "Now," said Sharon McCulloch, as he drew on his 
 boots at six o'clock that same morning in the flagged 
 kitchen of the House o' Muir, "let a' things be done de- 
 cently and in order. James, hae ye the notices ready? 
 Roy, the axes? I will tak' the heavy gelleck" (crow- 
 bar). "Your school-bags? Gin ye like, lads though 
 I see not the great use of that." 
 
 They had breakfasted very early, their father, as be- 
 fore, doing the cooking, while the lads attended to the 
 cattle and ponies, lighted each by an iron lantern as he 
 moved to and fro. 
 
 These three did all things during the morning hours in 
 perfect silence. It was not usual for them to speak a 
 word to each other till after their father had "ta'en the 
 Buik." This morning Sharon, with unconscious pomp 
 and a certain gloomy grandeur, read the song of Deborah, 
 the prophetess. His prayer bore upon the same stern 
 paean. 
 
 "Let no more the highroads lie desolate" (so he 
 
" 'OH, YOU SHOULDN'T, FATHER,' SHE CRIED." 
 
THE CAMPAIGN 89 
 
 prayed), "nor the travellers walk through byways! Make 
 a broad way and an open before our feet ! Give us out- 
 gate, Lord. Smite even as thou didst in the camp of Sen- 
 nacherib, the King of Assyria, as thou didst before the 
 city of Samaria, so that those that hate us may bite the 
 dust!" 
 
 There was no doubt in the mind of Sharon McCulloch 
 as to his unique position. He and his were the favoured 
 of Providence, even as were those Old Testament saints 
 who spoiled the Egyptians, or those others who, seeing a 
 good land and a pleasant beyond Jordan, crossed over to 
 take possession. 
 
 If there were Canaanites and Hittites and Hivites and 
 Jebusites there why, so much the worse for them. To 
 the Chosen alone pertained the fruits of the land oil and 
 honey and running milk and bursting grape yea, from 
 the snows of Lebanon on the north to where the vineyards 
 of Engedi overlook the salt acreages of the Dead Sea. 
 
 So the roe-deer of Barwhinnock and the pheasants of 
 Lowran, the grouse on the muirs of my Lord Glenkells 
 and the partridges on the fat furrows of Bodden of But- 
 tonbotham these could be no property of Canaanite and 
 Philistine so long as there was an Israelite to lay his eye 
 along a gun-barrel, or one of the seed of Jacob with a 
 finger to pull trigger. 
 
 And indeed, admitting the applicability of Old Testa- 
 ment principles, it would have been a bold controversialist 
 who would have proved to Sharon McCulloch that he was 
 in error. 
 
 It was the earliest streak of a winter's day, grey, mourn- 
 ful, mist-wrapped, when the axe was laid to the root of 
 the tree that is, of the gate post. 
 
 Laboriously had the Laird of Bennanbrack and his men 
 built up the dykes, cross-barred the ancient roadways, and 
 broken down the rude country bridges which spanned the 
 Pluckamin Burn and the infant Lowran. 
 
 But Sharon McCulloch and his sons cut a swathe across 
 
90 STRONG MAC 
 
 the country, clean and broad, laying out a highway pas- 
 sable for man and for beast. 
 
 Where there were only locked gates, they contented 
 themselves with breaking the padlock and laying it upon 
 the lintel post. They then nailed up a notice to it, setting 
 that this was the legal road from the farm of House 
 of Muir to Kirk and Market. 
 
 Where the obstructions were more serious, as where 
 a seven-foot dyke had been built across the path, they 
 made a gap wide enough for a horse and cart to pass, 
 and with the same law-abiding formality, they piled the 
 stones at the side and stuck their notice on the top. A re- 
 cently planted hedge was uprooted. A strong barricade 
 of young pine trees crossed with wattles was shattered by 
 axe-stroke and the remains extracted by Sharon's crow- 
 bar. 
 
 It was while this last operation was being completed 
 that the Laird of Bennanbrack arrived. He was a red- 
 faced man of fifty-five, raucous of voice as a crow, and 
 convinced of the Divine Right of landlords, but with lim- 
 ited means of expressing it. 
 
 "What's this? What's this? Infernal scoundrels! 
 What are ye doing here ? Condemn your souls ! Get off 
 my land. I'll have ye all in Kirkcudbright Gaol before 
 the day is over ! Here, Lambie, Robertson, take these fel- 
 lows ! Seize them, I say !" 
 
 Several game-watchers ran hastily up at their master's 
 call, but fell back at the sight of the three McCullochs, 
 Roy and James with sweeping broadaxes, and their father 
 standing erect leaning upon a crowbar, which in his 
 hands could easily have dashed the brains out of a horse. 
 It was a daunting spectacle, and made for peace. 
 
 "Go on, cowardly sweeps that ye are!" cried Chesney 
 Barwhinnock, Esquire. "What are ye feared of?" 
 
 "The verra same thing ye are feared o' yoursel' !" cried 
 Tyd Lambie, who was a wit. "Aye, the deil's selfsame !" 
 
 "The law will protect you !" said the landed proprietor. 
 
THE CAMPAIGN 91 
 
 "Aye, when we are deid!" answered Tyd. "That'll 
 be a great coamfort!" 
 
 Sharon McCulloch leaned with hi arms folded on the 
 crowbar, watching his foes. 
 
 "Gang on, lads," he commanded in his turn. "Cut a 
 road through to the King's Highway !" 
 
 So in spite of the execrations of Chesney Barwhinnock, 
 the work progressed rapidly. Down went the barricades 
 one after the other, none daring to hinder. The chips flew 
 every way. Strong Mac's axe whirled about his head, a 
 circle of gleaming steel on which the morning sun, rising 
 red, shone with the colour of blood. Opposite him James 
 smote with fine conscientiousness and attention to legality. 
 
 There ! It was done. The three stood victorious and 
 calm amid a pile of splintered chips, fragments of chain, 
 padlocks, pointed sticks in fact, a complete chevaux de 
 frise. 
 
 The clatter ceased suddenly as Roy with his foot swept 
 the larger fragments on to the Glenkells road. The forces 
 of the enemy were now much augmented, but the desire 
 for attack was not a whit keener. The three stood in the 
 gap which they had made, black against the rising sun, 
 and from the midst of his sons, exceedingly unafraid, 
 Sharon McCulloch of House of Muir spoke with his ene- 
 mies in the gate. 
 
 "Chesney Barwhinnock," he began, lifting himself 
 erect, "the Lord that is on high answer ye according to 
 your blasphemies. With them I hae naething to do. But 
 hear ye a word or twa." 
 
 "Robertson, you swinging rascal, you pitiful coward," 
 cried the angry man, "go for the military ! Run for your 
 life! We will have the rascals before they can escape! 
 We will keep them here bring the peace officers, the ex- 
 cise Captain Brabant! Confound your shivering soul, 
 what are ye standing there glowering for ?" 
 
 "Ye will hold us, Chesney Barwhinnock," quoth 
 Sharon, grimly, "you and your men? Better send them 
 all on your errands, Laird o' Bennanbrack! I warrant 
 
92 STRONG MAC 
 
 they will move the readier in that direction than if ye 
 order them to fall upon the McCullochs of the Hoose o' 
 Muir! As for me, I stand within my rights. Yonder 
 is my property, deeded to me by your ancestor, Chesney ! 
 You and your lawyers have reason to ken how firmly. 
 Neither you nor they can break that. There was a road 
 to kirk and market frae yonder hoose generations and 
 centuries afore ye were born. We that dwell in the Hoose 
 o' Muir are neither birds o' the air to fly nor fish o' the sea 
 to swim. We maun walk on God's earth we, our chil- 
 dren, our cattle and the stranger within our gates! Ye 
 have locked the door upon us, as if we had been con- 
 demned prisoners barred the gate against us as against 
 thieves. We be free men seeking our own, an' when we 
 find it we take it. Here we have made a road broad and 
 plain. We have broken access to our rights. Let any 
 dare to molest us at their peril. If ye think otherwise, the 
 courts are open. Interdict us afore the Fifteen. There 
 is enough in the stockin' foot at the Hoose o' Muir to face 
 ye there, even as I face ye here. But ye canna. Ye 
 daurna. Put up your gates we will break them doon. 
 Lock your yetts we will shiver them in pieces as we 
 have done this day. And if ye withstand us, it is at your 
 own proper risks. Ye have been warned in the presence 
 of witnesses. Moreover, Chesney Barwhinnock, ye are 
 cursed with the curse of the covetous, of the remover of 
 landmarks, of the oppressor of the poor. But for us, as 
 the Lord hath commanded, we will stand in the ways and 
 see. We ask but for the old paths, saying, 'Where is the 
 good way, that we may walk therein and find rest for our 
 souls?' Lads, to the schule wi' ye, your axes upon your 
 shoothers ! For me, I return hame by the way that I have 
 made for myself. Woe to the man that cometh foment 
 me. Out o' the way, Chesney Barwhinnock! Vanish 
 from before me, Tyd Lambie and you, Pate Robertson. 
 For the trumpet is blown in Tekoa (which is Hoose 
 o' Muir), and I have seen a ball of fire fall in Beth- 
 hacerem the which I take to be the load o' Yule peats 
 
THE CAMPAIGN 93 
 
 I will deliver at your door, Maister Chesney Barwhinnock, 
 Laird o' Bennanbrack, but not lord o' the hale earth, as 
 ye wad fain hae us believe !" f 
 
 And with these words Sharon McCulloch went through 
 the ranks of his enemies, scattering them before the wind 
 of his coming, his crowbar in his hand, and the mighty 
 anathemas and excommunications rolling from his lips. 
 
 They stood open-mouthed, gazing after him as he went 
 forward, never looking behind. It was long before their 
 feelings found vent, and then it came rounded and com- 
 plete from the lips of the Laird himself. 
 
 "D n!" said Chesney Barwhinnock of Bennanbrack, 
 Esquire. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE NEW WORLD OF LOWRAN. 
 
 THE campaign which opened by the historic clearance 
 of the Bennanbrack road raged with various fortunes for 
 three years. Not always were the McCullochs so suc- 
 cessful, yet on the whole the victory lay with them. And 
 for this reason. Among their numerous enemies was no 
 cohesion, while the McCullochs stood shoulder to shoulder 
 year in and year out. 
 
 Moreover, they had sympathisers. Herds on the hills 
 both near and far, and especially herds' wives, favoured 
 them with information, counsel, shelter, food. Even the 
 ordinary game-watcher, paid his week's wage (but strictly 
 an hireling), found it to his profit to turn his back and 
 saunter over a knowe if he saw the House of Muir lads at 
 work about an animal, which might, of course, be a braxy 
 sheep, but again might be one of his master's deer. Often 
 the merest glint of Sharon's tall, gaunt figure defined 
 against the skyline has decided one of Jonathan Grier's 
 underlings to remember a sudden call of duty in an oppo- 
 site direction. 
 
 Then in the black and arid winter, perhaps on the verge 
 of some storm which would prevent the ill-affected and 
 talebearing from circulating much among the mountains, 
 Sharon or Roy would say (casually enough) to a herd 
 who had showed himself complaisant aye, it is whis- 
 pered, even to some of the game-watchers themselves on 
 lonely station "Gae up the glen till ye see twa sticks 
 stelled in a V then haud ower the knowe to the richt a 
 
THE NEW WORLD OF LOWRAN 95 
 
 maitter o' thretty yards turn ower some pulled heather 
 an' if ye dinna see something that ye never saw afore, 
 come back an' tell me !" f 
 
 And that night the beef-tub in the little cot on the hills 
 would hold venison, and that cottier's tow-headed chil- 
 dren might be seen running about for several days with 
 a trickle of gravy browning the wicks of their mouths. 
 
 At House of Muir, Sharon and Roy were alone most 
 of the time now, for Jamie had gone to Drumfern to serve 
 his time in a lawyer's office, and though he came back 
 every Saturday and spent the Sabbath (between the two 
 "takkin's o' the Buik") in ways not particularly law-abid- 
 ing, he could not be said to belong to the house. 
 
 It was by his own will that James had thus departed, 
 and the agreement drawn up as to his expenses in Drum- 
 fern showed that he had not mistaken his profession. This 
 document provided that, until James repaid the advances 
 which his father had made to him during his apprentice- 
 ship to Writer Greg, his brother Roy should be consid- 
 ered sole heir to the property of House of Muir. Further- 
 more, if his father advanced his elder son money to estab- 
 lish him in business, Roy's ownership was to become abso- 
 lute. Besides which, it was provided that James McCul- 
 loch was at all times to give his legal services free of 
 charge ("expenses only") to his father and brother. 
 
 On Sharon himself little change had passed. His tus- 
 sock of grey hair might be a thought more heron-plumed, 
 his shoulder blades more like ploughshares, but the 
 muscles on his lean wrists stood out more like whip- 
 cords than ever. Years had not dimmed the blue glint of 
 his eyes, straight as steel, cold as ice, and he fronted the 
 world as defiantly, and perhaps a trifle more humorously 
 than before. 
 
 Roy McCulloch at twenty-one had filled out to the meas- 
 ure of his early promise. He was not tall, but his figure 
 was so beautifully proportioned that only the great mus- 
 cles swelling under the smooth white skin and the easy 
 inevitableness of his every action revealed the latent force 
 
96 STRONG MAC 
 
 which lay beneath. "Strong Mac" he had been even as 
 a boy, but now they said (and were believed) that there 
 were no five men in the county who would care to tackle 
 Roy McCulloch in open combat. 
 
 There was about him still the old air of languid good- 
 nature, that lazy challenge of eye which at once charmed 
 and irritated women, and upon occasion a quiet, resistless 
 ease of action wholly different from his father's fierce 
 volcanic energy. 
 
 In love (much talked of in these parts) Roy was still 
 unattached, though ever and anon the talk of his friend- 
 ship with the Dominie's Dora would take to itself fresh 
 wings after he had been seen swinging down the village 
 street of Lowran, turning sharply to the left, and so up 
 the little schoolhouse loaning. 
 
 But, then, Roy McCulloch always chose the time when 
 most folk could see him. The loungers on the bridge, 
 elbows on the parapet smoking their evening pipe, joked 
 him sedately as he passed. The quoits were ringing 
 keenly on the village green. The good gossips were out 
 on their doorsteps with stockings and white seams, and 
 they, too, greeted him with passing pleasantries, as 
 tongues feminine ran well oiled to the click of the needles 
 and the biting of threads. 
 
 So no one believed very much in the report which they 
 themselves passed on. Roy McCulloch went to see his 
 old master. The two were held great cronies. As to 
 other possibilities well, Adora Gracie was a winsome 
 lass. There was no saying but behaviour less like that 
 of Lowran lovers could not well be. 
 
 And Adora herself? Ah, come into the little school- 
 house and you will see what three years have done for 
 her. Sixteen to nineteen from the Old World to the 
 New! And over this dividing ocean each daughter of 
 Eve must be her own Columbus. 
 
 Adora Gracie had not grown up according to pattern. 
 She was gipsy-dark in a world of girls lily-white, flour- 
 white, freckled white. Never a freckle was there on 
 
THE NEW WORLD OF LOWRAN 97 
 
 Adora's clean even tan. Yet healthy colour throbbed upon 
 occasion on her dusk cheek. Perennial geranium glowed 
 upon her lips. Her eyes were dark and fiery at once the 
 pupils large and mysterious, with a sense of tears unshed 
 behind them, alternately mirthfully defiant and provok- 
 ingly scornful, eyes that could prick the bladder of con- 
 ceit like bayonets and yet draw as with cart-ropes the pris- 
 oners of Adora's sword and bow. 
 
 Yet she had no such general reputation for surpassing 
 beauty such as had Charlotte Webster. Three men out 
 of four would have preferred Charlotte, but the fourth 
 would have flown at the throats of the others for a word 
 breathed against Adora. There was a certain reserve, 
 rare in such generous and gracious natures, a ready wit, 
 a mellow afternoon charm about the Dominie's lass that 
 made her older than her years, and drew after her, not 
 the usual herd of young night-runners, but rather men 
 somewhat tried and experienced, grave and gay after their 
 kind. They came to see the Dominie. Of course ! They 
 were all interested in the Dominie. And so the best talk 
 of the neighbourhood was to be heard in the kitchen place 
 of the little schoolhouse in the wood. 
 
 Yet, for a certain reason Adora Gracie had few declared 
 suitors. Charlotte Webster had them in strings and 
 shoals, and took credit therefor. But Adora Gracie pos- 
 sessed the art to see into a man's feelings some way ahead 
 of himself, and (as Jock Fairies said) "she keepit a 
 bucket-fu' o' cauld water on the shelf in case!" And 
 Jock had some cause to know. He generally proposed 
 to her, or at least made up his mind to do so, every Fri- 
 day night. 
 
 By far the richest and most determined of all Adora's 
 lovers, and the one whom, in popular estimation, she must 
 end by taking, was Sandy Ewan, the Muckle Sandy of the 
 Lowran Ploughing Match. He was now his father's suc- 
 cessor. He had several farms of his own, a house which 
 rumour affirmed was being furnished to Adora's taste, 
 while as horse-dealer and cattle-factor he had few equals 
 
98 STRONG MAC 
 
 and no scruples. With such advantages a man would go 
 far, and it was the opinion of Lowran that, "gin Sandy 
 Ewan wanted a woman, he wad get her at the hinder-end." 
 
 Lowran had watched many generations of stand-offish 
 and head-tossing parish belles who ended thus marrying 
 not the men they liked best, but the most persistent, the 
 men who wearied them the longest with their much ask- 
 ing. The knowledge that there is an alternative constantly 
 open to her, a place at a table-head which may be her own 
 at any moment, money to spend, a recognised position 
 ready to be claimed, has its effect upon the mind of any 
 woman in time; that is ah! in time. Such was the 
 philosophy of Lowran, and the experience of the past had 
 given it some reason for so thinking. 
 
 Had not Tib Lonnen, that tearing beauty of the Di- 
 rectory days, ended by throwing over all the bucks of the 
 time and marrying old Kissock of Birkenshaw, over fifty, 
 snuffy and badger-grey ? Did not Effie Hill sit in Girder- 
 wood pew in Lowran kirk, having migrated from that of 
 Hunter ston just across the aisle? Her two husbands, 
 Girderwood and Hunterston (both deceased), had been 
 old men, with heavy "stocking- feet"! And so now the 
 parish looks on a little cynically till Effie Hill, late of 
 Hunterston, later still of Girderwood, throws her hand- 
 kerchief of the third essay. The general opinion is that 
 this time she will take a young man who will considerably 
 
 lighten the stocking-feet of the deceased. 
 
 ******* 
 
 But the schoolhouse and its mistress are waiting, and 
 must wait no longer. 
 
 Donald Gracie, also three years older, sat by the win- 
 dow, a book on his knee. He was thinner than of old. 
 His hair was scantier, and there was a fine, gentle pallor 
 about him which was very becoming. His hand, white 
 and delicate, held the book listlessly, a finger in the place. 
 
 But there was a carefully tended look about the Domi- 
 nie, very different from what the older folk of the village 
 remembered of him in the days before Adora had estab- 
 
THE NEW WORLD OF LOWRAN 99 
 
 lished her authority. Most people said that the Dominie 
 had wholly cast aside his ancient failings. But a few, 
 who knew the symptoms, shook their heads in private, or 
 wound their watches in meditative silence when their 
 wives questioned them about the matter as they were go- 
 ing to bed. 
 
 All the same, he was undeniably "weel-put-on," and 
 Adora was greatly thought of as a manager. For the 
 Dominie's income was known to a shilling, and yet Adora 
 could oftener change a pound than any other woman in 
 the village. 
 
 "Have you heard how they divide the young men of 
 Lowran, Dora?" said the Dominie, as with a certain quiz- 
 zical expression in his eyes he watched the girl, with 
 arms bared to the shoulder, scouring a "berry-pan" of 
 shining brass in readiness for the yet distant preserving 
 season. In the meanwhile it served as a point of light 
 on the kitchen wall of the schoolhouse, a halo to which 
 suitors lifted their eyes after gazing long at Adora. 
 
 "No, father," said the girl, without any great interest. 
 "I thought the young men of Lowran were all alike !" 
 
 "I heard it from Robin Gilchrist," he said ; " 'the Deil's 
 Buckies gang to Lucky Greentree's, the Daft Lads to 
 Charlotte Webster's, but the Wise-like to see the Domi- 
 nie' !" 
 
 He chuckled audibly. 
 
 "The Wise-like to see the Dominie!" he repeated, 
 smilingly. "Observe the prolepsis !" 
 
 "I observe," said his daughter, with spirit, "that we are 
 in good company Lucky Greentree's, Charlotte Webster 
 and the schoolhouse !" 
 
 Donald Gracie shrugged his shoulders. He was the 
 only man in Lowran who did this, till Sidney Latimer 
 came home from the wars. 
 
 "My dear," he said, "the schoolhouse is a health resort. 
 Why should we complain? Are we not the club the 
 parliament the only alternative to the other two? You 
 must not complain. They are all my old pupils." 
 
ioo STRONG MAC 
 
 "The Laird?" she queried, breathing hard on the ob- 
 stinate brass and polishing vigorously. 
 
 "The Laird?" said Donald Gracie, meditatively. "He 
 comes, doubtless, for similar reasons. A great old empty 
 house, a deaf mother with a temper, and the society of 
 servants. Here the pleasure of my society, books, some 
 wit if scant wisdom " 
 
 "And the pleasure of being set to polish jelly pans!" 
 said Adora. "Here, Laird! You are just in time to be 
 of some use in the world." 
 
 She held out the brass boiling-pan to a tall bearded 
 youngish man who came in at the moment. He took it 
 from her hands and stood waiting directions. A slightly 
 uncertain smile was on his lips. No salutation passed 
 between any of them. Indeed, it was not their first meet- 
 ing. Sidney Latimer had already "cried in" as he went 
 down to the village to meet the mail coach which passed 
 through Lowran every day on its journey from Newton 
 Galloway to St. Cuthbertstown. 
 
 "And the cloth!" she said, pushing it towards him. 
 "Nothing is wanting now but elbow-grease !" 
 
 She herself drew the great wheel out of the corner of 
 the room and laid a soft pile of "rowns" (or wool for spin- 
 ning rounded like macaroni) on a chair ready to her hand. 
 In a moment more began the soft sough and whoo of the 
 spinning-wheel, in those days the greatest incentive to 
 conversation of the quieter sort, because it filled up the 
 gaps and gave every one time to speak unhurriedly or to 
 be silent without awkwardness. 
 
 Shy men got time to think. Exuberant men could be 
 repressed. For the spinner moving to and fro gracefully, 
 easing and "raxing" her thread, could come in very ef- 
 fectively as accompaniment, sometimes whooing so loud 
 as to drown an awkward remark, or again stopping alto- 
 gether to pick a knot off the thread, till the sudden silence 
 brought out a sentence as if it had been printed in the 
 largest capitals. Tricksome Penelopes often did this of 
 malice prepense. 
 
 
THE NEW WORLD OF LOWRAN 101 
 
 It was some considerable time since the Laird of Low- 
 ran had begun to drop in regularly at the schoolhouse. 
 As principal heritor of the parish it was manifestly his 
 duty, and after a while it became his pleasure also. Yet 
 he explained himself manfully enough to Adora when, 
 as to-night, she took him to task about the matter. 
 
 "Why do I come?" he repeated after her. "Well, per- 
 haps the best answer is, that I shall continue to come so 
 long as you permit me. I am not leaving my own class 
 and consorting with village folk. Your father, Mistress 
 Dora, is a gentleman, if ever I met one. I have abun- 
 dantly tried my 'equals/ as you call them, since my re- 
 turn. They are not my equals nor yours. Is Chesney 
 Barwhinnock my equal, who cannot make himself intelli- 
 gible without a string of oaths? Or my lord up yon- 
 der at Cairnsmore, who tells me thirty times in an hour 
 The people must be kept down, sir ! The country is go- 
 ing to the dogs, sir !' Or old Bodden, who is never happy 
 till he has made every man at his table as drunk as him- 
 self? No, madam, these are not my equals !" 
 
 "But/' said Adora, "have you thought at all of me in 
 the matter?" 
 
 The young man with the brown beard looked quickly up 
 at her. Adora's eyes were on her twirling spindle. 
 
 "I never think of anything !" 
 
 "Who-oo-oo-oooooo!" said the spinning-wheel, op- 
 portunely. 
 
 The noise stopped as soon as his lips ceased moving. 
 With a glance she assured herself that her father was deep 
 in his book, which he had lifted from his knee as soon as 
 the Laird began to polish the brass berry-pan. 
 
 It was his usual way of entertaining a solitary guest 
 to leave him wholly to his daughter. 
 
 "But," said Adora, "you forget. You do not hear what, 
 the people say. I do !" 
 
 "And what do they say ?" said the young Laird hastily, 
 the flush maintaining itself on his cheek. 
 
102 STRONG MAC 
 
 
 "A little thought will tell you that," she said, "or you 
 can ask Jonathan Grier. He will inform you !" 
 
 "I do not care," he began, and then stopped of his own 
 accord. 
 
 "No," said the girl, "you do not because there is no 
 reason why you should. But I I have to think of myself, 
 to speak for myself. My father " 
 
 She lifted her eyes and indicated the Dominie to the 
 Laird. He was deep in his Virgil, his thin forefinger 
 beating out the time as the familiar lines flowed rhythmi- 
 cally in his head. 
 
 "You see," she went on, "I am in a manner alone. You 
 are not of our degree, whatever you may say. And " 
 she added, this more softly under cover of the gentlest 
 sighing of the spinning-wheel, "the Lowran people draw 
 no fine distinctions !" 
 
 "Gross boors " said the young man, his brow dark- 
 ening angrily, "evil-tongued liars ! If aught comes to my 
 ear I will clean the ground of them and theirs, and leave 
 not a reeking chimney from one end of it to the other!" 
 
 There was a curious smile on the girl's face as she an- 
 swered him. 
 
 "Aye," she said, "that were indeed a fine way to stop 
 folk talking. To make my name a byeword from bound 
 to bound of the parish could the art of man devise any 
 surer means than that ? Oh, men men !" 
 
 "Doubtless they are indeed a continual torment to you," 
 said Sidney Latimer, with sudden aggressive bitterness, 
 "yet I never saw any one colder or better able to look 
 after herself!" 
 
 For the first time Adora Grade's face flushed. There 
 was a soft, dangerous light in her dark eyes. 
 
 "I have learnecTthat lesson," she said, quietly. "All my 
 life I have had to think of and care for another before my- 
 self. Good for you if it had been your case !" 
 
 "And do I not think for some one else?" he said, almost 
 too loudly. "Pray tell me, of whom am I thinking now ?" 
 
THE NEW WORLD OF LOWRAN 103 
 
 "Of yourself!" retorted Adora, with perfect composure. 
 "Of no one but yourself !" 
 
 The young man half rose from his seat as if to go, but 
 changing his mind, sat down again. 
 
 "What would you have me do ?" he said, with a sigh. 
 
 For the space of two "rowns" Adora span on without 
 answering. The moaning of the wide, slim wheel filled 
 the house with a sighing sadness. 
 
 "I would have you come less to the schoolhouse. My 
 father, if you wish for society, will step over to the Great 
 House of an evening to talk with you. The walk will 
 do him good. You can have your Greek readings there 
 instead of here. Then that dog of yours will not sit 
 barking on my doorstep, as an advertisement of where 
 his master spends his forenights. Then, perhaps, your 
 mother will not scowl when she meets me or twitch her 
 dress to the side lest it should be defiled by my touch." 
 
 "My mother " cried the young man, so vehemently 
 that Donald Gracie, who had fallen asleep over Virgil 
 dropped his book with a crash and sat up, suddenly awak- 
 ened by the noise. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Latimer," he said, "I hope you will pardon 
 an old man but I think I am a little fatigued this even- 
 ing. The school was close to-day." 
 
 Sidney Latimer picked up the book and gave it courte- 
 ously back to his host. His mouth was grim under his 
 moustache. The Dominie resumed his reading, turning 
 away his shoulder to catch a more favourable light 
 through the trees. 
 
 The Laird waited till the musical throb of the great 
 wheel again filled the air. 
 
 "My mother," he said in a low, angry tone "if my 
 mother has " 
 
 "I am sorry I spoke of that. It slipped out. It was 
 nothing," said the girl, hastily. "Your mother has every 
 right to behave as she likes to me. But as far as in me 
 lies, I will give her no cause. Nor, if I can prevent it, 
 will I permit you to do so, either. If you say anything 
 
104 STRONG MAC 
 
 of this to your mother, remember I wish never to see you 
 or to speak with you again!" 
 
 "Dora Dora, you make it hard hard," groaned the 
 young Laird. "What have I done to be shut out from 
 that which is free to my farmers, to my servants, to the 
 son of an outlaw poacher ? Ah," he continued, noting the 
 glow rise on her neck at the word, "that is it ! There is 
 some one whom you welcome as you never welcome me 
 some one who has other than hard words from you !" 
 
 Adora Gracie broke off her "rown" with a sharp snap, 
 removed the half-filled spindle, swept all the fat coils of 
 wool into a bag, and passed very erect to the door which 
 led to the staircase. 
 
 "I bid you good-night !" she said, and going out, she left 
 him sitting. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A CONFIDENTIAL CONVERSATION. 
 
 As Sidney Latimer took his gloomy angers off through 
 the red boles of the little schoolhouse plantation, he 
 met a young man just entering by the gate. He was 
 a tall and broad-shouldered young man, with a strongly 
 moulded, clean-shaven, boyish face, remarkably clear 
 forth-looking eyes, and the easy, unhurried carriage of 
 one who lives habitually in the open air. 
 
 He was dressed like any well-to-do young farmer, 
 and wore a blue bonnet, a grey homespun coat, cut away 
 in the prevailing fashion, a long-flapped waistcoat of a 
 dark blue colour besprent with small yellow flowers, close- 
 fitting knee-breeches, grey hose deeply lined down the leg 
 in the fashion known as "rig-and-furrow," while upon his 
 feet were strong moorland shoes with buckles of shining 
 steel. He had silver ones at home, but he thought that 
 to wear them would look conceited, so he left them at 
 home. 
 
 This, as Sidney Latimer was aware, was the son of the 
 squireen of the Bennanbrack moors, Roy McCulloch of 
 the House of Muir. As a landlord the name was more 
 than ever anathema to him. Had not Sharon repeatedly 
 defied the powers that be? Had he not set up corn- 
 stooks after harvest to tempt their birds to the slaughter ? 
 Who but he shot their roe deer and made light of their 
 gamekeepers? Yet he held to his poor three hundred 
 acres, in spite of most advantageous offers to buy him 
 out, with a tenacity which, being a fair-minded man in 
 the main, the Laird of Lowran could not help admiring. 
 
io6 STRONG MAC 
 
 But on this occasion the eyes of Sidney Latimer were 
 sicklied over with jealousy. And he scowled at Roy Mc- 
 Culloch going up to the schoolhouse with a savage hu- 
 mour which sat ill upon his handsome and open face. 
 Roy passed him rapidly with a slight but courteous salu- 
 tation, his muscular legs carrying him out of sight among 
 the trees before the angry expression had faded off Lati- 
 mer's face. 
 
 "Hang him," muttered the young Laird. "So that is 
 her choice, is it ? A poacher and the son of a poacher !" 
 
 He stood on the white road, switching his leg and medi- 
 tating. 
 
 "I wonder," he muttered between his teeth, "whether 
 things cannot be so managed as to relieve the parish of 
 both you and your father?" 
 
 Then a flush of shame rose to the Laird's brow, for he 
 had been thinking of the Press-gang. 
 
 "No, hang it," he said, in the tone usual to him, "if I 
 cannot win fairly I am not going to play with loaded 
 dice." 
 
 But, then, when a man plays in company he cannot al- 
 ways prevent the loading of the dice even with the best 
 intentions in the world. So that night Jonathan Grier, 
 who had been waiting in the lodge for the return of his 
 master from the schoolhouse, observed with interest the 
 unusual gloom of his countenance, and the air of angry 
 preoccupation with which he dwelt on the misdeeds of the 
 McCullochs. The poacher Sharon and his son were be- 
 coming a pest to the neighborhood. They were carrying 
 their lawlessness with a high hand. Something must be 
 done. Thus fulminated the Laird of Lowran, stamping 
 his way along his own avenue to his ancient mansion- 
 house. 
 
 Whereupon Jonathan Grier, a wily man, put two and 
 two together, bethinking him if there was nothing to his 
 advantage in all this. 
 
 He had seen Roy McCulloch pass by on his way to the 
 Dominie's. He had even cried him a neighbourly greeting. 
 
A CONFIDENTIAL CONVERSATION 107 
 
 For, save in the matter of business, there was in Low- 
 ran usually no animosity between law-breaker and law- 
 preserver. Now, it is well to repeat the fact that 
 Jonathan Grier was a wily man. He had come from the 
 north of Ireland in the time of the late Laird, and had 
 been continued in his position by Sidney Latimer, less 
 from personal liking than because he had made himself 
 necessary to the young Laird's peace of mind by a cer- 
 tain influence which the chief gamekeeper possessed over 
 his mother. 
 
 Mrs. Latimer had never yet been able to understand 
 that her son was grown up or that he had attained an age 
 to think on any subject for himself. To her he was still 
 the boy who had been sent to school to learn the Latin 
 grammar, to be birched into unwilling rectitude, and who 
 at set intervals returned home to be cosseted and posseted 
 for ailments more or less imaginary. Still, upon going out 
 he must be laid wait for in the hall to see that he encased 
 himself in his proper muffler and overshoes. Still, he 
 must be ambushed upon his return, that he might give an 
 account of himself and his pursuits during every hour of 
 absence. 
 
 "My Sidney," the Lady of Lowran used to say to Mrs. 
 Rebecca Purslane, her confidential maid, "must never get 
 out of the habit of confiding entirely in his mother. He 
 must continue to tell me everything, and the habit shall 
 be at once his safeguard and mine. No evii companion- 
 ships ! No designing young women ! I would see through 
 them at once. I would warn him. Nay, I would go di- 
 rect to the huzzies and tell them what I thought of them 1" 
 
 "But," said Mrs. Rebecca, shaking the black bugles on 
 her many-bastioned headdress, "there's that schoolmaster's 
 daughter on the hill. What was the awesome thing I 
 heard the last time I took a quarter of a pound o' the 
 spoilt green tea ye couldna drink to Betty Howdie in the 
 village? Betty, a godly woman and well informed, 
 telled me that the young Laird was up at the schoolhouse 
 five nights out of the lawf u' six every week in the year !" 
 
io8 STRONG MAC 
 
 At this the Lady of Lowran shook her head all the more 
 vehemently. 
 
 "Betty Howdie is one fool and you another, Purslane," 
 she cried. "As soon as you came in I asked Sidney to tell 
 me the truth, and he assured me that there was nothing in 
 the report. He goes there to read Greek with the school- 
 master, a very learned man. Besides, Jonathan Grier has 
 seen him through the window, with a book in his hand, 
 listening enraptured to the schoolmaster expounding the 
 quirky passages. And I myself from the road have heard 
 the girl's spinning-wheel bumming like a bees' byke a' the 
 time Sidney was in at his lesson !" 
 
 As she listened Mrs. Rebecca laid the points of her long, 
 bony fingers together and cast her eyes upwards, a graven 
 image of a virgin martyr. She had her sufferings with \ 
 her mistress, and for the last fifteen years had resolved 
 to change her place at least three times a week. But the 
 carelessness of her superior and the perquisites of her 
 office more than made up for the many names which the 
 Lady of Lowran called her when, as Purslane put it, she 
 was "sore left to herself and forsaken by grace !" 
 
 On the present occasion the waiting-maid knew that 
 Mrs. Latimer was not nearly so comfortable in her mind 
 as she would have herself believe. But Purslane was far 
 too experienced a maid to say so. She had not striven 
 with her own "poor defunct" so long without knowing 
 that, in love as in war, a flank attack succeeds much 
 oftener than a frontal one. So she let the lady satisfy 
 herself as to the harmlessness of Adora Gracie before sug- 
 gesting that the next time they went to the village to- 
 gether they should both of them call upon such a desirable 
 neighbour. 
 
 "If she's a' that ye say, she deserves to be encouraged," 
 pursued Purslane, diplomatically, "and I am sure the 
 young woman wad be mightily complimented by a visit 
 from your Leddyship." 
 
 But "her Leddyship" declined to be mollified so 
 simply. 
 

 A CONFIDENTIAL CONVERSATION 109 
 
 "Ye are a silly auld body, Purslane/' she cried imperi- 
 ously. "What would I be doing, encouraging any young 
 person to think herself above her position ?" 
 
 At which Purslane sighed and maintained that pe- 
 culiarly elevated silence which always aggravated her mis- 
 tress. 
 
 "Why can you not speak when you have anything to say, 
 Rebecca Purslane?" she said. "There dinna pretend to 
 greet! Woman, ye ought to be ashamed at your time 
 of life to be a perfect waterworks. Yes, of course you 
 are a lonely widow, and a deil's sicht better off than when 
 Purslane was alive, if the tenth part o' what ye hae telled 
 me be true ! Speak out, woman, if ony word you have to 
 say is worth a sensible woman's listening to !" 
 
 "Ah," said Purslane, mournfully, "I will speak that 
 which is sore upon my heart. It is that though by the 
 blessing of a kind Providence, still able for my work, the 
 day will come when I shall desire to take a little rest from 
 my labours " 
 
 "Your labours," cried her mistress, growing more hotly 
 indignant, and also in speech more colloquial. "Do ye 
 think that bringing me my cap twice a day, and girning 
 like a sheepshead in the tongs the rest of your time, is 
 'labour'? If that is your idea of labour, ye have passed 
 brave and easy through the world that's a' I hae to say 
 to you? But what are ye driving at, Purslane? Let us 
 hae it!" 
 
 "Weel," said Purslane primly, as though suffering in 
 silence those scorns which patient merit from the unwor- 
 thy takes, "what thinks your Leddyship of asking the 
 young woman at the schoolhouse to come and bide here 
 to learn under me, as it were, that in time when I am laid 
 aside she might be able in some measure to fill my place ?" 
 
 As if propelled by a spring the Lady of Lowran rose 
 from her chair, and taking Purslane by the shoulders, 
 gave her a shake that made the bugles clash on her cap. 
 
 "O' all the unconscionable idiots," she cried, "Becky 
 Purslane, ye are the crown ! To think that ye hae spent 
 
i io STRONG MAC 
 
 as muckle time on the Footstool, and yet hae acquired nae 
 mair gumption than an unspeaned calf ! Providence has, 
 indeed, weared a deal mair hard wark on you than It will 
 ever get back its ain siller for! To speak o' bringin' a 
 young woman into the quiet house of Lowran and an 
 innocent laddie like Sidney in it. What for do ye think 
 I keep the like o' you an auld done body that there is 
 neither sense nor wark in no to speak o' Isabel Byres 
 there, wha is but a gizzened tub and canna even see when 
 she washes a neckerchief clean, and bleared cook Ailie in 
 the kitchen, wha's face wad fricht auld Nickieben him- 
 self frae laying a hand on her in ony wrangous way 
 what for are the like o* you aboot the Lowran but that 
 the bairn that has been gi'en to me may be delivered frae 
 the temptations o' the flesh at least in his ain mither's 
 house?" 
 
 "Aye," said Purslane, moving her head this way and 
 that gingerly to make sure that it had not been shaken 
 off her shoulders, "that's as may be. I am a poor widow 
 woman and think naething o' the gauds o' the flesh or o' 
 the beauty o' adornment, being content in my humble 
 sphere with the ornamentation o' a meek and contented 
 spirit. But yet, maybe if there was somewhat mair at- 
 traction in the House of Lowran, the young maister might 
 be inclined to bide a kennin' nearer hame! I mind aye 
 what said godly Mr. Whittaker, of Cauldslaps Meeting 
 Hoose in his fast-day Exercise and Addition, that be- 
 tween the young and the auld there was a great gulf 
 fixed!" 
 
 "Daft havers," cried the old lady. "I ken ye, Purs- 
 lane. Ye will hae some lang-leggit limmer o' a niece o' 
 your ain to propose ! But I'll never let a young hempie 
 within my doors in the way o' service. And as for vis- 
 itors faith, they will wait lang for an invite frae me !" 
 
 "But the Laird will doubtless marry some day," sug- 
 gested Purslane, with artful meekness, "and life is an un- 
 certain thing at the best. Like mysel', your Leddyship is 
 getting well stricken in years. Were it not wiser to look 
 
 
A CONFIDENTIAL CONVERSATION in 
 
 for a wife to him yoursel', rather than leave him to be 
 trappit by the first that whistles 'Come hither' ower 
 thewa'?" 
 
 "Ye forget yoursel', Purslane," cried the mistress of 
 Lowran. "In the first place, I am mony and mony a year 
 younger than you (here Purslane smiled discreetly behind 
 her seam), and, secondly, Sidney is but a laddie. There 
 will be time enough to think o' his marrying ony time 
 these ten years to come. I could never be doing with a 
 fine lady to sit in the parlour and turn her thumbs aboot 
 ilk ither. But I'll no deny that, if I could find a biddable 
 lass o' decent family wi' a reasonable pickle siller, she 
 micht be handy for dusting the cheena ornaments on the 
 upstairs mantelpiece. What wi' age and laziness, ye are 
 gettin' that handless and useless whiles, that I declare 
 there will soon be never a thing left breakable in Lowran 
 Hoose except the chimney cans. And, faith, ye wad 
 break them, too, if ye could win at them !" 
 
 "There's Catherine Bodden of Buttonbotham she's a 
 fine lass, they tell me," pursued Purslane, who by long 
 practice kept to the matter in hand with steadfast per- 
 sistence through all the storms of insult with which her 
 mistress assailed every expression of opinion. 
 
 "A heedless haverel!" cried Mrs. Latimer, jerking her 
 work in the air so vigorously that she lost her needle, and 
 wasted much time seeking for it. This being found, Purs- 
 lane had to be assisted up from her knees, which always 
 stiffened in the act of kneeling and refused to do their 
 duty in raising her from the ground. 
 
 "Weel, mem, what's your thocht o' the Lady Elspeth, 
 or the Lady Biddy Lennox ?" was the next suggestion of 
 the maid when they were again seated at their tasks. 
 
 "Proud madams baith the twa o' them they shall never 
 come within this house with my will !" 
 
 "It wad be a great phrase in the country if the Laird 
 mairriet the dochter o' a Viscount !" 
 
 "A Latimer o' Lowran is as guid as ony Lennox that 
 ever wore hippens !" cried the emphatic lady of that ilk. 
 
STRONG MAC 
 
 " said Purslane, soothingly. "Far be 
 it frae me to say aught other or to think it. But they 
 tell me this Lady Biddy is a bonny biddable lass !" 
 
 "I would never agree with their mither!" cried Mrs. 
 Latimer. "They shall not come here into my house no, 
 though I hae to bar the door in the faces of the hale 
 Hoose o' Peers, an' a' the bink o' Bishops at their tail !" 
 
 "Then, there's Doctor Meiklewham's daughter, Hope," 
 pursued the mentor. "They tell me there's no the like o' 
 her for a sober, solid, wise-like lass the pick o' the pair- 
 ish, and the apple o' her faither's eye !" 
 
 "Let her bide wi' her faither, then, gin he's sae fond 
 o' her. Nae lass wi' sic a covenanting fore-end name 
 shall ever get my son. 'Hope,' indeed ! It might as weel 
 hae been 'Faith' or 'Charity' !" 
 
 "'Deed, then, mistress, but ye are ill to please wi' a 
 wife for your son," said Purslane, who had much liberty 
 of speech with her mistress. "It's my puir opinion that 
 ye dinna want him to be wed ava' " 
 
 "Let be," said the Lady of Lowran. "It's little ye ken 
 aboot the needs o' ancient families, Rebecca Purslane! 
 Think ye that it would not be a sore day for me to think 
 that my son was to be the last Latimer of Lowran ?" 
 
 "Whilk he is mair nor likely to be, mistress," said Purs- 
 lane, some little nettled, "gin ye forbid every honest lass 
 the door o' your hoose, as if she carried the plague aboot 
 wi' her in the faulds o' her kerchief." 
 
 "Forbid here, forbid there !" cried the irascible old lady. 
 "I forbid nane. The Hoose o' Lowran is my son's no 
 mine. And if it is his guid will to bring the wife he fan- 
 cies hame to this dwelling, I hope that I'll be strengthened 
 to do my duty by his choice !" 
 
 "Guid pity her, then!" ejaculated Purslane under her 
 breath, but not low enough to escape the sharp ears of her 
 mistress. 
 
 "Ye are an insolent, ungrateful woman, Rebecca Purs- 
 lane," she broke out, "and I wad hae ye ken that what I 
 have to put up with frae you and the ither twa wizened 
 
 

 A CONFIDENTIAL CONVERSATION 113 
 
 fairlies aboot the Hoose o' Lowran mak's a* other trou- 
 bles o' little account. I ken well I hae the repute o' being 
 snell-tongued, but that is because my heart within me is 
 chastened by you and the like o' you. And whiles ye try 
 me that sair, that (Heaven is my witness!) either death 
 or my son's marriage wad be a welcome relief !" 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 INFLUENCE BY RICOCHET. 
 
 Now Rebecca Purslane was a wise woman and knew 
 her mistress' temper. She influenced by ricochet. 
 
 No words could, to all appearance, have been more 
 utterly thrown away, no seed sown on poorer soil with 
 less prospect of harvest, than the suggestions concerning 
 the entrance of some young person of her own sex into 
 the dragon-guarded House of Lowran. But the aged 
 Purslane was wily. She had lived long with Mrs. Lati- 
 mer, and knew that the surest way to have her opinions 
 adopted was to keep ding-donging at them, allowing the 
 Lady of Lowran no rest day nor night. For Purslane 
 slept in the same room as her employer. 
 
 "Hush," said Mrs. Latimer at the close of this first 
 round of the engagement, "there is the hall door. Sid- 
 ney has come home !" 
 
 "I hae little need to 'hush/ said the attendant, tartly. 
 "It wasna me that was speakin' !" 
 
 The Lady of Lowran lifted her finger so threateningly 
 that Rebecca contented herself with shaking her head til 
 the black bugles rang a perfect fire alarm on her head 
 Then her mistress quietly laid down her seam and went 
 out. So soon as she was gone Purslane threw herself 
 back on the cushions of her chair and laughed silently 
 laughed till the tears traced out furrows on her wrinklec 
 cheeks. 
 
 "The fule !" she murmured. "Oh, the auld f ule !" 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 Mrs. Latimer went into the hall expecting to see her son 
 It was his custom to take off his boots in a little side room 
 devoted to guns, dog-whips and the smell of varnish 
 
INFLUENCE BY RICOCHET 115 
 
 But on this occasion Sidney Latimer went directly to the 
 library. His mother followed him thither, her face, as 
 was its custom, growing mellower and more kindly at 
 every step. By the time she stood on the mat outside 
 the door which he had hastily closed no trace remained 
 of the sharp-tongued, acerb old lady who had so recently 
 been sparring with her long-suffering companion. 
 
 She opened the door gently. Her son was seated at his 
 desk, scribbling furiously. Presently he thrust the sheet 
 of paper from him, and sat biting the feather of a pen 
 as if meditating upon what more he was to write on the 
 white surface. 
 
 Very boyish and ardent he seemed, in spite of his beard 
 and the self-contained look he owed to his English edu- 
 cation. He started up in some confusion upon Mrs. Lati- 
 mer's entrance. 
 
 "Ah, mother," he said, rising to salute her, "I did not 
 hear you come downstairs !" 
 
 "I came to see if you were at all fatigued," she said. 
 "Perhaps you ought to take something before dinner !" 
 
 "I thank you, mother," said the young man, restive un- 
 der the attention, "but I am not tired." 
 
 "You have been on the hills again ? You have been at 
 the fishing?" 
 
 It was the lady who was fishing. 
 "No, mother," said Sidney Latimer, elaborately care- 
 less, "I only walked over to meet the coach in the village. 
 I had some letters to post." 
 
 His mother looked at him softly for a moment. He 
 stood by the mantelpiece, still chafing at the interruption 
 to his writing. She divined the feeling instantly. The 
 discussion she had had with Purslane began to make itself 
 felt. She walked over to him and laid a hand gently on 
 his coat-sleeve. (Though she did not know it, the views 
 she now held were Purslane's, not her own.) 
 
 "Sidney," she said, "you are lonely here, with no other 
 companions than a couple of old women one of them a 
 fool." 
 
n6 STRONG MAC 
 
 "No, mother," he smiled down at her with the wistful 
 detachment of only sons, "I am not lonely at Lowran. I 
 have you." 
 
 In fact, he might have added that at that moment he 
 desired to be somewhat more lonely than he was. He 
 almost prayed for his mother's departure. Yet, as sons 
 go he was a good son, and as for Mrs. Latimer, she never 
 looked at him without seeing a little boy in his first 
 knee-breeches. She saw even the silver buckles on his 
 shoes. It would save much trouble if sons could always 
 remain as their mothers keep them pictured in their 
 hearts. 
 
 "You need some bright young person in the house," 
 pursued Mrs. Latimer, to Sidney's astonishment. "What 
 say you to your cousin Matilda from Parton? Think, 
 dear Sidney she would also be a companion for me, your 
 mother. Purslane is old and a fool. A young girl in 
 the house would brighten us all !" 
 
 "Well, mother," said Sidney, smiling, "do as you like. 
 Ask Matilda Gregory from Parton, or all the six Greg- 
 orys, if it please you. Only pray don't expect me to dance 
 attendance on them!" 
 
 His mother hastened on, in order to keep him from 
 further speech. 
 
 "Then, if we had a young girl in the house to be com- 
 panion for them, I daresay some o' the Boddens of But- 
 tonbotham or the Lennox sisters would come on a visit ! 
 Or what say you to that nice lass o' the minister's ? She 
 is well-reported of?" 
 
 "Mother," said Sidney Latimer seriously, "what has 
 come to you? You are troubled and not like yourself. 
 Tell me!" 
 
 And most strangely at these words the erstwhile fierce 
 old lady burst into tears. 
 
 "It is about you I am troubled, Sidney," she said. Her 
 hands were shaking and her lips quivered with that tremu- 
 lousness of age which the will cannot stop. 
 
 "Anxious about me?" repeated Sidney Latimer, 
 
INFLUENCE BY RICOCHET 117 
 
 vaguely. "In what way am I giving you anxiety, 
 mother?" 
 
 "Oh, I dare not tell you," she sighed, "I dare not you 
 would be sore angered. And that I could not bear!" 
 
 Sidney Latimer blushed with a secret forecasting that 
 if she meant to speak to him of Adora Gracie, he would 
 be very angry indeed. He called this conscious innocence. 
 So there was constrained silence between them for some- 
 thing like a brace of minutes. Then the old lady let her 
 i hand drop from his arm. 
 
 "Ah yes," she murmured, "I see you would be angry. 
 You love her!" 
 
 Sidney Latimer flushed dark and his eyes looked as a 
 son's eye ought never to look at his mother. 
 
 "Oh, do not be angry, Sidney," she cried, catching him, 
 "how can I help it? You are all I have all I ever had!" 
 
 But a whiteness was creeping over her son's face, 
 a kind of icy chill which was unspeakably terrible to her. 
 Her boy seemed to vanish before her eyes, and only a 
 stranger remained. 
 
 "Oh, Sidney !" was all she could say, breaking into the 
 folk speech that lay near the heart, "dinna look at me 
 like like your faither !" 
 
 ******* 
 
 "Some one has been telling lies to you, mother," said 
 the young man, commanding his voice (he could not com- 
 mand his face). "I request to be told who?" 
 
 "Oh," quavered the old lady, "do not 'request' of your 
 own mother, Sidney. That also is like your father, and I 
 want to forget it. Be my boy and I will tell you word for 
 word!" 
 
 "Tell me !" he said, inflexibly stern. 
 
 "Sit down, Sidney oh, sit down I think I could 
 speak to you better that gate. I think ye wadna be 
 sae far frae your auld mither !" 
 
 Oh, the pitiful ones who, having set up idols, and 
 worshipped them, go all their lives in fear of their gods' 
 angers ! 
 
n8 STRONG MAC 
 
 "No, I will not sit down, mother/' reiterated Sidney 
 Latimer, "tell me what you have heard. Then after I 
 have answered, I will sit down." 
 
 He did not mean to be hard, but there comes a time in 
 the life of a young man when the voice of every woman 
 but one falls dull upon the ear. At such times let mothers 
 see to it that their words are few and well ordered and 
 the fewer the better ! 
 
 If otherwise, they may come to cry bitterly, "Blessed are 
 the barren, the wombs that never bare, the breasts whereon 
 never child lay." 
 
 Yet in a little age and pitifulness did their work on 
 Sidney Larimer's heart. True, he would not soften till he 
 had heard the worst, but he was no son to bring grey 
 hairs down to any sorrow, if he could help it. 
 
 "They told me," she began falteringly. 
 
 "Who?" interjected Sidney Latimer, determinedly. 
 
 "Oh, this one and that about the village," said his 
 mother, hastening over the point, "they say that you pass 
 every house in the street to spend your time at one with 
 the schoolmaster's daughter." 
 
 "And if so," said he, stiffly, "what harm?" 
 
 "What harm ?" repeated his mother. "Are you not Sid- 
 ney Latimer of Lowran, your father's son ? Are you not 
 laird of the best estate in the parish, and you ask what 
 harm ?" 
 
 "Let that alone for the moment," he said. "Has anyone 
 aught to say against Adora Grade?" 
 
 "Not a word," said Mrs. Latimer, truthfully, "except 
 that, being what she is, the daughter of a drunken father, 
 herself a village schoolmistress, she does very wrong to 
 encourage a man in my son's position !" 
 
 Sidney Latimer laughed suddenly and harshly, and at 
 the sound of his voice the mother's face blanched. She 
 knew that strange clanging discord which rings in a 
 man's laughter when he mocks bitterly at himself. 
 
 "Help me, my God," was the prayer of her heart, "is 
 it even now too late?" 
 
INFLUENCE BY RICOCHET 119 
 
 But as if in answer to her thought Sidney Latimer 
 stepped slowly from the mantelpiece against which he 
 had been leaning, to the open desk. He lifted the sheet 
 of paper he had instinctively pushed aside on his mother's 
 entering. 
 
 "Read that!" he said. 
 
 Flustered by his precipitancy the old lady felt in her 
 hanging pocket of black satin for her silver spectacles. 
 Her hands were trembling so that she could hardly find the 
 case. 
 
 "Read it to me !" she said, gently. 
 
 "No," said Sidney Latimer, "read with your own eyes 
 and tell me if, after that, you think that the drunken man's 
 daughter has encouraged your son !" 
 
 His mother went slowly to the window to get the warm 
 light from the west upon the sheet. Only a few lines 
 had been written, and those with the extremity of haste. 
 
 "To Miss Adora Grade, At the School House of Lowran. 
 
 "Madam: Since your rejection of my proffered friend- 
 ship this evening and your commands not to return to your 
 house, I have resolved to place my feelings for you and my 
 admiration of your character beyond the reach of miscon- 
 struction, by immediately quitting the country. 
 
 "My friend General Barnard, presently with my Lord 
 Wellington's forces in Spain, has offered me " 
 
 The paper fluttered to the floor. The old lady took 
 two or three uncertain steps towards where her son 
 stood. 
 
 "Sidney," she cried, "you will not oh, you will not. 
 Would you kill your mother?" 
 
 She stretched out her arms towards him wildly. 
 
 He caught her and sat her on a couch. Then he sat 
 down beside her and took her hand with more than usual 
 tenderness. 
 
 "Listen, mother," he said; "you say (and she says) 
 that I compromise her by remaining. She would not 
 
120 STRONG MAC 
 
 listen to me to-night when I would have told her that I 
 loved her." 
 
 "Then you have not yet told her?" cried his mother, 
 a sharp joy in her heart which she tried in vain to keep 
 out of her voice. 
 
 "No matter she knows !" said her son, "and she will 
 not listen to me. Her reasons are yours her father my 
 position. But the expression of them does her more 
 honour then they do my mother, when she insults me 
 by repeating the tattle of the village." 
 
 "It was not I ," said Mrs. Latimer feebly, "Jonathan 
 Grier " 
 
 "Ah," cried the young man, "Jonathan Grier ! Are we 
 coming to it now? And what had he to do with the 
 matter?" 
 
 "Nothing nothing," said his mother with eagerness. 
 "I mistook I promised !" 
 
 Sidney Latimer did not persist. He only made a mental 
 note with regard to his chief gamekeeper. His mother 
 took him by both hands. 
 
 "You will not leave me?" she said, adding slowly, the 
 words forcing themselves out, "I will forgive even that 
 I will do all that you wish, if you really love this girl !" 
 
 It was a terrible strain, but the desire to keep her son 
 by her side and in safety conquered all else. 
 
 Sidney Latimer shook his head sadly. 
 
 "It cannot be, mother," he said. "As you used to sing, 
 I have gotten my fee and my leave. Less than any com- 
 mon village wooer can I trespass again upon an absolute 
 prohibition, or cross the threshold which has been forbid- 
 den to me !" 
 
 "You, the Laird who could send Dominie and Do- 
 minie's lass about their business with a word to the Kirk 
 Sessions." 
 
 "All the more because of that," he said, with a stead- 
 fast determination, "what would you think of me if I were 
 to use my position to revenge myself upon an innocent 
 girl who has every right to her own opinion of me?" 
 
INFLUENCE BY RICOCHET 121 
 
 The Lady of Lowran suddenly and unexpectedly flamed 
 into anger. 
 
 "That she should make light of my son that the huzzy 
 should dare to scorn !" 
 
 "Stop, mother," he smiled upon her, "do not be angry. 
 Think how much more angry you would have been if 
 Adora Gracie had seen fit to take me at my word !'" 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 LOVE BY RESOLUTION. 
 
 WHEN Roy McCulloch tapped at the door of the school- 
 house of Lowran, the spinning-wheel had been pushed 
 into its corner, and Adora Gracie, her temper somewhat 
 restored by her victory over Sidney Latimer, was settling 
 herself to the pleasantest part of the day's employment 
 the hour's quiet reading which preceded her ten-o'clock 
 bedtime. 
 
 If the girl were indeed glad to see Strong Mac the 
 feeling certainly did not show on her face in the way of 
 shyness or maidenly coyness. 
 
 "Roy McCulloch/' she said, sternly, as she looked at 
 him, "had you nothing to keep you from raking the roads, 
 that you must come here to spoil my one good hour?" 
 
 Roy smiled, but had too much judgment to say anything 
 till he found himself being greeted by his old school- 
 master with Donald Gracie's invariable, "Ah, lad, but I 
 was thinking you had forgotten your old Dominie !" 
 
 "Little fear of that, sir," said Strong Mac, cheerfully, 
 "you gave us too good cause to remember you each time 
 we take a book into our hands." 
 
 "Well, here's a Virgil," cried Donald Gracie, "open it 
 and let us see if by any chance you can still construe a 
 page !" 
 
 This also was a request (having the force of a com- 
 mand) repeated upon the occasion of every visit, and in 
 anticipation of it Roy always prepared himself carefully 
 for the ordeal. 
 
LOVE BY RESOLUTION 123 
 
 To-night, however, he was not to be permitted to 
 escape so easily as usual. Adora, who suspected his de- 
 vice, reached her hand across for the book. 
 
 "There is a passage in the Second Book I could not 
 make out/' she said, "perhaps we might look at it and 
 Roy can tell us what he thinks is the proper rendering !" 
 
 "Yes yes, that is wise!" cried the old man, rubbing 
 his hands gleefully, "many men, many minds. Construe, 
 Roy, construe !" 
 
 Strong Mac cast a reproachful glance at his tormentor, 
 well knowing the reason of her sudden interest in Virgil. 
 But he recovered himself in time to demand of Adora 
 the details of her difficulty, which, when she had dis- 
 covered and declared, he found to be also a stumbling 
 block of old standing to himself, and forthwith with 
 great gravity referred the whole matter to the Dominie. 
 
 Donald Gracie took the book with a glow of pleasure 
 in his eyes, and at once launched into a learned prelection 
 with much turning of leaves, quotation of parallel pas- 
 sages, and discussion of the niceties of language. 
 
 Adora sat by the window, her small head a little to 
 the side, listening mischievously. She was perfectly con- 
 scious that Roy McCulloch was watching her. The young 
 men who came to the schoolhouse seldom failed to do 
 that. 
 
 The translation having been made out, and Adora's 
 difficulty solved without seeming to interest that young 
 lady very markedly, the Dominie continued to finish the 
 book for his own pleasure, but by-and-by his voice sub- 
 sided into inarticulate murmurs of satisfaction. 
 
 Then Roy McCulloch shyly crossed over and stood by 
 the window in which Adora Gracie was seated. He would 
 have drawn a chair near her, but with a gesture of care- 
 less frankness the girl made room for him on the window 
 seat. 
 
 "Well," she said, "and what have you come to tell me 
 to-night that you and your father have been committing 
 manslaughter upon more of his Majesty's excisemen? 
 
124 STRONG MAC 
 
 We had Lieutenant Trant here the night before last, and 
 he says he is bound to have you before long." 
 
 "Let him try. Lieutenant Trant is welcome !" said Roy, 
 quietly. "There will be sticks a-breaking first aye, and 
 crowns too. They are growing overly forward, these pre- 
 ventive fellows. They will get over the fingers one of 
 these days !" 
 
 "Roy McCulloch," said the girl, dropping her voice, 
 "when will you give up this foolishness? It will bring 
 you into sore trouble one of these days." 
 
 "There is my father," Roy answered; "I must stand by 
 him." 
 
 "But not in that," said Adora. "Surely there are other 
 ways. Why not stick to the farm?" 
 
 "Because a man might just as well hang as starve," 
 said Strong Mac, gravely. "Our two or three poor hundred 
 moorland acres could never keep my father and me in one 
 meal a day ! And a little Freetrading quietly gone about 
 gets us far less ill-will than over-much meddling with the 
 landlords' deer and muir-fowl !" 
 
 "But I hear you are in the black books for that as well," 
 retorted the girl ; "there was a man here the other night 
 who was as sore against you for that as was Trant, the 
 coastguardsman, for the smuggling." 
 
 "The Laird of Lowran?" queried Roy sharply with a 
 sudden bend of his eyes upon the girl. But Adora met him 
 with all her usual careless frankness of gaze. 
 
 "It is a secret of the confessional," she said. 
 
 "You will tell me," said Roy, "that is, if you wish me 
 well. I will make no ill use of the information! You 
 can trust me for that !" 
 
 "Well, it was not Mr. Latimer he always speaks well 
 of you." 
 
 "His gamekeeper, then?" 
 
 Adora nodded very slightly. 
 
 "This is between us," she said. "I advise you to keep 
 well within your own march-dykes for the next ten days. 
 The hunt is afoot." 
 
LOVE BY RESOLUTION 125 
 
 Roy McCulloch sat looking at the girl's busy fingers 
 moving athwart her seam as if the danger lay there. 
 
 "Thank you, Dora !" he said, "I shall not forget." 
 
 "Take good heed then," she went on, "keep away from 
 the Lowran and Bennanbrack forests and give the enemy 
 no handle against you." 
 
 "Is the Laird in it?" said Roy measuredly. 
 
 "No, he knows nothing." 
 
 "You are sure?" 
 
 "If he had been, I should have known it," said Adora, 
 simply stating a fact. 
 
 "I would rather have taken a year in gaol than have 
 heard you say that," said Roy McCulloch in a low voice. 
 
 Adora laid her work carefully by her side and looked 
 the youth straight in the face. She was angry far more 
 angry than she had been with Sidney Latimer. 
 
 "Are all men fools?" she said in her clear, decided 
 tones. "Already to-night I have had to ask one of them 
 to bide from my father's house ! Must I do the same for 
 you? No " she added after a pause, "we have been 
 friends over long for that, you and I, Roy. Come, take 
 your cap. I will walk to the gate with you. I have some- 
 thing to say that had better be said out of doors. Bid 
 my father good-night." 
 
 Roy rose obediently. The Dominie extended a limp, 
 perfunctory hand. He was still deep in his Virgil. 
 
 "Good-night" he said, "come back soon and we will 
 have another grand page. Listen to this. I have just 
 come upon it." 
 
 "No, no, not to-night," put in his daughter hastily, "you 
 must not keep Roy. I am turning him out. Do not move 
 till I come back. I am going to the gate to see that he 
 really closes it. It makes a noise if it is not properly 
 shut." 
 
 They went out together into the cool summer gloaming. 
 It was already dusk under the schoolhouse pines. The 
 village lay beneath them, smokeless and clear, its white- 
 washed houses and green-slated roofs following the irregu- 
 lar line of the road on either side. There was a far 
 
126 STRONG MAC 
 
 away cheerful crying of children late at their play 
 silence otherwise complete and cool, like the first wash of 
 a still sea. "And now," said Adora Gracie, laying her 
 hand upon the young man's arm with the easy accommo- 
 dation of fearless country nineteen, "listen. I will tell 
 you what I would not trouble to explain to any one else. 
 I would be as ready to be Sidney Larimer's friend as 
 yours that is, if he were not Laird of Lowran. But I 
 will not be talked about at least, not if I can help it. I 
 care no more for you than for him, except that I have 
 known you longer. He has as little right to find fault 
 with me for being your friend as you have to quarrel with 
 me because he comes to the house. And that is under- 
 stand clearly, no right at all ! If you are to be my friend, 
 keep a guard on that tongue of yours, Roy, my lad. 
 Whenever I am unable to manage my own affairs, I will 
 tell you ! And now, good-night ! Shut the school-gate 
 behind you, and, if you wish to please me, keep off the 
 hill of Bennanbrack for the next fortnight !" 
 
 As Roy McCulloch went homeward in the grey purple 
 dusk of the moorland night, he had matter for meditation. 
 He was so perfectly familiar with the way that as he went 
 he could think without interruption. Every tuft of orange- 
 coloured bent, every springy bush of dark heather came 
 up under his foot exactly in the place where his foot 
 expected it. He avoided the dangerous places, the green- 
 scummed "well-eyes," the bottomless bogs, the precipitous 
 "screes" with a perfection of knowledge which equalled 
 the instinct of an animal. 
 
 There are occasions in the life of every young man 
 when he seems to himself to see and resolve w r ith extraor- 
 dinary clearness. The world of circumstances, com- 
 pelling and impelling, has not yet closed about him. In- 
 stead of many purposes, he has but one. And generally 
 that one is connected with a woman. If not, according to 
 his weird, he becomes a great commander of armies, or 
 dies on the scaffold. 
 
 Strong Mac reflected and the reflection appeared to 
 
'"AND NOW,' SAID ADORA GRACIE . . . 'LISTEN.'" 
 
LOVE BY RESOLUTION 127 
 
 him original and unprecedented in the history of the 
 world that without Adora to share it with him life would 
 be but a vain dream. At Strong Mac's age youth is prem- 
 aturely apt to renounce the world because it cannot have 
 the Sole Adorable of the moment, but the mood seldom 
 lasts out the year. 
 
 But Roy had really something to say for himself or 
 so at least he thought. 
 
 "Who has half so much right to her as I?" he medi- 
 tated. "Ever since I can remember I have thought of 
 her first in the morning, last at night. At school I did 
 not learn my lessons because I wanted to learn, but to 
 please Adora Grade!" 
 
 And these things actually seemed to him as having 
 something to do with the case. 
 
 Then it struck Strong Mac that he lacked some of the 
 signs of passion as depicted in the rare romances he had 
 read. For there were some old novels of the eighteenth 
 century at House of Muir beside his father's fly-books 
 and his intricate accountings with the Isle-of-Man trad- 
 ers. But, then, Adora Gracie was in no way a heroine 
 according to rule. He smiled to himself at the idea. 
 
 A young man who ventured to address her in the lan- 
 guage of foolish compliment might, according to his 
 status and Adora's humour, receive a stinging reproof or a 
 box on the ear, but love Roy smiled again. 
 
 The girls in the books blushed, trembled, quavered. 
 They could not say "Boo" to a goose, lest the monosylla- 
 ble should be thought unmaidenly. But Adora Gracie 
 was in nowise thus sicklied over with sentiment. Clear- 
 eyed, plain of speech, definite in action, chalk was not more 
 easily distinguishable from cheese than Adora Gracie 
 from all other daughters of man. Witness Roy McCul- 
 loch. 
 
 "What, then, can I do to please Adora Gracie?" 
 
 That was the question he proposed to himself as he 
 went homeward over the moor. He had offended her 
 that night, he knew, but the like should not occur again. 
 
128 STRONG MAC 
 
 In the future he would leave his own feelings altogether 
 out of account. He would study solely how to deserve 
 her friendship. 
 
 True, he excelled in all the sports of the countryside. 
 He was so incontestably first at quoits, at throwing the 
 hammer, at wrestling, leaping and running, that no one 
 could be found to enter the lists against him. Well, all 
 that must have an end. Adora scorned mere triumphs 
 of bodily strength and skill. Roy was sure she did. On 
 the other hand, she loved books. He was not clever, he 
 said to himself, but he would learn. His brother James, 
 in Drumfern, would send him as many books as he could 
 induce his father to buy. These he would read and dis- 
 cuss with Adora Gracie. Mind would first speak to 
 mind, and afterwards (he knew no better) heart would 
 respond to heart. 
 
 In the second place and furthermore, he would watch 
 for opportunities of being useful to her. 
 
 Roy was compelled to think this second point over care- 
 fully. Adora was such a difficult person to help not at 
 all like the girls of the story books. These were always 
 so conveniently ready to faint at the sight of a cow in a 
 lane or a bull in a pasture. Adora would have lifted the 
 nearest cudgel or snatched up a stone from the dyke. 
 Still more probably, she would simply have flapped her 
 white apron and said, "Shoo!" She never needed to be 
 helped over stiles or delivered from perilous straits. 
 Crags and morasses had been her playgrounds, and she 
 could spring from tuft to tuft across the most treacher- 
 ous "quakkin'-qua" as well as Strong Mac himself. It 
 was certainly discouraging. 
 
 Still he had a glimpse of one or two things possibili- 
 ties far off and vague indeed, yet not quite hopeless. 
 
 For one thing, the Dominie's demon was not dead. At 
 any moment it might awake from slumber. Well, Donald 
 Gracie liked him. He was sure of that. He would go 
 and talk to his old schoolmaster in the evenings. They 
 would read Latin together and he would see Adora. 
 
LOVE BY RESOLUTION 129 
 
 Then he remembered that among the pines at the back 
 of the schoolhouse, in a very approachable situation for 
 a benevolent brownie, stood the Dominie's little official 
 woodpile and peatstack. The bairns brought the peats 
 as part payment of their fees. Roy promised himself 
 that Adora should find these, like the widow's cruise, 
 continually plenished and inexhaustible. But he did not 
 think what he would say when a certain very clear-headed 
 person asked him to explain the belated miracle. 
 
 One other last resolution, for Roy was nearing home. 
 
 As to what she had asked of him that night, he would 
 do her wish to the letter. So far as he could he would 
 stop the smuggling, and for a time confine himself to the 
 work of the little croft. It was a sacrifice, certainly, for 
 in his heart the young man did not believe that any one 
 could possibly entrap him or do him serious injury. 
 He had that confidence in himself which a man has who 
 has never yet felt himself helpless in the grip of fate. 
 
 Reasoning thus on what is entirely outside of reason, 
 Roy reached these remarkable conclusions : 
 
 Resolved, That the way to produce love in a woman's 
 heart is to avoid all mention of the subject when talking 
 to her, to compass her about with unseen anonymous 
 services, and, above all to cultivate the mind! 
 
 ROY McCuLLOCH. 
 
 It was a remarkable advance. Love, thus arranged for, 
 would be no longer blind. He would become a reason- 
 able, cultivated, intelligible divinity, who with other 
 childish things had laid aside his bow, his quiver, and his 
 habit of playfully transfixing people's hearts with toy ar- 
 rows. But Strong Mac, thus making a wager with Fate, 
 did not know that if this were indeed the case, the whole 
 world (including Adora Gracie) would at once go into 
 mourning for their old, impish, tricksy, improvident, 
 spiteful, blissfully teasing boy-god, the son of Venus, 
 who, dying a thousand deaths, reborn a thousand times, 
 never once grows old or abdicates his right to reign. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE BATTLE ENGAGES. 
 
 BUT the tale of the suitors of Penelope is far from 
 ended. 
 
 Not only did Jock Fairies of the Holm attend at the 
 schoolhouse every Saturday night for the pleasure of sit- 
 ting on the extremest edge of a chair and looking at the 
 fireplace, but as he went out at the gate he put a certain 
 question in form to his young hostess. For Adora gen- 
 erally accompanied him to point out the way ever since 
 the night when, mistaking the back door for the front, 
 he had walked over the block upon which the kindling- 
 wood was chopped and barely escaped braining himself 
 on the broadaxe. 
 
 Jock Fairies the young man was very much what might 
 have been expected from Jock Fairies the boy after three 
 years' growth. That is, he was big, kindly, a little stupid, 
 easily led for good or ill, and and as of old, completely 
 subordinate to the stronger nature in presence of which 
 he found himself, whether that happened to be Adora 
 Gracie, Strong Mac, or Sandy Ewan. 
 
 Ah, Sandy Ewan that was the name of the last and 
 most dangerous of Adora's suitors. Entering into his 
 heritage upon the death of his father at the age when most 
 youths are yet wholly in leading-strings, Alexander 
 Ewan's hard, vehement and passionate nature, naturally 
 arrogant and impatient of obstacles, had so carried him 
 away that his wild exploits, his amorous adventures, his 
 reputed dealing with the Kirk Session of his own parish 
 had made his name a byword over half Galloway. And 
 
THE BATTLE ENGAGES 131 
 
 this feeling was deepened by a certain dark vein of cruelty 
 of which strange tales came to be whispered. 
 
 Young Ewan's father had died rich that is, for the 
 time and place. And so at twenty-one, those were his own 
 acres that Sandy Ewan strode out upon. His own sheep 
 trampled the many paths of his muirs. His own cattle 
 studded a thousand hillsides, and above all, they were his 
 own stallions, that snorted and whinnied and pranced 
 along the roads of Galloway and the Upper Ward. For 
 with all his forceful brutality, Sandy Ewan carried on his 
 shoulders no empty head. Lavishly generous where his 
 pleasures or desires were concerned, in matters of business 
 he proved to the full as hard-headed as his father. He 
 had early seen the riches which would accrue to him 
 who should improve the poor-blooded, inbred, "fushion- 
 less" work-horses of the south of Scotland. And to this 
 end he imported Flanders mares and English stallions, 
 and so in a brief space blossomed out as the dictator of 
 market-places and a chief arbiter of horse-shows. 
 
 On a keen, snell-blowing February morning Sandy 
 Ewan, Laird of the Boreland of Kirkanders, as well as of 
 several surrounding farms, strode out across the short, 
 spongy turf of the "ley" fields near the House of Bore- 
 land to visit his sheep. He had shepherds whose duty 
 it was to do this for him, but Sandy Ewan believed in 
 personal supervision ; and besides, he had rested ill in his 
 bed that night. 
 
 His strong, bleak, unkindly horse face had the protrud- 
 ing underlip more than usually thrust out, and was full 
 of the dour angers of the man seldom thwarted. His 
 dull eyes were injected, but though it was above all things 
 a time of hard drinking, on this occasion Sandy Ewan 
 had not tarried long at the wine cup. He dug his iron- 
 shod heel deep into the sod as he walked. Malice fierce 
 and bitter had him by the throat. He muttered to him- 
 self as he went. 
 
 "She denies me, and I know the cause. The reason, 
 indeed, is plain. It is the poacher's son Roy McCul- 
 
132 STRONG MAC 
 
 loch, who smuggles his drink and lives on the deer killed 
 on other folks' lands! And for such a beggar and a 
 thief she gives me the back of her hand. I did not mean 
 to no, what is she better than the others ? But her light 
 scorns drove me as with a whip. And I offered her all 
 this" 
 
 He looked behind him at the spick-and-span new man- 
 sion house of Boreland, which it had been the last act of 
 his father's life to build, at the far-extending rectangle of 
 barns and byres, his own addition, at the scarcely finished 
 stables and at the parks where his breeding stud was 
 exercising. 
 
 With a gesture indicating the hopelessness of under- 
 standing any woman born of woman, he repeated incred- 
 ulously, "She refused all this the first living woman that 
 ever had the chance of it !" 
 
 Then he glanced down his full height of six foot and 
 two inches, took in his well-legginged calves, his well-shod 
 feet, stroked his long, clean-shaven upper lip, and added 
 in a yet more disgusted tone, "And she refused ME I" 
 
 It was inconceivable, knowing what he knew of women. 
 Muckle Sandy smiled a little self-satisfied smile as he 
 thought of his record. 
 
 "Ah," he murmured, nodding his head, "some hae meat 
 an' canna eat, an' some wad eat that want it! Bonny 
 lady ower yonder, have a care ye will maybe see your 
 pride get an unco downcome. And as for your poacher's 
 son" 
 
 As he thought of Roy McCulloch words failed him, and 
 he fell back on the brute silence of sullen wrath. He 
 frowned so that the heavy, hairless folds of skin which 
 represented eyebrows accentuated the cruelty of his small, 
 stubborn eyes. Then his mind reverted to his repulse 
 of the previous night. 
 
 "Mony is the lass," he said aloud in the country speech 
 which at that time all used upon need, "that wad hae been 
 weel content wi' the man withoot the doonsittin'. Aye, 
 Elspeth Gibb up at the Cowanriggs an' Bonny Betty o' 
 
THE BATTLE ENGAGES 133 
 
 the Ferry, to gang nae farther! I hae seen them baith 
 greetin' and for what? Juist fleechin' and prayin' o'er 
 me that I wadna leave them a' thegither! But what yin 
 o' them a' ever had the chance to be mistress o' the Bore- 
 land o' Kirkanders a laird's wife sittin' by my side in 
 the kirk, and ridin' to the market on her ain Kelso naigie ? 
 But I'll wager I'll be evens wi' the besom some day yet, or 
 my name is no' Sandy Ewan !" 
 
 From this it will be easily understood that it was no 
 good day for Sandy Ewan and Roy McCulloch to en- 
 counter each the other. Yet it was their fate to meet. It 
 came to pass at the smithy of Ebie Cargen, the village 
 antiquary and political dictator of the parish. Ebie could 
 tell every old wife's tale that had been handed down con- 
 cerning house, tree, cave or lonely mountain. He knew 
 on what night the mystic Grey Lady of Glenlee perambu- 
 lated the avenue. He knew the dread secret she was 
 seeking vainly to communicate. On crowded evenings, 
 when he had cooled his thirst a little more frequently 
 than usual, the smith would relate the famous tale of his 
 meeting with the spectre in the Holm wood and how 
 her hand when it touched his was "as bonny an' weel- 
 roonded as that o' Charlotte Webster hersel' !" 
 
 "Quaite quaite, smith," muttered Robin Sheil of the 
 Newlands on this occasion. "Here's Strong Mac doon 
 frae the muirs wi' a job for ye! An' ye had better no* 
 even Chairlie Webster wi' the Dominie's lass in his 
 hearin' !" 
 
 And, indeed, as he spoke Strong Mac appeared at the 
 turn of the road by the sawmill, leading the well-known 
 old white pony. He walked silently and very lightly upon 
 his feet, as is the wont of strong men. The assembled 
 company in the "smiddy" (some six or eight of the choic- 
 est spirits in the village) regarded the young smuggler 
 and stalker of other folks' deer with more than the usual 
 admiration due to successful law-breakers. 
 
 "He's a bauld, upstandin' lad, and a credit to the pair- 
 ish," said Paton of Egarton, sententiously. 
 
134 STRONG MAC 
 
 "That's mair nor the lairds wad allow, I'm thinkin'!" 
 retorted the smith, drily. 
 
 The habitual frequenters of the smithy looked towards 
 the smith to see if he had a reason personal to Strong 
 Mac for his unusual consideration for those in high places. 
 But the man of iron only passed his hand across his brow, 
 and threw the drops of professional sweat from him with 
 a flip of the fingers. Then he wiped his damp hand 
 on his leathern apron and greeted Roy pleasantly 
 enough. 
 
 "Aye, lad, and hoo's a' wi' ye up at the Hoose o' 
 Muir?" 
 
 Roy responded with cordiality, nodded about the 
 smithy, and whistling the while, proceeded to fasten his 
 white pony to a ring in the shoeing-shed attached to the 
 smithy. 
 
 Then he sat down on a convenient ledge at some dis- 
 tance behind the fire, in a place where the wrinkled mass 
 of the bellows, dimly seen suspended above the red 
 glow, loomed like a huge animal a-swing in some ma- 
 gician's chamber. In the parliament of "lallan," plough- 
 men waiting for their "culters" to be set, their "swingle- 
 trees" to be "clepped" or "banded," the young hillman 
 sat modestly apart like a stranger. He was, indeed, 
 thinking of Adora Gracie and the partial embargo she 
 had laid upon him. Still she was without doubt inter- 
 ested in him, or she would never have been so anxious for 
 his safety. So much at least was good. 
 
 Roy was aroused from his reverie by the sound of an 
 entrance into the little courtyard of the smithy. A loud 
 voice hailed the smith by name, and Ebie Cargen went 
 to the door to answer. 
 
 It was dark by this time, and the smith, in a voice as 
 rough and loud, demanded who called his name. 
 
 "Come out here, smith !" cried the voice again. 
 
 "Come ye ben here gin ye want ocht wi' Ebie Cargen !" 
 said the smith, and forthwith betook him back to his 
 anvil. 
 
THE BATTLE ENGAGES 135 
 
 "Ebie," whispered one of the village hangers-on, "do 
 as he bids ye. It's the young laird frae Kirkanders !" 
 
 "Guid be wi' us, and wha micht he be?" 
 
 "Maister Ewan ye surely ken young Maister Alex- 
 ander o' the Boreland," said the sycophant, hoping that 
 the person named might hear. 
 
 "D'ye mean Muckle Sandy Sly Tod Ewan's lang 
 loon?" cried the smith in a loud voice. "If he wants Ebie 
 Cargen, he can come and seek him. He kens the smiddy 
 door!" 
 
 It was with a curious undercurrent of silent dislike, 
 'mingled with the inevitable half-respect, half- fear in- 
 spired by a man with the reputation for money or "re- 
 gairdlessness," that the little "smiddy parliament" moved 
 to receive Sandy Ewan. Every one present, with two 
 exceptions, made some slight alteration of position, indi- 
 cating uneasiness or a desire to get away unobserved. 
 The two exceptions were the smith at his forge and 
 Strong Mac seated deep in the dusk, hidden or almost 
 hidden from any incomer by the red glow of the hearth 
 fire and the black mass of the bellows. 
 
 With his hand masterfully upon the pole, Ebie the 
 smith sent forth at times a gentle moaning and anon 
 a sonorous roar, according to the exigencies of Vulcan 
 or the condition, disturbed or peaceful, of the smithy par- 
 liament. 
 
 "Well, lads," cried Sandy Ewan, with a certain conde- 
 scension in his voice befitting his new condition of laird 
 (instantly detected and resented by every man within 
 hearing), "hoo is a' wi' ye the nicht? A full meetin', I 
 see, eh, lads ? The plough irons have surely been knockin' 
 their brains oot against a heap o' stanes this day !" 
 
 No man answered, because no man had been directly 
 addressed. There was an uneasy, fretting silence, broken 
 only by the leathery wheeze of the bellows and the 
 smith's "Noo, Jock!" as he signalled his assistant and 
 striker. 
 
 Then, comfortable to all, there arose the merry alternate 
 
136 STRONG MAC 
 
 dong-ding, dong-a-ding of the forehammer and its mate. 
 A score of eyes watched the sparks fly, first white, anon 
 red. Then the ruddy sunset colour died out of the smitten 
 iron ; a dullish purple invaded it till the mass grew too cold 
 to be handled, when with an "OufT !" of satisfaction the 
 smith replunged the metal into the fire, bent upon the 
 handle, and with the first hissing breath of the bellows 
 turned to the newcomer with a grim humour on his face, 
 dried by thirty years of fire-stoking and bellows-blowing. 
 
 "And what micht be your Honour's will wi' Ebie Car- 
 gen the nicht ?" he said. 
 
 The irony of the title was lost on Sandy Ewan, who* 
 at the time was so conscious of his own dignity as a laird 
 and officer of militia that if one had saluted him as "Gen- 
 eral" or "My Lord" he might have been a little surprised, 
 but assuredly he would never have thought of correcting 
 him. 
 
 Now Sandy Ewan desired to be popular, and did his 
 best to be friendly and hearty, thereby as a natural con- 
 sequence depressing the spirits of his listeners to the low- 
 est pitch. Only a solitary voice answered his sallies, that 
 of the sycophant who had urged the smith to go out to 
 meet him. This was one Jeems Easton by name, a long- 
 haired, sleek-faced man, who was of no consideration in 
 Lowran because he was suspected of buying oil for his 
 hair instead of using the domestic candle for the pur- 
 poses of the Sunday toilet. Jeems obsequiously nodded 
 his sleek head and sedulously responded in the best Eng- 
 lish fashion, judged proper in speaking to a man of note. 
 
 "Aye, Laird, I was juist thinkin' " he had begun, 
 when the smith imperiously cut him short. 
 
 "If I mistak' not, Maister Ewan hasna yet informed us 
 in what way I can be o' service to him !" 
 
 For the smith, when very angry or very contemptuous, 
 could be elaborately polite. In the smithy it was counted 
 one of the surest of danger signals. 
 
 Sandy Ewan, however, never doubting the cordiality of 
 his reception, stamped his way up to the hearth, pulling 
 
THE BATTLE ENGAGES 137 
 
 off his great riding-gloves as he went and holding up his 
 fingers to the blaze. 
 
 "There are some padlock chains badly wanted up at the 
 Nether Airie," he said at last. "We have been losing 
 overly many sheep to please my grieve, There are some 
 folks up near the headend o' Lowran parish that hae a 
 difficulty in kennin' their ain sheep frae ither folk's!" 
 
 This pointed straight at the McCullochs of House of 
 Muir, whose ground "marched" with that of the Nether 
 Airie, a large "led" farm which, among his other ventures, 
 Sandy Ewan had recently leased from the Laird of Ben- 
 nanbrack. Sandy Ewan expected a laugh, or at least a 
 chuckle of appreciation, but on this occasion none came, 
 even from sycophant Easton. An unquiet silence 
 oppressed the smiddy, whispers and nudgings passed here 
 and there, in the midst of which the smith grunted audibly 
 and blew up the fire with more than his usual 
 vehemence. 
 
 Strong Mac sat motionless, his eyes seemingly intent 
 on a dull ruddy patch on the black floor of trodden forge- 
 ashes, on which the red snout of a ploughshare was slowly 
 cooling. No one had courage to inform Sandy Ewan 
 of his presence. 
 
 "Jock," said the smith, "will ye attend to your business. 
 There's a score o' padlock-cheens ahint the dass (dais), 
 that were ordered when the lairds were set on stoppin' the 
 road to the Hoose o' Muir! No yin o' them was ever 
 needed. They micht serve Maister Ewan for his Nether 
 Airie yetts." 
 
 Jeems Easton the Sycophant interposed to break the 
 force of the smith's irony. 
 
 "Lord Lord," he cried, "an' ye hae been losin' your 
 sheep! the country's surely in an awesome state when 
 vaigabonds are allowed to gang aboot the country robbin' 
 honest folk !" 
 
 "To my thinkin' the worst ill-doers are not those who 
 gang the country, Easton, but those that are permitted 
 to stop in it. There's them no that far away, that will 
 
138 STRONG MAC 
 
 maybes swing in a lang tow the next time the Red Judges 
 come to Dumfries!" 
 
 The sycophant, conscious of the lazy figure sitting so 
 darkly behind the bellows-sweep, tried to convey a warn- 
 ing to his principal. 
 
 "There's them that it's maybe no canny to name, 
 Laird Boreland," he said, striving by turn of head and 
 inclination of elbow to draw attention to the locality of the 
 danger. 
 
 But Sandy Ewan, conscious of his strength and proud 
 of his position, a little elevated too by the refreshments 
 he had partaken of at the various public houses on his 
 way, raised his voice, and would have none of his warn- 
 ings or reproofs. 
 
 "Name," he cried, "name! What care I for the 
 names o' a' the blackguards in Scotland? I come here 
 direct from the Sheriff at St. Cuthbertstown and I can tell 
 ye that the names of the sheep-stealers will ring in a day 
 or twa through a* Gallaway! The fiscal himsel' is hard 
 on their tail, and listen to this, lads, there's a gye gleg 
 lad that will soon find something else to do wi' his fore- 
 nichts than to make a fool o' the light-headed dochter 
 o' a drucken schoolmaster I" 
 
 There was a gasp of horror-stricken awe throughout 
 the smithy. A short pregnant silence, then out of the 
 gloom Strong Mac detached himself. Marching straight 
 up to Sandy Ewan, he stood the space of two breaths 
 looking into his eyes to give him time to defend himself. 
 Then with the single word "Liar" ! at one blow he sent 
 the evil speaker flying through the open door of the smithy 
 into the darkness of the night. 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE SUB-SOIL OF CRIME. 
 
 THUS in Lowran was war declared swift, sudden, to 
 the death. On Strong Mac's side there was not only 
 natural resentment for false accusations, not only the 
 anger because of the woman (like to which there is none 
 other on the earth), but also a slow accumulation of mis- 
 likings and grievances, the natural animosity of years, 
 begun in schooldays, continued in youth, and now to be 
 fought to a finish with all the strength of manhood. 
 
 On Sandy Ewan's part jealousy and rivalry had grown 
 to acute hatred. He was of those who cannot bear to 
 lose. Strong Mac had thrashed him at school. Ewan 
 had carried through life the consciousness that but for 
 this boy he might have been without a rival. The expul- 
 sion from the schoolhouse, the ploughing-match, the ill- 
 divided favours of Adora Gracie, above all a deep, dour, 
 dogged determination to stamp out an adversary, so that 
 he might never again lift up his head, formed in Sandy 
 Ewan's bosom the very soil from which great crimes 
 spring full grown in a night. 
 
 Yes, it was to be fought to a finish. Both of the young 
 men recognised that. And they knew in their hearts (or 
 thought they knew) that whatever the ostensible cause 
 of their quarrel, the victor's prize was to be Adora Gracie. 
 Still it might have been as well to consult the lady, who 
 in any case was exceedingly likely to have a mind of 
 her own on the matter. 
 
 After the scene of the Lowran smiddy, Sandy Ewan 
 
i 4 o STRONG MAC 
 
 was assisted, bruised of countenance and much confused 
 in understanding, upon his beast, and rode home, com- 
 passed by the ill-rewarded attentions of the sycophant, at 
 whom he swore continuously. 
 
 As he went his hatred returned doubly upon him. A 
 sense of disgrace gnawed at his heart, and not all the con- 
 soling reflections of Jeems Easton, timidly faithful, could 
 draw a word of acknowledgment from him. He would 
 be revenged on his adversary and that speedily. Fierce 
 thoughts flitted through his mind. Oh, if he only had 
 him down and helpless what pleasure there would be 
 in trampling out his life with his boot heels ! There were, 
 even in Scotland and in the year of grace 1812, ruffians 
 to be hired, escapes from the gaols, deserters from the 
 army. Crob McRobb the outcast, rose up before him. 
 He would help him, the dark man with the face like a 
 weasel, who for a guinea would so at least they said 
 and Sandy Ewan had many guineas. 
 
 Then through the blind savagery which pain and shame 
 bring to the surface in better men than Muckle Sandy, 
 the dour staunch brain of his race began to work. After 
 all, were there not other and safer ways? To stamp a 
 man's life out may upon occasion entail unpleasant con- 
 sequences. There was the unfinished business of the 
 sheep-stealing. He regretted that he had boasted of it. 
 The enemy would now be on his guard. But again there 
 was the weasel-faced man, a dark, lithe, light-running, 
 elusive, underground weasel who would be at his disposi- 
 tion, for a price. Crob McRobb was his man. 
 
 So by the time that Sandy Ewan had reached the Bore- 
 land of Kirkanders a plan had begun to take shape in his 
 mind. After all, he would make good his boast. If Roy 
 McCulloch and his father did not hang by the neck till 
 they were dead (as he hoped), at least he would see to 
 it that they were compelled to quit the country for good 
 and all. 
 
 With these thoughts in his head, Sandy Ewan brewed 
 himself a bumper of brandy and water hot and strong. 
 
THE SUB-SOIL OF CRIME 141 
 
 Then he tumbled into bed, resolved to send a message 
 to the Man of the Weasel Face in the morning. But on 
 waking, the extra brandy he had swallowed, together 
 with the consequences of Strong Mac's blow, had made 
 him unpresentable. A violent headache, and nausea 
 mingled of bitter shame and physical pain, kept his 
 thoughts at home, and it was evening before he had 
 sufficiently recovered to begin definitely to plan his 
 revenge. 
 
 Then he sent for Crob McRobb. It was his foreman, 
 Grieve Cormack, who carried the message, carried it, too, 
 with many inward questionings as to what his master 
 could have to say to such a world's reprobate as Crob. 
 He wished it had been written in a letter. He would 
 willingly have read it for illiterate Crob. 
 
 "Some deevilry aboot a woman, I'll wager!" was his 
 guess, with, after all, a far-away Tightness about it. For 
 Adora Gracie was at least one of the causes of Muckle 
 Sandy's present evil case. 
 
 Meantime in a little den off the business room of the 
 new house of Boreland Sandy Ewan lay couched, grum- 
 bling low to himself in the semi-dark like a tiger with 
 a broken head, ill to approach, worse to disobey. 
 
 When the silent-footed old woman with the face like 
 oiled ivory,, who had been his nurse in childhood, brought 
 him some light refreshment, she did so quite prepared 
 to have it thrown at her head, plate and all. Devilled 
 bones were what Sandy's stomach craved after. These 
 and vengeance also bedevilled by all the brood of the pit. 
 
 Thus had the man lain for nearly twenty-four hours, 
 the sickness of physical pain slowly submerging itself 
 beneath the rising tide of hatred and resolve. From where 
 he lay he could in his turnings see into the wide barely 
 furnished room which he called his library. The back of 
 a book on the Criminal Law of Scotland, which, very 
 superfluously, he had bought upon his elevation to the 
 bench of justices of the peace for the county, looked at 
 him with a warning air. It seemed to swing suggestively 
 
142 STRONG MAC 
 
 to and fro upon the table when he thought of the pleasure 
 of slaying his enemy slowly. They said that sometimes 
 it took half an hour for a man to die on the gallows. That 
 was a long time, and with a curse Sandy Ewan turned 
 over that he might not see the big three volumes of 
 Stairs' Institutes which flanked the official inkstand. 
 
 It was in the deep heart of the night when Crob Mc- 
 Robb arrived at the Boreland. He had been hard to find, 
 being, as usual, absent on business of his own. But his 
 son Daid had succeeded after Grieve Cormack had sig- 
 nally failed. The Weasel-faced Man entered the great 
 house warily, treading lightly, as if he suspected traps 
 on the floor, perhaps lurking open-jawed under the soft 
 unaccustomed carpets, or, as it might be, a spring gun 
 looking out at him from under the hanging corners of a 
 table-cover. 
 
 But when Crob stepped into the wide bare spaces of 
 the "library" and heard Muckle Sandy swear at him, he 
 became at once much more at ease. That at least was 
 something he understood and had been prepared for. It 
 assured him of a welcome. Crob had set his feet on 
 carpets before, and knew the way up some great folks' 
 staircases as well as themselves, but that was in the 
 silence and blackness of night, when no friendly oaths 
 cheered his larcenous way. 
 
 At the door he inquired in a husky voice after the 
 patient's health, and in reply received the information 
 that it was evil to a degree inexpressible on any printed 
 page, furthermore that it was nothing the better for see- 
 ing him, and that in especial Grieve Cormack was a use- 
 less good-for-nothing numbskull, of no character and 
 worse than no parentage inasmuch as he had been so 
 long in doing his bidding. And what did he, Crob, mean 
 by coming to his house when all decent folk were in their 
 beds? 
 
 "Doubtless that is the reason Crob isna in his!" 
 commented the Grieve, humorously. 
 
 Whereupon his amiable master cursed him anew, but 
 
THE SUB-SOIL OF CRIME 143 
 
 Crob, who understood the injury only vaguely, bore no 
 malice. 
 
 "And get out of my sight/' cried the patient, ungrate- 
 fully to his Grieve, "Leave the lamp burnin' in the library, 
 and tell that auld besom Jess Laybroad that if she dares 
 so much as to set her head within the door I'll gie her an 
 ounce o' lead draps about her lugs! I'll hae nae spyin' 
 and keyhole-hearkenin' in my house !" 
 
 ******* 
 
 What passed between these two so different men long 
 remained a secret. Even now some part of their converse 
 has never had the light cast upon it. But events occur- 
 ring, some of them long afterwards, help us to judge of 
 the probable purport of the interview. 
 
 The two men were types of the different races which 
 share Galloway unequally between them. Sandy Ewan 
 was as clearly of the conquering caste as Crob McRobb 
 was of the conquered. Muckle Sandy Ewan was Anglo- 
 Saxon or what word soever better expresses that colon- 
 ising, steadily annexing strain which came forth out of 
 the North German marshes, poured northward through 
 England, and in Dumfries and Galloway became crossed 
 with Scandinavian dourness. Gone awry as in Sandy's 
 case, the product of all this is apt to become aggressive, 
 incurious of the rights of others, holding for all moral 
 law and gospel a certain fear of consequences and cautious 
 respect for a whole skin. This blonde horse- faced Gal- 
 loway type makes, when aroused, a very dangerous and 
 highly unscrupulous enemy. 
 
 Altogether different was Crob McRobb. Dark, slight, 
 sharp-featured, eyebrows meeting in a thick bar over 
 small quick-twinkling eyes, the eyes of an animal adroit 
 with finger and brain, by nature perfectly lazy, perfectly 
 unscrupulous, perfectly a liar, ever suspicious and on the 
 defensive, grateful for favours, indeed, like a stray dog, 
 but with a much longer memory for injuries, in nowise 
 restrained by any fear of consequences whatsoever, flash- 
 ing out into sudden angers, and striking through a red 
 
144 STRONG MAC 
 
 mist Crobb was in essence the old Pict the displaced, 
 the down-trodden, the despoiled who for all defence has 
 conserved the serpent's tooth, and poison-bag, together 
 with the readiness to fasten on the throat of a victorious 
 enemy. 
 
 Almost till morning, endured this pregnant conference 
 of Scot and Pict. Indeed, the February dawn was already 
 breaking chill and grey over the Solway strip when the 
 glittering-eyed Pict glided out, silent as a shadow, step- 
 ping carefully over the slumbering form of Grieve Cor- 
 mack who had stretched himself outside the library 
 wrapped in his plaid, but who, fatigued with listening, had 
 fallen asleep with his head against the jamb of the door. 
 
 Within, his master lay long awake, plotting and replot- 
 ting as is the manner of his kind. He had found his 
 instrument. Out on the face of the fields towards Lowran, 
 a certain light-footed stooping shadow laid a hand on 
 dykes and five-barred gates, going over them like a bird 
 or diving into plantations noiseless and unsubstantial as 
 a drift of peat-reek. At last, having arrived at one of 
 his many caches, Crob McRobb stopped to rub his palms 
 together. His head was sunk to the ears between his 
 shoulders out of the way of the February frost. The 
 Pict smiled. He had found a job to his liking. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 AN OLD MAID'S TEA-PARTY. 
 
 SINISTER rumors ran like sheet lightning athwart the 
 countryside, but there were two persons whose ears they 
 did not reach. Bound by his promise, Roy McCulloch 
 kept within the bounds of his little muircroft, while to and 
 fro about the school in the fir plantation Adora Gracie 
 did her own work and her father's, recking nothing of 
 dark fell Pict or blond plotting Saxon. 
 
 Now in spite of the war (or because of it), things went 
 very well with most Galloway farmers in the Dear Years. 
 All manner of produce fetched double the ordinary prices, 
 and there was yet no thought of the terrible reckoning 
 which was to come when the ports should open, and when, 
 autumn after autumn, worse harvest followed bad over all 
 Scotland. Meantime there was much entertaining and 
 infinite heartsome congress in the villages and among the 
 farm-towns. The poor help the poor in their poverty, but 
 there is no doubt that the ingle lowes the brighter, the pot 
 bubbles more gratefully, the board is spread more kindly 
 when the peat-shed is piled high with purple-brown peats, 
 when the hams hang from the ceiling, and the meal ark 
 spills over on the floor each time the guid-wife thrusts 
 her wooden scaup therein. 
 
 During the winter there had been many gatherings 
 (they were not yet called "parties") in Lowran and the 
 neighbouring valleys. To these Roy McCulloch went 
 when invited at least when there was a reasonable proba- 
 bility of Adora being there. 
 
 Now at the end of the little loan which led to the 
 
146 STRONG MAC 
 
 Gairie farm, a mile and a half from Lowran dwelt a cer- 
 tain Aline McQuhirr. Her younger brother held the 
 lease of the excellent arable acres of Gairie, and also of 
 the Gairie hill, a sudden-rising purple-black ridge of 
 heather and bent (locally known as the Four Nines, 
 because it was believed to contain 9999 acres) the finest 
 of all possible pasture for black-faced sheep. Aline Mc- 
 Quhirr was the gentlest old maid ever seen. For many 
 years she had been housekeeper to her brother Adam, till 
 one day he had taken it into his head that he would get 
 married. It was felt on all hands to be a somewhat precipi- 
 tate affair, in so far as the engagement was of no more 
 than twenty-four years' standing. But something must 
 be forgiven to the impetuosity of lovers. So they were 
 married this leisurely Adam and his not impatient Eve. 
 
 But in their Paradise they did not forget the gentle 
 Aline. In time Adam installed her in the quaint little 
 cot-house by the white loaning-yett of the Gairie, which* 
 presently she converted into a place of blanched window 
 curtains and sweet-scented flowers. The earliest potatoes 
 (always ready for the middle Thursday in July, being the 
 Fast Day preceding the parish communion) made a patch- 
 work, dusky purple and green, in her back yard. The 
 cunningest jams and jellies dwelt of habit and repute in 
 her corner cupboard. None could confect a "lippie" of 
 shortbread with Aline McQuhirr. And really unless she 
 asked you to one of her evening parties well, you did not 
 know what a party was. 
 
 And indeed there were not so many in the parish who 
 did know. For with all that gentle face (in which, though 
 her hair was silver, youth and love and sweetness abode 
 never a whit the worse for wear) Aline McQuhirr was 
 "verra particular." Not every one pleased her. No red- 
 faced jovial farmers cried in on market nights as they 
 did at her brother's house up the loaning. No toddy 
 reeked in Aline's ben room, but for the favoured there was 
 a dish of tea of which she never told the cost per pound. 
 That was, without irreverence, between her and her 
 
AN OLD MAID'S TEA-PARTY 147 
 
 Maker. Aline knew it was far more than she ought 
 to have afforded. But she could not deny herself the 
 pleasure of having the best tea and the repute of the 
 daintiest tea-table in Lowran. It was her sole extrava- 
 gance and with such gentle ways and a heart that 
 counted the price of half a pound of Souchong a sin to be 
 prayed over and repented of, how was it that Aline Mc- 
 Quhirr had never been married? 
 
 That also she kept to herself. But Adora knew. There 
 were not many who could long keep anything from Adora 
 Gracie. So it came about that of all the parties of the 
 year, there was none to which invitations were more 
 eagerly desired than to that given by the old-maid sister 
 of the farmer of Gairie. 
 
 Poor? Of a verity, no. Those who think that Aline- 
 of-the-Silver-Hair was so poor that she ought not to have 
 given parties, know neither Aline nor yet what it means 
 to be poor. To have more than enough that is to be 
 rich. To have the grasping, getting, insatiable, grudging 
 heart that is, spite of treasured millions, to be poor. 
 
 And you could not enter Aline's parlour, or sit in her 
 speckless kitchen (which was a far better thing), without 
 understanding that this woman, who never had owned two 
 five pound notes at one time since she was born, was rich 
 in love and faith and good works. Her very smile was 
 far above rubies. If she liked you, you could see the 
 pleasure with which, out of her treasury, she brought for 
 your delectation things new and old. If she saw you 
 glance that way, she would set in a better light the bust 
 of Buonaparte on her mantel-shelf, where it stood oppo- 
 site to that of the Empress Josephine. And in the year 
 1812 that was a sure sign our gentle old lady could think 
 for herself. There was also a map of Europe with the 
 Kingdom of Prussia left out and that of Poland larger 
 than all the Russias. It had been drawn (with the out- 
 lines done in water-colour) by Aline herself when she 
 went to the "finishing school" in Edinburgh I am not 
 going to tell you how many years ago, lest you should 
 
148 STRONG MAC 
 
 laugh at the dear old lady. And Aline is not to be 
 laughed at, though one is not forbidden to smile, and if 
 there is a little moisture in the eyes, so much the better. 
 
 The night of Aline McQuhirr's party arrived. By two 
 o'clock her best black cap was on. The broad lace strings 
 were tied under her chin, and over her shoulders a napkin 
 of lawn was becomingly folded, the snowy whiteness of 
 which threw up a kind of halo about Aline's soft face. 
 This was to deceive anyone who happened to pass the 
 window into thinking she was doing nothing. By four 
 o'clock behold her sitting at the window as composed and 
 ladylike as if she had done nothing else all day. Whereas 
 you had only to look at the spread table winking and 
 glittering, to know that she had been hasting to and fro 
 ever since the February sun glinted in at the windows 
 over the snowy blinds and cast the shadow of the potted 
 geranium on the sill suddenly black upon the opposite 
 wall. 
 
 As she sat thus there came a rapping, light, quick, 
 decided at the door. The light kindled in Aline's tired 
 eyes. Her heart beat almost like a lover's. 
 
 "Adora!" she murmured, half aloud, as, from being 
 much alone, she had a habit of doing. 
 
 "I am so glad " (she said "gled," but leaden types can- 
 not follow all these tender inflections any more than mere 
 words can describe the little shy touches of caressing 
 with which she made Adora understand that of all people 
 in the world she was the most welcome in that house 
 which, indeed, the spoilt young woman knew very well). 
 
 "I came sooner, that we might have a talk together 
 before the others arrive. I hope you do not mind !" said 
 Adora as she took off her shawl. 
 
 Then she settled herself down upon a stool by Aline's 
 side "to be mothered," as she said. Which was strange, 
 seeing that Aline never had a child and Adora remem- 
 bered no mother. But the good mother and the true 
 daughter were there, side by side, though Fate had robbed 
 them of the relationship by blood. 
 
AN OLD MAID'S TEA-PARTY 149 
 
 "Was there no other reason?" said the old-maid mother 
 with a quaint intonation, pinching gently the girl's cheek. 
 
 "Not what you think/' replied Adora, swiftly; "I declare 
 there is more thought of love-making in that nice old sil- 
 ver-grey head of yours than in my whole body, soul and 
 spirit." 
 
 "Ah," sighed Aline, "maybe that is true. And if so, the 
 worse for both of us !" 
 
 "Nonsense nonsense, Aline," cried our emphatic Dora, 
 "never yet have I seen the man I would not make singu- 
 larly unhappy if I married him. The lads never know 
 when they are well off. If they did they would let me 
 alone!" 
 
 "And Roy McCulloch?" said the old lady almost in a 
 whisper. She laid her thin hand very lightly on the girl's 
 shoulder. Adora caught up at it laughingly, drew down 
 the finger-tips and kissed them. 
 
 "Roy, Roy Roy " she chanted the name with a light 
 trill that was half contempt and half a drolling affection, 
 "Roy McCulloch ! Will I never hear the beginning and 
 end of Roy McCulloch? But I thought you would have 
 known better !" 
 
 "Indeed, I wish you no worse fate, Dora," said her 
 friend. "Roy McCulloch is one of the " 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know," cried the girl, stopping her ears with 
 the tips of her fingers, "I have heard all his perfections 
 till I am as sick of them as a mill-horse of his rounds. I 
 know them like the A B C at the end of the Catechism. 
 He is strong but not so strong as your brother Adam's 
 plough-horse ! He is wholesome, but so is a bowl of por- 
 ridge! Good and innocent, but so is a quartern loaf of 
 English flour at one-and-fivepence out of Robin 
 Affleck's!" 
 
 "No no, you shall not, Dora!" said the old lady. 
 "Listen." 
 
 "And I hear them!" cried the girl, rising to her feet, 
 "I was just in time. That is your non-such Roy, who has 
 doubtless been waiting at the road-end to convoy me here. 
 
ISO STRONG MAC 
 
 It is bad enough to have to go home with him, but Roy 
 McCulloch down Lowran street at four of the clock in the 
 afternoon no, Aline, I thank you !" 
 
 Upon this arrived in quick succession Miss McQuhirr's 
 guests, and very delicately the old lady welcomed them, 
 according to each his standing and desert. Jock Fairies 
 was among the first. His thatch of brown hair left long at 
 the back, had been pulled and plaited into the strangest 
 queue and tied up with a piece of black ribbon much like a 
 horse's tail on a fair-day. But though Adora smiled at the 
 appearance he presented, the good humour and real 
 friendliness of Jock's chubby face soon made her for- 
 get the uncouthness of his guise. There was one 
 intruder. Sandy Ewan had ridden over from the new 
 house of Boreland, stabling his horse in the village, where, 
 finding that Adora had already taken wing, he had solaced 
 himself by walking over with Charlotte Webster, who 
 showed herself delighted to have the escort of so distin- 
 guished a cavalier. But to the party itself Sandy Ewan 
 had not been invited. So, though he could have bought 
 up little old-maid Aline a score of times and never missed 
 the price, yet there was no admittance for him into that 
 poor self-respecting cot at the foot of the Gairie road-end. 
 After lingering a little in full view of the windows, bid- 
 ding repeated good-byes to Charlotte, Sandy took himself 
 away up to the farmhouse, declaring with a loud laugh, 
 that "a man needed something more stieve than a wash of 
 tea for his inside." 
 
 Nevertheless, he looked back often as he went. For the 
 shapely head of Adora Gracie had passed and repassed the 
 window as he stood looking over Charlotte Webster's 
 shoulder while pretending to talk to her a proceeding 
 which that young woman resented exceedingly, and stored 
 up against him for future repayment. 
 
 Very sagely Adora assisted her hostess to do the hon- 
 ours, and though she pretended to care nothing about such 
 matters, she was secretly piqued that Roy McCulloch, 
 after having shaken hands with her, appeared to devote 
 
AN OLD MAID'S TEA-PARTY 151 
 
 his attention entirely to Charlotte Webster. That damsel, 
 unaccustomed to homage from the handsome Roy, sur- 
 rounded him with palpable airs of monopoly, even ventur- 
 ing to patronise Adora, to that lady's particular amuse- 
 ment and to the great indignation of her silver-haired hos- 
 tess, whose mental note ran thus : "Memorandum: Char- 
 lotte Webster NOT to be asked next year!' 
 
 Then Aline, in the proverbial expression, "set her brains 
 to steep." That is, being resolved that no mere feather- 
 head like Charlotte should put her Adora in the back- 
 ground, she summoned Roy to sit at her right hand, which 
 gave him the maid of her heart upon his other side, while 
 poor Charlotte was banished far down the table and forced 
 to console herself with the coltish whispered jocularities of 
 Jock Fairies. 
 
 There is little to describe in an evening party at old- 
 maid Aline's save the impression of gentle refinement, 
 which was not without its effect on the rudest natures. 
 Hope Meiklewham, the minister's daughter, would have 
 given a bit of one of her pretty ars to be present, but that 
 by her position in society and her father's strictness was 
 denied to her. She proclaimed, far and wide, however, 
 that Aline herself was a better sermon on the Christian 
 virtues than had ever been preached in Lowran since the 
 day when the great outcast minister John McMillan went 
 down the kirk-brae for the last time. 
 
 People did not argue at Aline's. They never quarrelled. 
 There was not too much love-making, but enough. What 
 there was was conducted quietly, discreetly, mostly with 
 the eyelashes. There was also some singing, and Aline 
 told the famous story of her Uncle David and the widow's 
 dun cow when, as usual, she forgot the point. Which 
 was the point. 
 
 In short, these folk, far from the life of towns, 
 enjoyed quietly and sedately the good things which were 
 within their reach. Their talk was sensible on the whole. 
 And whatsoever failed of that was cheerful, sane fooling, 
 which hindered no man nor hurt any woman. There was 
 
152 STRONG MAC 
 
 nothing either said or done that little old-maid Aline need 
 have shut her ears to. 
 
 But in the background of the idyll, up in the parlour 
 of the farmhouse of Gairie, sat the foul Fiend such a 
 fiend as in these times is permitted to go visibly abroad in 
 the face of day drinking whisky toddy with Adam Mc- 
 Quhirr. Though fond of his glass, the farmer of Gairie 
 wanted sadly to get down to his sister's party. But he was 
 a man who found a difficulty in saying "No," and besides, 
 he did not know when he might need what is technically 
 called "an obleegement" from such an important person 
 as Sandy Ewan. 
 
 So he sat there in his dusky parlour making friends with 
 the mammon of unrighteousness, and entertaining the 
 devil in all innocence of heart. For a man who is given to 
 hospitality may at times entertain both kinds of angels, 
 equally at unaware. 
 
 The evening wore all too rapidly to the butt. The voices 
 in the cot at the loaning end sounded more and more 
 cheerfully through the darkness. A consciousness of the 
 black night all about made the lights burn ever clearer 
 within. The lilted songs, the slow turn of Scots humour, 
 the quick-running saucy jest this last mostly from Adora 
 Gracie, the ease of speech and unbound heart, made the 
 hours speed too fast to the parting. The guests made 
 their adieus, Roy lingering on the doorstep for Adora 
 while Aline whispered in her ear as she lovingly settled 
 her own shawl about the young girl's head and over her 
 shoulders a beautiful white cashmere the old maid's 
 chiefest treasure. 
 
 And meantime, expectant, upon the short grass of the 
 knowes without, Fate, smelling of whisky toddy, 
 crouched waiting. 
 
 Without words spoken Roy had settled the question 
 that he was to see Adora home. She would not, he knew, 
 refuse him that. It was provided for in their contract of 
 brother and sister. He had been reading Smollett's con- 
 tinuation of Hume's History and was prepared for dis- 
 
AN OLD MAID'S TEA-PARTY 153 
 
 cussion. He ran over certain points in his mind. No, 
 he had not forgotten anything. He was perfect even in 
 his dates. 
 
 He stood silently admiring, as with a motion of her 
 head, shapely even when half-hidden in the folds of a 
 shawl, Adora turned sideways to grasp her skirts, swing- 
 ing them upward with a little petulant shake. Then her 
 other hand was ready to be laid upon Strong Mac's arm. 
 When he felt the pressure, light as a feather, it seemed 
 to him that he became weak as a child. 
 
 Once they were started Roy searched for a conversa- 
 tional opening in order to take away the character of 
 Queen Elizabeth, but Adora's first words made this some- 
 what difficult. 
 
 "Why did you not go home with Charlotte Webster?" 
 she asked in wondering tones, "it was very ill done of 
 Aline to call you away from Charlotte's society !" 
 
 In another girl and with another suitor, this would have 
 been the invitation of the country coquette nothing more 
 or less. But each knew the other and Roy declined his 
 opportunity. He did not even pretend to misunderstand. 
 
 "You were busy," said Strong Mac, "and I could wait." 
 
 "You need not have waited with Charlotte Webster," 
 said Adora, with something like a pout of human disap- 
 proval. "Tell me, what did you talk to her about?" 
 
 "About " Strong Mac hesitated then with a burst of 
 confidence, "we talked about the Reformation and Queen 
 Mary !" 
 
 Clear and merry rang Adora's laugh of scorn. 
 
 "The Reformation and Charlotte Webster !" she cried, 
 "that were a Reformation indeed to talk about. Well, 
 how far did you get? Did you fall out about Queen 
 Mary? It is easy to come to loggerheads about the 
 Reformation !" 
 
 "No," said Strong Mac, smiling, "we did not quarrel." 
 
 "Ah," said Adora, simmering with mischief, "tell me all 
 you talked about every word and especially what 
 Charlotte had to say about the Reformation !" 
 
154 STRONG MAC 
 
 "Oh, she did not say very much," continued the traitor 
 Roy, as the manner of men is, purchasing favour by 
 maligning the other woman, "we did not get very far. 
 For the fact is, Charlotte thought that John Knox was 
 the man they killed because he played the fiddle to the 
 Queen !" 
 
 Adora clutched at Roy's arm and on the hard road her 
 feet danced a little joyous jig. 
 
 "Oh, you dears both of you!" she cried. And spite 
 of entreaty, she refused to explain this mysterious eulo- 
 gium. Strong Mac felt that he could extract but little 
 comfort from an expression of affection which he shared 
 with Charlotte Webster. But then, again, the little clutch 
 on the arm had not been divided. That was his own and 
 he thankfully stored it away to be a comfort to him 
 through lonely days and nights sleepless. 
 
 Then instead of advancing from post to pillar like the 
 true encroaching lover whose motto is (or ought to be) 
 Tou fours I'audace! Strong Mac now proved somewhat 
 un-enterprising. He listened happily to Adora's fast-flow- 
 ing talk, his slow faithful heart thrilling like an instru- 
 ment of strings to the lightest ripple of her laughter. She 
 spoke of her father with good-humoured insight into his 
 lesser weaknesses, sometimes softening her voice to a 
 kind of pride which was not without its tragic aspect. 
 
 Unconsciously they had lingered a little. The other 
 pairs and groups had scattered this way and that. To 
 Roy there was something wonderfully moving in the 
 sense he had of the nearness of the girl he loved. Little 
 dainty touches of lace, the pleasant rustle of silk, an 
 atmosphere of maiden freshness all strange to his woman- 
 less home, fretted his heart with desirings acute as they 
 were indefinite. Nevertheless he was happy, thus walk- 
 ing, listening, putting in a word here and there, his heart 
 beating all the while almost audibly. No talk of histories 
 now or the great deeds of great men, but simple homely 
 gossip, the nothings of personality that please boys and 
 girls when the years are yet few, when "I" and "she" 
 
AN OLD MAID'S TEA-PARTY 155 
 
 ' 
 
 make all the world, when the blood tingles quick in the 
 veins, and when life tastes fresh and strong as the first 
 blatter of brine blown in the face of one who travels sea- 
 ward. 
 
 They were ascending the long brae at the top of which 
 is situated the Lowran kirk. Down in the hollow there 
 had been only a soughing stillness, but as they mounted 
 the kirk-hill the breeze came suddenly out of the west, 
 moaning and creaking among the glimmering cross- 
 hatching of the bare branches above. At which with the 
 quick causeless resolution of the bashful, Roy put his 
 hand upon Adora's as it lay across his sleeve. 
 
 "I have kept my word to you," he said, "I have neither 
 gone to the smuggling nor yet sought fur or feather off 
 our own land since I gave you my promise." 
 
 For reward Adora let her hand remain where it was, 
 sure that the limit of his encroachment was reached. In- 
 deed, too sure. 
 
 "I thank you, Roy !" she answered, softly for her. But 
 her heart desired more nay required it from the man she 
 was to love. 
 
 ******* 
 
 At that moment half a dozen dark shapes, suddenly ris- 
 ing out of the deep blackness of a wayside copse, threw 
 themselves upon Roy McCulloch. There was a waving 
 of lanterns. From every side men came running. 
 
 "We have him !" cried two or three voices. "Hold him ! 
 Hold him !" cried others. 
 
 One man caught Adora roughly by the arm and 
 dragged her away from her escort. 
 
 With a sudden roar of anger like a lion roused, Strong 
 Mac sent the four who held him reeling this way and 
 that, and sprang upon the man who had touched Adora. 
 
 But the girl, though bewildered by the suddenness of 
 the onslaught, knew well where lay the greatest danger. 
 Had Strong Mac smitten once in that fierce wrath of his, 
 the assailant might never have spoken again. The fellow 
 let go his hold and stood coweringly on his defence. 
 
156 STRONG MAC 
 
 "He has not hurt me, Roy !" she cried, "do not strike !" 
 
 But Roy, disregarding a feeble blow, aimed at him, 
 already had the man by the throat, while a fresh cloud of 
 assailants was flinging itself on his shoulders, and striv- 
 ing to pull him to the ground. At the sound of Adora's 
 voice the young man slackened his grip and caught up 
 a heavy club of blackthorn which had fallen to the 
 ground. With one mighty effort he rid himself of his 
 foes, and putting Adora behind him, stood clear with his 
 back to the steep bank, swinging the cudgel over his 
 head. 
 
 "Now what does this mean?" he shouted, "quick, out 
 with it, you scoundrels or I will break every bone in 
 your bodies!" 
 
 "7n the King's name!" gasped the man who had 
 caught Adora by the arm. "Roy McCulloch, I arrest 
 you by warrant of the sheriff." 
 
 "And on what charge?" said Roy calmly. 
 
 "Sheep-stealing!" answered the officer. 
 
 At this point a horseman rode up hastily from the 
 direction of the Gairie farmhouse. 
 
 "What have you here?" he cried. "By what right do 
 you dare to lay hands on this gentleman ?" 
 
 The new comer was Sandy Ewan, who had sat thus 
 long with Adam McQuhirr over their whisky toddy. 
 Adora sprang towards him. 
 
 "Save him!" she said eagerly; "tell them he is inno- 
 cent. You know he is innocent !" 
 
 "Officer, I demand to be told the meaning of this!" 
 cried Sandy Ewan sternly; "I warn you that if there is 
 anything wrong, you shall suffer for it. I am a justice 
 of the peace. Who accuses Roy McCulloch of sheep- 
 stealing?" 
 
 "Here is the sheriff's warrant, sir," said the man, sul- 
 lenly. "Ye can read it for yourselM And if I mistake 
 not the offence charged is the stealing of your ain sheep, 
 Maister Ewan!" 
 
 "But who is the informant ?" demanded the gentleman- 
 
AN OLD MAID'S TEA-PARTY 157 
 
 farmer, truculently; "answer me that. It is true that I 
 may have lost a sheep or two at odd times, but I would 
 as soon have thought of accusing myself as my old (he 
 searched for words) friend and companion, Roy Mc- 
 Culloch !" 
 
 "I have no claim to be either," said Strong Mac, 
 standing calmly at bay, "I decline your assistance, Alex- 
 ander Ewan. Officer, let me see your warrant, and if it 
 be in order and you are doing your duty, I will go with 
 you peaceably to answer this or any other charge !" 
 
 The paper was handed over. A subordinate held a 
 lantern to enable Strong Mac to read the warrant for 
 his apprehension "upon information laid before the 
 sheriff substitute of Kirkcudbright/' 
 
 "I will accompany you," said Roy quietly, "but first 
 let us go a few yards out of our way to convoy this lady 
 to her home. We can follow the cross-road through the 
 policies, and thus avoid the village." 
 
 Among the men there was some demur. It was far 
 about, a dark inconvenient road, liable to accident of 
 sudden assault or rescue. 
 
 "Tut," said Sandy Ewan, "do as you are bid. If Roy 
 McCulloch had wanted to be rescued, he and I together 
 could have thrown the whole of you into the Lowran Burn 
 in five minutes. But I will tell you what to do. First put 
 the young lady in security, and do you all accompany 
 me to my house of Boreland, where it will be a great 
 pleasure to me to entertain you till the morning. I will 
 then provide a conveyance in which to take your prisoner 
 to Kirkcudbright !" 
 
 The men looked at each other. It seemed an easy 
 way out of a difficulty. There was indeed no great 
 desire among them to undertake the long night's travel 
 to Kirkcudbright with Roy McCulloch on their hands. 
 The chief officer was inclined to yield, but the prisoner 
 stood stiffly upon his rights to prison and an immediate 
 confrontation with the sheriff. 
 
 "Go with Sandy Ewan, Roy," whispered Adora, "per- 
 
158 STRONG MAC 
 
 haps you may find out what is the meaning of all 
 this." 
 
 "It is only a plot to get rid of me !" was Roy's indig- 
 nant answer. 
 
 "No matter," the girl answered eagerly; "do as I bid 
 you. I myself will tell your father all that has happened 
 in the morning. Go with Sandy Ewan I think he means 
 to be kind." 
 
 Roy said no more and the party turned sharply to the 
 right through the policies of Lowran Great House the 
 lanterns making a waving patch of illumination about 
 them as they proceeded. In the ditch of the sunk fences 
 little wreaths of unmelted snow, sodden and grey in the 
 daytime, flashed up into startling whiteness, the ragged 
 hoops and tangles of the dripping brambles standing black 
 against them. 
 
 Adora stopped at the little school loaning. Roy held 
 out his hand. There was no word in their hearts which 
 either of them could speak to the other before so many. 
 But as Roy stood dumb before her with the eyes of a 
 faithful animal, strong yet pitiful, all suddenly Adora 
 set her hands on his neck, pulled down his face towards 
 her and kissed him. 
 
 That was at once her defiance and the symbol of her 
 faith. 
 
 And as he tramped away in the darkness, the men 
 marching sullenly and apathetically about him, and 
 Sandy Ewan chewing some bitter cud upon his horse's 
 back as he followed, Roy thought with pride and joy 
 that Adora had kissed him because she loved him. It 
 was natural he should think so. 
 
 You see, he was a man. 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE SHERIFF'S ROOM. 
 
 IT was in the sheriff's room at Kirkcudbright, at his 
 private examination, that Roy first learned the nature of 
 the charges brought against him. The apartment was 
 sparsely furnished. In the centre was a table bearing 
 evidence in carefully graded ink stains of the scrivening 
 labours of former sheriffs' clerks,, and in more recent 
 circles (taken in connection with a pervading flavour of 
 tobacco) of the jovial habits of the present occupant. 
 
 There were also some volumes of law books in faded 
 yellow calf, bundles of letters marked with tags of pink 
 tape, and a pile of novels in a corner, half hidden by a 
 huge frieze riding-coat. 
 
 The sheriff's substitute, Martin Dalmahoy, a jovial 
 red-faced man, sat at the head of the table. During the 
 first part of the examination he pouted his lips, hummed, 
 whistled, and consulted his watch about once in every 
 three minutes, evidently wishing the whole affair at 
 Jericho. The fiscal, Dicky Henderson by name, was a 
 tall sallow man with a long lean nose bent a little to the 
 side, as if, after much endeavour, he had at last succeeded 
 in seeing his opponent round it. 
 
 It was he who put the questions, with the air of a 
 judge assuming the black cap. The sheriff confined him- 
 self to cautioning Roy officially. In emitting his declara- 
 tion, it appeared, anything that he might say might be 
 used against him. But Mr. Dalmahoy dropped into the 
 kindlier folk-speech with his last sentence. 
 
160 STRONG MAC 
 
 "Ye may say naething if ye are so pleased," he said, 
 "but I advise ye to speak up for your own sake, my lad 
 and a decent lad ye look. Fegs, I would raither have 
 expected to see ye afore me on account o' some wee bit 
 affair wi' his Majesty's revenue, or because ye were ower 
 weel acquent wi' the lasses ! But as I was saying, ye had 
 far better tell us a' that ye ken aboot this job. For if 
 ye say naething, ye ken, it has been my experience that 
 that gangs waur doon wi' the jury than the maist un- 
 faceable tale ye can put your tongue till! Caa' awa', 
 fiscal !" 
 
 Roy, standing quietly at the end of the table, only 
 bowed, awaiting definite question. 
 
 "You are the son of one Sharon McCulloch, in House 
 of Muir?" said the fiscal. 
 
 "Of House of Muir!" answered Roy with the pre- 
 cision of fact. 
 
 The fiscal bit his lip at his false start. The preposition 
 marked the owner, not the tenant. The sheriff forgot 
 to consult his watch and smiled. This might prove more 
 interesting than he had anticipated. 
 
 "Ah, yes," Fiscal Henderson tried again, not raising 
 his eyes from the table, on which he was pretending to 
 be occupied with his papers, "I believe I have observed 
 in the valuation roll the name of Sharon McCulloch as 
 owner and occupier of some few moorland acres an 
 enclose, if I mistake not, between the estates of Bar- 
 whinnock and Lowran." 
 
 "Three hundred acres," corrected Roy. 
 
 "Your family has often been in difficulty with the 
 authorities as to excise and revenue," he continued. "Your 
 grandfather your father you yourself have all been 
 little better than habit and repute smugglers!" 
 
 "Is that the offence with which I am charged?" said 
 Roy. 
 
 "You are here not to question me," said the fiscal 
 sharply, "but to answer my questions." 
 
 Strong Mac bowed. 
 
THE SHERIFF'S ROOM 161 
 
 "As soon as you ask me any questions, I will do my 
 best to answer them/* said the young man. 
 
 "I warn you that you are not doing yourself any good 
 by bandying words," said the fiscal. "Do you or do you 
 not admit that your family has been connected with 
 smuggling ?" 
 
 "I have never been in a court of law in my life/' said 
 Strong Mac, "I have never been apprehended or charged 
 with any offence against the law whatsoever. As to my 
 father and my grandfather, well you can ask them !" 
 
 The sheriff, who had his reasons for not assisting the 
 fiscal, glanced shrewdly at his clerk, who, as a sign of 
 appreciation, bit at the feather of the pen with which he 
 was noting down question and answer, for the declara- 
 tion which must be signed by the prisoner. 
 
 "You are also a noted poacher and deer-stealer," con- 
 tinued the fiscal. "The surrounding landlords have 
 often had reason to complain of you. But this is a matter 
 infinitely more serious. From the farm of Upper Airie, 
 tenanted by Mr. Alexander Ewan of Boreland, three 
 sheep have been missed. From the same gentleman's 
 farm of Lower or Nether Airie, which marches directly 
 with your father's lands, no fewer than ten sheep have 
 been missing during the last three months. Now, mark 
 me well, the skins of all the thirteen have been found con- 
 cealed behind a haymow in a barn upon your father's 
 property. You have also often been seen trespassing with- 
 out excuse upon the lands of Airie, both by day and night. 
 What have you to say to these accusations?" 
 
 "Before I answer I would like to know who laid the 
 information on which the sheriff granted the warrant 
 of arrest !" 
 
 "You have no right to ask that at this stage," said the 
 sheriff. 
 
 "Can I have my father or a lawyer to assist me in 
 repelling so serious and unfounded a charge?" 
 
 Roy was determined to say no more than was neces- 
 sary. He had not the usual instinct of the innocent that 
 
162 STRONG MAC 
 
 the mere telling of his story would be sufficient to clear 
 him. He could see that there was a deep-laid plot against 
 him. No doubt, therefore, there were other traps set for 
 him into which he might fall by replying too hastily. 
 
 The sheriff explained, not unkindly. 
 
 "At a later stage you will have every access to your 
 friends and to a lawyer, if you decide to employ one, but 
 at the present stage you must answer clearly all the 
 questions which are put to you by the fiscal. And as I 
 advised ye before, the cleaner breast ye make of it, the 
 mair chance there will be for your craig to miss findin' 
 the wecht o' your tail in a tow-rape!" 
 
 This was the sheriff's proverbial way of reminding 
 his prisoner that sheep-stealing was a capital offence, 
 also that it behoved him to be wary and not fall out in 
 advance with those in whose hands his fate might 
 lie. 
 
 "Have you been upon the lands of Nether Airie during 
 the last three months, and, if so, for what purpose ?" 
 demanded the fiscal. 
 
 "Never to meddle with any man's sheep, and not at all 
 during the last few weeks," said Roy, quietly. 
 
 "You admit, then, that you have been upon the lands 
 of Nether Airie during, let us say, the last month ?" 
 
 "It is possible," said Roy, guardedly, "that I might 
 have crossed the Nether Airie moors once or twice in 
 the weeks immediately after the New Year." 
 
 "And for what purpose?" 
 
 "I was returning from visiting some of my friends 
 usually in the evening." 
 
 "At what hour in the evening were you in the habit 
 of passing across the Nether Airie moors?" pursued the 
 fiscal. 
 
 "My friends live some considerable distance away," 
 said Strong Mac, "and it might be somewhere between 
 nine and ten o'clock, or even later, before I crossed the 
 Pluckamin Glen into the Nether Airie moors." 
 
 "And who, it would be interesting to know, were the 
 
THE SHERIFF'S ROOM 163 
 
 friends whom it was your custom to visit so late at 
 night ?" 
 
 Strong Mac did not hesitate a moment. He had been 
 expecting the question and had his answer ready. 
 
 "I cannot on any account bring my friends into the 
 question. They had nothing to do with my actions, good 
 or bad, and I " 
 
 Here the sheriff interrupted. He had altogether 
 ceased to look at his watch. Something in the attitude 
 of the young fellow convinced him that on this occasion 
 he had no affair with a mere vulgar sheep-stealer. The 
 man before him was either one of the highest class of 
 criminals, or he was an innocent man falsely accused. 
 The sheriff proposed to himself to find out which. 
 
 "Let me caution you again/' he said, "this is a private 
 inquiry. The information we obtain from you may or 
 may not be used in court. If, however, you satisfy me of 
 your innocence, you walk out of this room a free man. 
 But I warn you that, by refusing to give up the name of 
 the friends to visit whom you went and came across the 
 Nether Airie moors, you go far to justify a prima facie 
 case against you." 
 
 Roy McCulloch shook his head. He foresaw the local 
 papers with the evidence printed in full, and names that 
 were dearer to him than life bandied from mouth to 
 mouth, staled by all ignoble use. The alehouse and the 
 stable should not make their jests upon those whom he 
 loved. 
 
 "I am sorry that I can do no more," he said, "what- 
 ever may be the consequences." 
 
 "Then you refuse to clear yourself?" said the fiscal. 
 "You will not answer my question." 
 
 "I will answer anything which has reference directly 
 to the charge brought against me," said Strong Mac. 
 
 "But," said the fiscal, "we and not you must be the 
 judges of that, and indeed that is just what you refuse 
 to do. According to the information before me, thefts 
 of sheep have been going on from the moor of Nether 
 
164 STRONG MAC 
 
 Airie during the last three or four months. The fleeces 
 found in your barn are of various ages, corresponding 
 generally to the times at which the thefts were com- 
 mitted. The ear on which the Mr. Ewan's earmark was 
 impressed has in every case been cut away, obviously 
 for the purpose of preventing identification. If there- 
 fore you confess to having been in the habit of frequent- 
 ing the Nether Airie moors at night, and refuse to sup- 
 ply us with the means of verifying your statements and 
 checking your alleged friendly visits, we are shut in to 
 the conclusion that you were upon Nether Airie for pur- 
 poses other than innocent." 
 
 The fiscal achieved his phrase with a certain feeling 
 of triumph and sat looking at his prisoner for the first 
 time round the corner of his nose. The sheriff moved 
 uncomfortably in his chair. 
 
 "I warn you again that it is better for you to answer," 
 he said ; "I declare I'm loath to send to jail a fine lad that 
 micht be better employed servin' his Majesty but if 
 ye dinna speak plain, by my faith, I will juist hae to 
 commit ye! I see not what else I can do!" 
 
 And so accordingly, and without further debate, Roy 
 McCulloch stood committed to take his trial for the 
 crime of sheep-stealing from the farms of Upper and 
 Nether Airie, and in the meantime he was appointed to 
 lie in the county jail, awaiting the advent of the commis- 
 sion of Justiciary at the nearest circuit town. 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE DARK COMPANION. 
 
 STRANGE and manifold are the ways of the heart of 
 women. Deeply as Adora Gracie felt for Roy McCul- 
 loch, and glad as she was to have kissed him before them 
 all, she could not conceal from herself that he had been 
 somewhat ungenerous in the matter of Sandy Ewan. 
 That young man had, she thought, meant well, and she 
 had the conviction, latent in the mind of all women that 
 in affairs touching justice and the law, the beginning 
 and the end of the matter is to have some one to "speak 
 for" the person accused. 
 
 Now Adora knew that Sandy was a justice of the 
 peace, and, though she was intelligent far beyond the 
 average of her class and time, yet she believed (and the 
 fallacy has never been stamped out of the heart feminine) 
 that all officers of justice, from the sheriff's officer to the 
 Red Judge who rode in state into Drumfern every year, 
 to the terror of the evil doer and the praise of them that 
 do well, were linked together in the bonds of the closest 
 Freemasonry. So that, if the favour of one could once be 
 obtained, he had only to wink at the rest, his accomplices, 
 as it were. Upon which, all was well. 
 
 So it came about that Sandy Ewan, bringing informa- 
 tion of all that (he alleged) was being done to obtain the 
 release of Strong Mac from his prison-house, became 
 a not infrequent visitor at the schoolhouse among the 
 pines. 
 
 Adora tolerated him, and as for Mr. Gracie, he would 
 shorten the school hours in order to hasten into the par- 
 lour to talk with Sandy Ewan. At that Adora marvelled 
 greatly. For there was in the new-made laird neither 
 
 
166 STRONG MAC 
 
 reading nor even the smallest tincture of the love for 
 letters. Yet there was no manner of doubt that he was 
 acquiring some curious power over the Dominie. Even 
 when Donald Gracie spoke of his ex-pupil his hand 
 would tremble, and a tremor come into his voice. 
 
 For the second time Sandy Ewan underlay the spell of 
 Adora. Her very scorns attracted him, sated as he was 
 with too facile triumphs. She had refused his best offers, 
 when he had thought that he had only to throw the 
 handkerchief. But, he told himself, at that time Strong 
 Mac was in his way. Therefore, Strong Mac must be put 
 out of the way, and for this end blond Scot and dark 
 aboriginal Pict made a plan together and hid it deep. 
 
 Sandy Ewan even told himself that Adora's late born 
 forbearance was the beginning of something more hope- 
 ful. It had only wanted the poacher's son laid by the 
 heels. And then the girl's father Sandy Ewan laughed 
 to himself. He had found a way with the dotard such 
 an easy way, and every one knew that Adora Gracie 
 would sell her soul to pleasure the Dominie. 
 
 Once again Sandy Ewan deceived himself. He was 
 of the temperament called "sanguine" which, when it 
 turns to do evil, becomes sanguine also as to the rewards 
 of iniquity. He believed that Adora Gracie, separated 
 from Roy McCulloch, would erelong become conscious of 
 the advantages of being the wife of Alexander Ewan, 
 Esquire of Boreland and Ardinlass, Justice of the Peace 
 on his Majesty's commission for the Stewartry of Kirk- 
 cudbright. That, he told himself, was surely promotion 
 high enough for a dominie's daughter. But Sandy 
 Ewan, regarding himself as a most desirable type of the 
 successful man, forgot to take his account with that in 
 the heart of a woman which follows with wistful yearn- 
 ing the ill-used and unfortunate, until, all unawares, she 
 may find her own heart taken in the bands of a man. 
 Not that Strong Mac's misfortunes had had this effect 
 upon Adora, but this at least is certain, that Sandy 
 Ewan's greatness, his blatant desirability, were rather 
 
THE DARK COMPANION 167 
 
 against him than otherwise, so far as Adora was con- 
 cerned. 
 
 The girl had not yet found her own heart, and so 
 scarce believed that she possessed one. She was like a 
 person who has never suffered from sea-sickness. The 
 evidence was too strong for complete disbelief in the 
 existence of the disease but she was of opinion that 
 the sufferers could help it if they liked! 
 
 The secret of Sandy Ewan's hold over the Dominie was 
 simple. It consisted of a little brandy flask which 
 arrived at the schoolhouse full and left it empty. For, 
 with increasing infirmity of body, the schoolmaster could 
 no longer find his way to Lucky Greentree's for his weekly 
 supply, and till now no one had dared to run the strict 
 blockade which Adora established and maintained. 
 
 But Sandy Ewan, at first under the guise of a jest at 
 Adora's expense, conveyed to the Dominie almost daily 
 a supply of the raw spirit which he craved. And the 
 old man, with infinite shame in his heart, acquiesced 
 after a struggle, and then, the old appetite coming back 
 fourfold, he gave himself to thinking all day, from his 
 earliest waking moment, of the farmer's visit in the after- 
 noon. At the hour when Adora was setting the copies 
 the first taste would most conveniently transact itself 
 then! She did not come in often, and especially not if 
 she heard Sandy Ewan with her father in the parlour. 
 
 There was little strength of purpose left in the Dominie 
 now. Never robust, his trials and excesses had worn 
 him to a shadow. His clothes hung flapping about him, 
 like a flag about a pole on a windless day. Yet as his 
 face grew more worn it also grew more childlike. His 
 mind, too, was wistfully clear, for, as much as anything, 
 it was the torment of his conscience, that had worn him 
 down. Yet frail as he was, possessed of this secret 
 devil, there was something unconquered and perhaps 
 unconquerable about Donald Gracie. The ship drifted 
 on the rocks. The breakers leaped white ahead, but 
 somehow, even in spite of his pitiful physical weakness, 
 
168 STRONG MAC 
 
 the spirit of the man was not wholly given over to the 
 devil. 
 
 But a day of trial was at hand. The great and solemn 
 ordeal of the Presbyterial Examination was approach- 
 ing. In 1812 there was little of that machinery of edu- 
 cation made universal in later times, which was not in 
 every Scottish parish already a thing of use and wont, 
 familiar for generations. In the rudest northern wild 
 education was practically compulsory made so by pub- 
 lic opinion and the Kirk Session, rooted in John Knox 
 and the centuries. Only a few such waifs and strays as 
 Daid the Deil were able to escape, and they only partially. 
 Indeed they usually attended school of their own accord, 
 because it was the most amusing place to be in. Their 
 fees, such as they were, were paid by the Session out of 
 the parish poor-box. Thus equipped, with a long start 
 over his untaught neighbours, the Scot went forth to pos- 
 sess the earth. 
 
 No government inspector, in the chill far-removed 
 pomp of an Oxford degree, came to damn with faint 
 praise the work of a year. But instead, far more awful, 
 vaguely connected indeed with the terrors of Sinai and 
 more immediately with the word-for-word repetition of 
 the Shorter Catechism, the Presbytery, ministers from 
 all the surrounding parishes to the number of a dozen, 
 duly constituted for the purpose, came together to ex- 
 amine each school within the bounds. 
 
 The notice of the coming visitation had reached 
 Lowran, and Adora, conscious that there might arise 
 some objection to her father as old or infirm, or perhaps 
 fearing also the whispers as to his failings, laboured all 
 day and far indeed into the gloom of the winter after- 
 noons to bring on the backward children. 
 
 It was to her that most of the labour of the school now 
 fell. Her father indeed cared for little but his few 
 "Latiners," or "humaners," as they were popularly called. 
 He would keep the class on its legs for hours at a time, 
 reading his favourite authors or correcting their stumbling 
 
THE DARK COMPANION 169 
 
 translations with gentle patience. It was with the utmost 
 difficulty that his daughter could get him to take another 
 class, and then he was only persuaded to lay aside his 
 favourites because some of the elder "humaners" insisted 
 upon the necessity of learning something else besides 
 Livy and Virgil, in order to measure fields and hoe 
 turnips. 
 
 But after the middle of the afternoon it became quite 
 impossible to retain the Dominie's wandering attention. 
 So Adora was in the habit of sending him to the "ben" 
 or parlour room of the schoolhouse, there installing him 
 on the sofa with a checked plaid over his feet, and so 
 returning to her classes. When at last she came in 
 fagged with the long dull wrestle of the school, the close 
 atmosphere, and that steady grit of discipline which, in 
 the long run, is more wearing than any kind of labour in 
 the world, she would find him with Sandy Ewan, a little 
 flushed but calmly talking and munching peppermint 
 balls. 
 
 "Ah," she thought as she went out, "that is one more 
 proof how changed my father is. He takes up again the 
 habits of a child." 
 
 And for the first time Adora Gracie felt the need of 
 some one to speak to no, not Aline some one she did 
 not know who some one better and stronger than she 
 herself. For, with a father little better than a babe, the 
 girl of the schoolhouse was indeed alone in the world. 
 Her lovers? Marriage? Yes, of course, Adora thought 
 of such things. But somehow that was not what she 
 wanted at present. One steadfast, plain-sailing friend 
 who would not begin to talk about her eyes so soon as 
 they were left alone together was there any such on 
 the earth? She had not found him, at all events. Even 
 Strong Mac left much to be desired though certainly 
 latterly and here she smiled. Then she wondered what 
 had come over the boy. And all suddenly her heart smote 
 her, that she had even for a moment forgotten the thing 
 which had befallen him. 
 
170 STRONG MAC 
 
 As for Sandy Ewan, Adora was more than ever con- 
 vinced that he had been, partially at least, misjudged. 
 With herself he never presumed upon his favour with her 
 father. The utmost deference, the most perfect consid- 
 eration, characterised his relations with the schoolhouse. 
 He brought the latest and most hopeful news of Roy, 
 together with little presents of books and recent maga- 
 zines for her father and once, at least, the latest number 
 of the Edinburgh Review, but never anything for Adora. 
 All those things assured the girl that Muckle Sandy 
 Ewan was none so black as he had been painted. 
 
 So passed the days till that one which preceded the 
 Presbyterial Examination. In the afternoon Adora, rest- 
 less under the long strain of preparing the unruly boys 
 and careless girls of Lowran to meet the coming ordeal, 
 took advantage of the lengthening days to walk out along 
 the lanes to Aline McQuhirr's cottage. She was the 
 more inclined to this that Mr. Latimer had sent Jonathan 
 Grier to say that he would call and see her father that 
 evening, if it were convenient. Adora had no present 
 desire to meet the young Laird of Lowran. But she 
 recognised that he was honourably keeping to the letter 
 of his engagement. 
 
 At the cot of the old maid with the silver-grey hair 
 she found, as usual, rest, comprehension and low-toned 
 drifts of converse. Aline was a haven of peace to a 
 young girl. She understood without questions and sym- 
 pathised without words. The time sped all too fast. It 
 was six o'clock and still light when Adora stood at the 
 door of the Gairie cottage bidding the old maid good- 
 night. Aline walked a hundred yards up the road with 
 her, Adora's arm about her waist, both of them, as 
 women do on these occasions, regarding the road at their 
 feet. 
 
 "Good-night, Aline!" cried Adora, waving her hand 
 with the quaint upward ripple of her fingers which was 
 natural to her in saying adieu, "I will look over to the 
 back bench for you to-morrow, and it will be a comfort 
 
THE DARK COMPANION 171 
 
 to see you there. You will know that I am thinking of 
 you/' 
 
 She kept looking back, to see the gentle old maid smil- 
 ing pensively Madonna-wise at her from the turn of the 
 road. Then with a certain throb of self-reproach that 
 she had been so long without thinking of Roy in his 
 prison, she remembered that Sidney Latimer would 
 about that time be taking leave of her father. At this 
 she smiled, not without a certain malice at the disappoint- 
 ment which she knew would sadden the brown eyes. 
 She was grieved for Strong Mac. Nothing (save one 
 thing) in all her life had ever given her such pain, but 
 it is too much to ask of nineteen that it should be con- 
 tinuously sorry for long together. That is reserved for 
 the old. 
 
 Then, without a warning, without a moment to be- 
 think herself, Adora found herself face to face with 
 Sandy Ewan. He saluted her courteously, as he stepped 
 out of a thicket by the wayside. There was a brightness 
 about his eyes that lighted up his heavy face. But the 
 underlip protruded more than ever with the obstinacy of 
 a balking horse, and his eyes had a hardness in them 
 which would have put a less suspicious person than 
 Adora Gracie on her guard. 
 
 He held out his hand. Adora gave him hers, mechani- 
 cally. She had not yet recovered from the suddenness 
 of his appearance. He held it longer than he had ever 
 ventured to do before, and Adora, waiting for an expla- 
 nation of his presence, for a moment forgot to reclaim it. 
 For which omission she afterwards blamed herself. 
 Sandy Ewan turned to walk back with her towards the 
 village. 
 
 "I called at the schoolhouse on my way/' he began 
 hurriedly, for Adora had drawn away her hand, "but I 
 found that that insolent hound Latimer there, who 
 would scarcely look at me. So to keep from breaking his 
 neck, and because your father told me where you had 
 gone, I came to see you home !" 
 
172 STRONG MAC 
 
 "I am obliged/' said Adora, coldly, "but you made 
 two mistakes. I did not need any one to meet me, and 
 Mr. Latimer is not an insolent hound. He is a gentle- 
 man, both in deed and in word !" 
 
 Adora felt the stiffness of this speech, but she thought 
 the feathered arrow at the end might hit its mark. How- 
 ever, she did not know Sandy Ewan. He was far too 
 much wrapt in his own self-conceit to feel the girl's 
 irony. He only laughed a little in a self-satisfied way. 
 
 "Ah," he said, "then you have changed your mind 
 about him also !" 
 
 "I am far from understanding what you mean!" said 
 Adora. 
 
 "The folk are saying in the parish that once upon a 
 time you forbade him your father's house!" 
 
 "I did not " began the girl. At the sound of the 
 words of denial she stopped. Then hastily regaining her 
 composure, she added, "or if I did, it was no more than 
 I have said to others who have not his excuse !" 
 
 "And what might his excuse be?" said Sandy Ewan, 
 scornfully. 
 
 "That he lives all alone in a great house with two old 
 women !" 
 
 "One of them his mother," said Sandy, laughing. 
 "You forget I also am an orphan, yet you have no pity 
 for me." 
 
 "It were better that you would take pity on yourself 
 and on others, Alexander Ewan, if all tales be true!" 
 said Adora, sharply. 
 
 For in 1812 it was permitted to young persons to 
 know more than they are supposed to be familiar with in 
 these later decades. Sandy Ewan and his deeds were not 
 of an odour fragrant in the nostrils of his countrywomen. 
 He did not come into Aline's door, and it was only 
 Adora's consideration for her father, together with her 
 own careless confidence and self-reliance, that permitted 
 him the entry of the schoolhouse. 
 
 "Ah," said Muckle Sandy, mournfully, "I am not the 
 
THE DARK COMPANION 173 
 
 only innocent person who has been maligned. Evil 
 tongues are many. And so far as you are concerned, Mis- 
 tress Adora, I cannot call to mind that I have acted or 
 spoken otherwise than as every man has a right to do who 
 truly loves a woman!" 
 
 A little thrill of compunction came over the girl. It 
 was true she knew it by experience there were many 
 evil speakers. Perhaps she had believed too hastily. She 
 reached out her hand. 
 
 "I am sorry !" she said. 
 
 Sandy Ewan, being crass after his kind, took this for 
 encouragement, and at once plunged blindly forward. 
 
 " Adora/' he said, "I cannot live without you. I tell 
 you again I have tried and I cannot. I never thought to 
 crave on any woman," he added, "or to offer twice what 
 many would be proud to have one chance of !" 
 
 "Sandy Ewan," interrupted Adora, "I have already 
 answered you once. What is the use of giving us both 
 all the pain over again. You asked me to marry you. I 
 told you plainly that I never could " 
 
 "But you told me, too, that you did not love any other 
 man!" 
 
 "You asked the question which always deserves an 
 honest answer from every woman. I told you as kindly 
 as I was able, that it could never be " 
 
 "But you would not tell me why," urged Sandy Ewan, 
 endeavouring to take the girl's hand. "What is your ob- 
 jection to me? What is the fault? Speak out. I can 
 amend as well as any " 
 
 "It is better not to call names," said Adora, quite 
 gently, "else perhaps this time I might have to answer 
 you unkindly which, since you have been so patient 
 with my father, I should be very loath to do !" 
 
 "Is not that in itself a reason," he persisted, with a 
 sudden access of confidence, "a reason why you should 
 marry me, Dora? I have your father's good-will per- 
 haps more than that. He wishes what I wish. I cannot 
 then be so bad so unworthy. He needs someone to 
 
174 STRONG MAC 
 
 look after him someone not a girl. I could give both of 
 you a good home and many comforts. I could insure 
 your father's happiness, and give my life to satisfy your 
 every wish. Will you not think of it, Dora ?" 
 
 The girl shook her head sadly. For once it appeared 
 to her that Sandy Ewan was sincere. He loved Adora 
 Gracie, and he pled his cause according to his nature with 
 what of eloquence was in him. He had these things to 
 give, and what he said was true. Many a woman of far 
 higher rank than a village dominie's daughter would 
 have been glad to share her lot with the young Laird of 
 Boreland. 
 
 "I am more than sorry," she said, gently, laying her 
 hand on his arm, "but I cannot love you. Perhaps I am 
 not made for love. You spoke of Roy McCulloch, but 
 he is not the obstacle to what you wish the obstacle is 
 that I would rather work in your fields for a day's wage 
 than marry a man I do not love. And I can never love 
 you, Sandy!" 
 
 It was well and gently said, but the spirit of it was lost 
 upon the man before her. In an instant the tiger nature 
 flared up within him. He flung off the appeal of her 
 hand with brutal impatience. 
 
 "That and worse than that is what you will come 
 to !" he cried. "I shall live to see it. Aye, perhaps sooner 
 than you think I shall see you flung to the door, as the 
 dirt beneath my feet. I have no more to say to you, now 
 or ever. But look to yourself, Mistress Gracie you 
 have spurned me, slighted me for a poacher and a sheep- 
 stealer that shall yet hang on the scaffold. Say what you 
 like, Roy McCulloch is the reason. So look to yourself, 
 madam. Alexander Ewan has a long arm. And let me 
 tell you, he will strike you in the place where you will 
 feel it most, and make you so that you will never wish 
 to lift up your head in the world more!" 
 
 And leaving these words behind him as a farewell, he 
 leaped over the dyke and disappeared with swift strides 
 into the Lowran woods. 
 
' ' I SHALL SEE YOU FLUNG TO THE DOOR, AS THE DIRT 
 BENEATH MY FEET.' " 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 AN HIGH DAY IN LOWRAN. 
 
 THE morn of the great day dawned calm and clear. 
 The mothers of all Lowran hurried over their own matuti- 
 nal use-and-wont, that they might wash and brush and 
 deck the children whom Providence and their experience 
 of the married state had provided them with. By eight 
 o'clock the entire population under the age of twelve 
 presented to the casual eye a red and scurfy appearance, 
 the effect of vigorous maternal handling of the coarse 
 roller-towel which hung behind every kitchen door. On 
 all other days of the year the forth-going scholars of 
 Dominie Gracie were permitted to do their own washing, 
 only in very particular cases having to undergo a mater- 
 nal inspection, more or less cursory, according to the 
 work in hand. But this one morning the axe was laid to 
 the root of the tree. Nothing was left to the imagination. 
 Male and female after its kind the youth of Lowran was 
 not only washed it was scoured ! 
 
 Nevertheless, in the bosoms of the scholars abode 
 abounding bliss. The booby was as happy as the dux. 
 The gay ribbons of the girls, the tight breeches of the 
 boys, proclaimed holiday even more than the week's ces- 
 sation of school, which (by some law of the Mede and the 
 Persian) was the reward of a well-sustained examina- 
 tion. The feeling of Sunday clothes upon a day not 
 Sunday turned the most blase heart topsy-turvy. In shy 
 potato patches at the back of dykes, round the back of the 
 schoolhouse, where one could not be seen from the win- 
 dows of Lowran, little groups of boys were busy practis- 
 
176 STRONG MAC 
 
 ing jumping. It is a doubtful pleasure and unthankful to 
 jump in tight boots. You cannot jump nearly as far as 
 on ordinary occasions. But it felt so exactly like Sab- 
 bath-breaking and blasphemy as to send thrills of delight 
 through every boyish bosom. 
 
 Still further afield the seniors of the school, early at- 
 tired without domestic interference, made their peculiar 
 arrangements. For them it was the Day-Without-Preju- 
 dice. If on any other day in the year a boy of Lowran 
 school was known to go for a walk with a girl thereof, he 
 had, ipso facto, committed the unpardonable sin. He 
 was hooted at, jeered at, made fair and unfair game of 
 as a patent disgrace to the community. Such was the 
 boy's fate. As for the girl, it wa3 understood (Adora 
 Gracie being excepted) that she was a poor thing, ever 
 ready to pick up whatever orts might fall from any table 
 masculine. 
 
 Of course, as above noted, Adora was different; so 
 much was admitted on all sides. In fact, she could hardly 
 be called a mere girl. Why, she would give the biggest 
 boy in the school a "ring" on the side of the head as soon 
 as look at him. For thus did she uphold the dignity of 
 her sex, and all womankind was in a way accounted 
 blessed because of her. At least, a certain possible 
 utility came to be admitted on their account. 
 
 The "examination walk" was arranged to take place 
 during certain hours when the assembled presbytery was 
 employed in torturing the junior classes. At this time 
 the seniors of both sexes were left to the freedom of their 
 own wills. And their will it was to take a walk. Half 
 a mile out of the village the boys made up on the girls, all 
 strolling and endeavouring vainly to look unconscious. 
 Every Jack went straight to the Jill of his previous 
 arrangement, took her hand, and set off with her through 
 lanes and byepaths till there was presented to them a 
 spot sufficiently retired for the joint consumption of the 
 statutory stick of yellow toffy. The swain extracted it 
 out of his trouser pocket for the purpose. This idyll was 
 
AN HIGH DAY IN LOWRAN 177 
 
 held to constitute a solemn bond for the same day next 
 year, but the validity of the vow was broken by the least 
 intermediate reference to it on either side. If Jack en- 
 countered Jill in the playground next day, he must of 
 necessity put out his tongue at her, or even fling a stone at 
 her. Etiquette so compelled him, and none was strong 
 enough to break it. Sometimes, though not often, these 
 days of irregular Valentine-choosing overcarried the years 
 and ended in a but-and-ben together, from which in due 
 time other bairns went forth to suck "gundy" at dyke- 
 backs with the Chosen of the Heart. At any rate, the 
 function was a high mystery, strictly confined to the 
 senior classes, not to be spoken of on the morrow even 
 to the temporary Nearest-and-Dearest, not to be made a 
 subject of ridicule, and, in fact, to be emerged from with- 
 out prejudice on either side. 
 
 Consequently the excitement of being chosen caused all 
 the senior girls to look forward to examination time 
 from afar, and as each Presbytery Day drew near Char- 
 lotte Webster regretted that she was no more a scholar at 
 Lowran school. She even began to question within her- 
 self whether a knowledge of Latin and algebra were not 
 necessary to complete the education of every well-bred 
 young woman of twenty. 
 
 And the presbytery? A great mystery abides in the 
 word as well as in the thing. Why the mere fact of sit- 
 ting in a chamber apart and calling one man "Modera- 
 tor" and another "Clerk" should transform a score or so 
 of honest friendly gentlemen into a set of carping, jeal- 
 ously-inclined fault-finders, the joy of the scoffer and a 
 terror to every peaceable lay Christian, has never yet 
 been made out. And, mark you, this demoniac posses- 
 sion only lasts so long as the actual official "sederunt" 
 continues. 
 
 As the ministerial gigs arrived in Lowran, they dis- 
 gorged, as a general rule, two worthy gentlemen, grow- 
 ing a little portly indeed (for teinds were teinds in those 
 years) who stood in the yard of Lucky Greentree's 
 
178 STRONG MAC 
 
 change-house talking amiably with their fellows. To 
 appearance wrath and war were not in all their thoughts. 
 The jest clerical, a rare vintage which does not bear 
 transportation, circulated freely till every countenance 
 broadened and shone. 
 
 Yet no sooner were these same men "constituted" for 
 the transaction of private business in Dr. Meiklewham's 
 study, than lo! they were at each others' throats. It 
 could not be the influence of this place of meeting. Any- 
 thing more peaceable than Cyrus Meiklewham's library 
 could not well be imagined. The fathers of the church 
 stood all about in the original Greek. Somnolence was 
 in their vellum backs. Their sides were embossed like 
 targes. Their leaves dwelt unstirred for generations. 
 Even more recent controversialists slumbered peaceably 
 together. The same dust covered Calvin and Turretin, 
 Law and Hoadly, Bluidy Mackenzie and the pamphlets 
 of Shields and McWard. 
 
 Yet not even at Geneva in the high days was "priest" 
 ever writ more large than in the minister of Lowran's 
 study, and upon the assembled presbyters of the eccle- 
 siastical tribunal of St. Cuthbertstown. Nor was the 
 particular subject of their deliberations to blame for the 
 sounds of war that arose. The presbytery of St. Cuth- 
 bertstown could disagree about anything the time of a 
 pastoral "veesitation," the wording of a phrase in the min- 
 utes, the date of a "Thanksgiving Day" for the purpose of 
 calling the attention of the Almighty to the merits of 
 H. R. H. the Prince Regent and "the recent marvellous 
 successes which has attended our arms both by land and 
 sea." The mere raw material of a battle did not matter. 
 The fight was the thing. 
 
 For instance, no quieter man ever droned a sermon 
 than Mr. Gilbert Leng, minister of the metropresbyterial 
 charge of St. Cuthbertstown. His own congregation had 
 slept under him for twenty years with comfort and profit. 
 But in the presbytery, as soon as the last words of the 
 Moderator's opening prayer were out of his mouth, the 
 
AN HIGH DAY IN LOWRAN 179 
 
 hair on the head of the minister of St. Cuthbertstown 
 began to stand erect upon his head. His eyes sparkled 
 as he recalled a grievance and lo! in a moment he had 
 launched himself at his brethren. 
 
 Sober, kindly, unimaginative, undiligent, easily influ- 
 enced, Dr. Cyrus Meiklewham (who had been made a 
 D.D. long ago by an ancient university because his 
 father, an eminent townsman, kept pestering the Pro- 
 fessor of Divinity about the matter, spoiling his driving 
 upon the golf links) had a difficult team to control that 
 high day in early summer when chairs were brought 
 from all over the house, even from the confines of the 
 back kitchen, to seat the brethren of the court. Mean- 
 while Hope Meiklewham took her afternoon meal as she 
 sat dangling her legs over the edge of the kitchen table 
 and, somewhat imaginatively, enlightened Bet Conchar, 
 the manse lass, as to the peculiarities of ministers. 
 
 "Save us, Mistress Howp," cried Bet with her hands 
 held up in horror, "and do ye really mean to tell me that 
 Maister Kidston o' Da'beattie went sae far as to raise his 
 wife oot o' her warm bed at three in the mornin' to hear 
 him deliver a' ower again his speech at the Assembly?" 
 
 "Yes, that he did/' asseverated the young romancer, 
 watching the firelight glittering on her silver shoe 
 buckles, "and nothing would content him but that Mrs. 
 Kidston must put on her best black silk and her bead 
 cap, and sit on the sofa with her hands reverently folded 
 at three on a frosty morning !" 
 
 "For me, I wad hae seen him weel, in a warmer bit 
 first !" said Bet, with unction. 
 
 Thus emboldened, Hope Meiklewham took a bolder 
 flight. 
 
 "And he stamped on the floor with his umbrella, just 
 as he had done in Edinburgh. And whiles he even called 
 her "Moderator!" 
 
 "By my faith as an innocent woman, but I wad hae 
 moderated him," said Bess, fingering the rolling pin 
 affectionately as she spoke. 
 
i8o STRONG MAC 
 
 She inclined her ear to the noise upstairs from the 
 doctor's study. It came in fitful gusts like a Hogmanay 
 wind blowing up out of the pit of Solway. 
 
 "They're at it!" said Hope, solemnly, "I am none so 
 sure but what they will brain my father ! He's clerk, ye 
 ken, and if anything goes wrong, they blame him for it. 
 He gets twenty pounds in the year for that !" 
 
 "What?" cried Bet Conchar, to whom Doctor Meikle- 
 wham was as a god "but ye are jokin', Mistress Howp. 
 Gin I thocht they wad lay finger on the maister fegs I 
 wad gang up amang them wi' this (indicating the roll- 
 ing pin) and gar their harns splatter on the wa'!" 
 
 Presently the tumult stilled itself for a moment and 
 Bet drew a long breath. She was preparing the dinner 
 the great Presbyterial dinner to be partaken of in the 
 manse after the examination was completed at the school- 
 house. Hope was busy peeling potatoes and encourag- 
 ing Bet Conchar with tales of how much each minister 
 could eat. 
 
 "There's Blayne of Crooked Yetts," she said, vera- 
 ciously, "he has eighteen of a family, and the poor man 
 hardly ever gets a bite for himself. For, of course, he has 
 to carve for the lot cut up the meat, that is and long 
 before he has Number Eighteen's plate filled, Numbers 
 One, Two and Three up to Ten are backing in their carts 
 for more. They say it's a good dozen years since he tasted 
 flesh meat in his own house. And that makes him fear- 
 ful hungersome when he takes his dinner from home." 
 
 "Miss Howp," cried Bet, "d'ye think I hae eneuch in 
 the hoose to serve them? If there shouldna be, what a 
 shame an' disgrace to the manse o' Lowran and the 
 Laird himsel' comin' as weel !" 
 
 "Oh, him!" said Hope Meiklewham, "that signifies 
 little ! He's in love, and folk in love never have big appe- 
 tites." 
 
 "Fegs, an' that's as true a word as ever ye spak', Miss 
 Howp ! For I mind me when my ain brither Bauldy was 
 in love wi' Babbie Mulfeather up at the Tippenny, he 
 
AN HIGH DAY IN LOWRAN 181 
 
 had hardly care to pick a bite. And, faith, after he had 
 been marriet a year or twa, what wi' weans an' sic' like 
 truck, deil a bite was there for him to pick !" 
 
 The girl threw a potato peeling over her head and 
 laughed at Bauldy. 
 
 "And what's a Moderator, Miss Howp?" the manse 
 lass went on, after a pause to hang a broth pot one link 
 higher over the fire. 
 
 "Oh," said the truthful Hope, "it's just one of them- 
 selves that they put in a chair for the rest to rage at!" 
 
 "And what for does he let them?" 
 
 "Because," replied the ready Hope, "it's his turn, ye 
 see like Blind Man's Buff or Cross Tig !" 
 
 "And wha's Moderator the day?" asked Bet, who was 
 always interested about ministers. It was the first time 
 the presbytery had visited Lowran in her reign. 
 
 "It's wee Amos Peerie from Beeswing," said Hope, 
 "and that's the reason they are raging like young bulls 
 in cleg-time! If it had been Baillie of Hardhills, they 
 would have been as quiet as mice when pussy is at the 
 hole mouth." 
 
 "What," cried Bet, "yon muckle reid-faced man, wi' 
 the voice that wad cry, 'Hurley' to a coo on the tap o' 
 Criffel him that askit for a glass o' brandy afore he 
 preached at the Niffertoon Communion?" 
 
 "The same," said Hope; "it was his wife that pulled 
 all the leaves off her gooseberry bushes to keep the cater- 
 pillars from eating the berries. But after her trouble 
 she got none, for they all withered in the sun and fell off." 
 
 "Heard ye ever the like o' that?" cried the maid. "It 
 surely doesna tak' a heap o' sense to be a minister's wife. 
 I ken better nor that mysel', an' I dinna set up for bein' 
 ocht oot o' the common, either!" 
 
 Hope Meiklewham continued her delusive catalogue. 
 
 "And there's Colvin of Sprose that preaches in black 
 gloves and used aye to put them on in the pulpit to show 
 how daintily he could fit on the finger tips, till one day 
 his son Chairlie half-drowned some wasps in treacle-ale, 
 
182 STRONG MAC 
 
 and left them to come to themselves in his father's 
 preaching gloves " 
 
 "Oh, the misleart vaigabond!" cried Bet Conchar, "I 
 howp his faither warmed him for that !" 
 
 "And then there's Peter Grewlie of Rerwick that 
 preaches other folks' sermons for his own " 
 
 "Hoo do they ken that?" demanded Bet, who had a 
 weakness for the cloth, and did not like to hear it evil 
 spoken of. 
 
 "Because the sermons are that dreadful deep, and on 
 Monday he can't even remember the heads and particu- 
 lars whiles not even the text !" 
 
 "Losh !" said Bet, "I wad never have thought on that ! 
 There maun be awsome clever folk in his pairish." 
 
 "And there's Cummunion Taggart, that gangs to so 
 many Sacraments that he has not been seen in his own 
 pairish except at pig-killing time for twenty years !" 
 
 "That'll do, Miss Howp ! and dinna eat a' the bakin' 
 apples!'' said Bet Conchar, the limit of whose credulity 
 had at last been reached. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 COUNTER-STROKE TREACHEROUS. 
 
 IN the school of Lowran there was a waiting hush a 
 perfect ache of well-dressed silence. The only sound 
 was the uneasy scuffling among the boys produced by the 
 effort of sitting still in unaccustomed Sunday clothes. 
 The girls on the other hand fairly beamed and bloomed. 
 So much so that Daid the Deil, now grown one of the 
 seniors of the school and clad in a cast-off coat of Strong 
 Mac's, which fitted him like a blanket, confided to a 
 neighbour, "Lord, Jock, look at Ag Grier an' May Bryd- 
 son, ye wad never think to look at them, that we threw 
 them baith i' the mill-lade yestreen for stealin' oor bools 
 (marbles). I declare they are like paycocks an' cherry- 
 feems !" 
 
 "Cherybims, ye stookie!" said Dan Sorby, his better- 
 informed neighbour. "Ag Grier's precious little like a 
 cherybim na, nor a seryphim either. She's ower fat! 
 Gin she had wings the size o' a barn door, they wad 
 never flap her up to the riggin' o' oor byre let alane to 
 heeven!" 
 
 But the awful moment came at last when the Presby- 
 tery were to enter. They shook hands oh, how conde- 
 scendingly, with the Dominie, who welcomed them at the 
 door. Some of the younger presently glanced across at 
 Adora, of whose reputation for beauty and wit they had 
 heard and resolved to be present at the examination of 
 the junior classes. 
 
 To most of the children the Presbyterian Examination 
 Day was one of mingled fear and elation. They must 
 
184 STRONG MAC 
 
 read and cypher and repeat the Catechism in the presence 
 of those twelve august black-coated men, of whom they 
 only saw a single one all the rest of the year and he 
 even, apparent to them mostly on Sundays, speaking in- 
 comprehensible things and giving out recondite passages 
 of Scripture, which they had to find in haste lest the 
 lightnings of Sinai should blast the laggard. 
 
 To Adora the occasion was one of fear only, not lest 
 the fire should try her own work of what sort it was, but 
 for a reason which we know very well. 
 
 As for the Presbytery, the members thereof doubtless 
 felt within them the pride of place, as they sat and 
 listened to loud "gollering" Baillie of Hardhills putting 
 the questions which he did till it came to the classics, 
 when, feeling a little husky, he surrendered his part to 
 the quiet little Moderator, who was a classical scholar, 
 and cooed over the "humaners" as if he loved them 
 which indeed he did. It was Strong Mac who in his 
 time had found out the "way to work Wee Peerie," which 
 had since become a tradition in the school. This was the 
 way of an examinee with Peerie the Small : Whenever 
 a question was asked beyond the comprehension of the 
 class, it was the duty of the boy who had been last under 
 fire to interrupt with a request for explanation based 
 upon the portion just traversed. As thus "If ye please, 
 sir, what did ye say was the richt meanin' o' that last 
 word?" 
 
 All then made ready to take notes with their pencils 
 of the wisdom about to fall from Wee Peerie's lips. And 
 before the postponed "puzzler" was reached it had been 
 solved by reference to the class lexicon, or, more simply, 
 by telegraph through the girls' benches at the end of 
 which sat Adora. Or, most probably, Wee Peerie had 
 forgotten all about it, and once more the country was 
 saved. 
 
 Still on the whole, though many of the ministers were 
 almost entirely silent, leaving the actual examination to a 
 few of the old practised hands, the Presbytery greatly en- 
 
COUNTER-STROKE TREACHEROUS 185 
 
 joyed these days. There was the appetising wrangle at the 
 "private meeting," the long sunning in their own gran- 
 deur before the eyes of the assembled parentage of 
 Lowran, the quiet refreshful jest between times, above 
 all, the jovial dinner at the close, after the Dominie had 
 been complimented and sped upon his way for another 
 year. 
 
 As for Donald Gracie, he had doubtless strange 
 thoughts in his soul. None knew better than the Domi- 
 nie that he was growing past his work that of a 
 truth, he did not do it. His daughter alone kept him 
 from being found out. Save in the "humaner" classes, 
 there was indeed no work of his to be examined that day. 
 Baillie of Hardhills even hinted to him that it was time 
 to be setting his staff in the chimney corner and bethink- 
 ing him of his latter end. Donald Gracie knew well 
 what that meant. Had not Baillie a nephew, a certain 
 "stickit minister," who would be glad to succeed to the 
 comfortable parochial emoluments of Lowran? Further- 
 more, it was well known that Baillie of Hardhills could do 
 anything with good easy Dr. Meiklewham, the parish 
 minister of Lowran. Was it this reflection which made 
 the old man sit so silent and distrait in his little desk 
 while the Presbytery (an appalling circle of black silk 
 stockings and silver-buckled shoes, as seen by the infant 
 classes) listened with such apparent intentness to the 
 recitations of the seniors ? 
 
 Something of the kind was certainly present in Donald 
 Grade's mind, but more persistent still was the thought 
 that he might be unable to see Sandy Ewan that day 
 in private, that is. For the visit of his formerly despised 
 scholar had, sadly enough, grown necessary to him. 
 Why was Adora so hard? Had he ever transgressed or 
 broken his word since, that is, the time when he had 
 made that solemn promise on his knees? There was* 
 surely a medium between .... that which had been 
 and depriving an old frail man of what was as necessary 
 to him as his life ! How much better a man could under- 
 
i86 STRONG MAC 
 
 stand these things ! Ah, yes, there were many who spoke 
 against the young farmer of Boreland. Adora herself 
 did not wish to hear his name but what a friend had not 
 Alexander Ewan been to him during these last months !" 
 
 Ah, what a friend indeed! 
 
 The crowded hours of the great day passed in a sort 
 of palpitating but suppressed excitement. The Presby- 
 tery withdrew for a few minutes into the schoolhouse, 
 which they filled almost to the door. Here they partook 
 of Adora's dish of tea (Aline's gift), of her own beauti- 
 ful wheaten scones, of oat cakes, crisp and clean-tasting, 
 of jams and jellies, cool and fragrant, while the Dominie 
 closely watched by Baillie of Hardhills, alternately eyed 
 a certain locked cupboard of black oak, of which his 
 daughter kept the key, and moved uneasily about in the 
 vicinity of the window, looking out for Sandy Ewan. 
 
 Slightly weary, but in more amiable mood, the Presby- 
 tery returned to its duties. The Mothers in Israel sat in 
 rows, stiff and indefatigable, waiting to see how a 
 particular son of promise would acquit himself before his 
 judges. The junior classes, Adora's special care, now 
 passed in review. Baillie of Hardhills was always pecu- 
 liarly terrible at this stage. His loud voice was so intimi- 
 dating that their very knees knocked together. And 
 Mary Adamson, Adora's pet pupil, who trampled 
 Effectual Calling under her feet and knew all the laby- 
 rinthine turnings of the Commandments, even to the 
 "Reasons Annexed," grew so frightened when the in- 
 quisitor suddenly demanded of her "What is the Chief 
 End of Man?" that the well-known words departed from- 
 her, and she stood dumb and trembling. But Adora, 
 taking advantage of the teacher's ultimate privilege, put 
 the question over again, adding, "And can you give the 
 scriptural proofs as well?" Upon which the fountains 
 of Mary's deep were broken up, and even Baillie of 
 Hardhills had no more terrors for her. 
 
 To the New Testament class succeeded in descending 
 order the "Tenpenny" to the "Tenpenny" the "Six- 
 
COUNTER-STROKE TREACHEROUS 187 
 
 penny." The final "Tippenny" was in sight, when Adora, 
 suddenly looking up from her preoccupation, found that 
 her father was not in the school. For a while she did not 
 become uneasy. He had gone out, she thought, overcome 
 by the natural fatigues of the day, to rest himself a little 
 on his bed. She remembered with thankfulness that she 
 had expressly bidden him to do so if he should feel tired. 
 
 But three o'clock, the hour of golden speech, was at 
 hand. The seniors came back, braving in unashamed 
 pairs the village street after their "Without Prejudice" 
 walk. Parents and guardians dropping in belated, 
 crowded more densely the wall spaces allotted to them. 
 Mr. Sidney Latimer himself occupied, as principal heri- 
 tor of the parish, a place among the brethren of the Pres- 
 bytery. 
 
 The reverend court grew visibly more expansive. Din- 
 ner was now well within sight. Dr. Meiklewham had 
 been seen to send off a message to his daughter, and 
 every one knew that at the manse they were getting ready 
 to serve the broth. Hardhills had it on good authority 
 that there were two chucky hens in it. All was ready. 
 The Presbytery, sharp-set by a long day of question and 
 answer, was ready also. 
 
 But still there was no Dominie ! 
 
 For years too numerous to be recalled exactly, it had 
 been the custom of Lowran school that the Dominie, with 
 bent head and a modest demeanour, should stand up in his 
 official desk and listen to the compliments, more or less 
 sincere, which were heaped upon him for his skill. The 
 Presbyterial Chrysostoms recalled the successes of the 
 boys who had already gone to college, the hopes of mag- 
 nificent careers immediately in prospect which had im- 
 pressed the learned court as they listened to David Mc- 
 Robb's remarkable statement (expressed in Latin) that 
 "All Gaul was divided into three parts," or Peter Adair's 
 assertion that he sang concerning "Arms and the Man." 
 
 It was five minutes to three almost time for the com- 
 plimenting to commerce. Thanks to Adora, all had gone 
 
i88 STRONG MAC 
 
 well. Even Baillie of Hardhills, somewhat hostile and 
 inclined to be critical, had noted no greater failing than 
 a slight weakness in the most junior classes as to the 
 exact order of the later kings of Judah and Israel. All 
 the Presbyters were busy composing their perorations, 
 looking at the buckles of their shoes meantime with that 
 condemned-cell expression which such an operation per- 
 formed on a public platform invariably calls up on the 
 most seasoned countenances. 
 
 But still no Dominie. 
 
 The last classes had been sent back, and were settling 
 into their places with little doubtful murmurs of sound, 
 like the clucks and clutterings you may hear from spar- 
 rows nesting under the leaves, or from blackbirds going 
 to roost in the crotch of some fir-tree along the wood 
 edges. 
 
 The afternoon sun shown out golden behind the 
 fathers and brethren, giving each of them an aureole 
 about his head. As a Presbytery they glowed. They 
 also murmured and chuckled. Dr. Meiklewham had sent 
 off a second message. Mr. Peerie, the Moderator, fancy- 
 ing that the time had come, raised himself once to begin 
 his speech: "Mr. Gracie, parents and friends, on this 
 auspicious occasion, when I see around me so many 
 smiling faces, so many youthful pledges of domestic love 
 and affection " 
 
 Then it was suddenly discovered that the Dominie was 
 absent, and the Moderator was abruptly pulled down by 
 the coat-tails. He felt it, because he would have to think 
 of another opening. Then ensued a vague, uneasy pause. 
 A girl of six, in the second row, oppressed by the strain, 
 giggled hysterically, and was choked into silence by 
 means mysterious to any but her most immediate com- 
 panions. 
 
 Adora, anxious lest some accident should have hap- 
 pened to her father, rose to seek him within the house. 
 But before she had time to go into the connecting pas- 
 sage, the outer school entrance was unbarred, a noise was 
 
COUNTER-STROKE TREACHEROUS 189 
 
 heard in the passage where hung the hats and cloaks of 
 the pupils, the latch of the inner door lifted slowly, and 
 the Dominie stumbled rather than walked into the hushed 
 silence of Lowran school. The door shut behind him 
 without visible assistance. 
 
 Thus fell the stroke. 
 
 Adora felt a tingling chill run through her body. 
 She thought she was about to faint. All power departed 
 from her. She could only sit still gazing at her father 
 with vague, fascinated eyes. 
 
 He swayed visibly on his legs, seeming to wonder at 
 the hush. Then he laughed idiotically. 
 
 "Time for the Latin lesson/' he cried, "eh, where's 
 your Virgil, Peter Adair?" 
 
 Then he caught sight of the reverend Presbytery, 
 seated in order twelve in all. He laughed again. 
 
 "Latin Greek ," he cried, passing his finger along 
 the line, "there's not enough of the classics among the 
 lot of you to fill a good-sized nut-shell. There sits 
 Baillie of Hardhills he kens none and never did. He 
 kens about whiskey jars, though. And the doctor, he 
 learned some once, but he has forgotten it soft as por- 
 ridge that head of his a fozy turnip a fozy, fozy 
 turnip ! None of the crew but Wee Peerie could read a 
 page of Virgil without a dozen "maxies" no, not to 
 save their lives !" 
 
 By this time he had reached his desk. Adora recov- 
 ered herself and bounded to his side. Taking him by the 
 sleeve, she urged him to come away out. Sidney Latimer 
 was on the other side. The members of the Presbytery, 
 at first stunned, then deeply insulted, were mostly on 
 their feet. Baillie of Hardhills raised his voice to rebuke 
 the insolence of the Dominie. Kind Dr. Meiklewham 
 had suddenly a grey look on his face. But the voice of 
 the Dominie from the desk rose high above every other 
 sound. 
 
 "An ignorant drunken crew," he cried, "hand and 
 glove with the lairds not a man among ye except the 
 
190 STRONG MAC 
 
 doctor a kind heart the doctor good and sound, all 
 but the head. Preach ! Ye can prate, but never preach. 
 Ye should hear me preach. Never a sleeping e'e in my 
 kirk. There's a box of sermons up the stair, that no man 
 among the lot of ye could ever have laid pen to. And ye 
 will come here condescending to me me that could 
 teach not only the Presbytery but the Synod. It's Mr. 
 Gracie has done well his method of imparting the 
 classics does him credit. The Greek prose was truly 
 remarkable! Devil the syllable ye ken about it except 
 maybe Wee Peerie. Get ye out of my school and never 
 let me see your black backs again carrion crows, birds 
 of ill omen that ye are !" 
 
 ******* 
 
 The insulted Presbytery met over a very silent dinner 
 in the manse, but before a blessing was asked, the case 
 of Donald Gracie, recalcitrant, had been called up and 
 judged. Even the good will of the doctor had not been 
 able to save the habit and repute drunkard. And as for 
 Sidney Latimer, he had no standing in the court. Once 
 again Donald Gracie was suspended Presbyterially this 
 time from all his offices, parish school-mastership, regis- 
 trar-ship, session-clerk-ship, elder-ship. A notice was 
 sent to him ere the meeting broke up that he must quit 
 the school and schoolhouse "so forth and immediately," 
 rendering back to Caesar that which Csesar had given. 
 
 And from the door of Lucky Greentree's public house, 
 Sandy Ewan, suddenly protruding his horse face, hailed 
 and halted Ebenezer Latimer, the minister's man, who 
 had a letter in his hand addressed to "Donald Gracie, 
 late Schoolmaster in the Parish of Lowran, at the school- 
 house there." 
 
 Ebenezer, who had profited aforetime by the hospitali- 
 ties of the young farmer, and hoped to do again, per- 
 mitted him to see the letter and to read its superscription. 
 
 "Notice to quit, eh?" he said, smiling malignantly. 
 
 But as to that, it was not Ebenezer's province to confess 
 himself informed. He only shook his head, took the letter 
 
COUNTER-STROKE TREACHEROUS 191 
 
 out of his patron's hand, and trudged^tolidly on up the 
 street towards the schoolhouse. 
 
 Sandy went within to finish his brandy and water. The 
 Dominie's empty glass was still on the table. The spider 
 had been waiting for the taking of the fly. But the dour 
 brain that lay behind the horse face was still cool and clear, 
 though he had been drinking more or less steadily since 
 10 o'clock in the morning. Sandy Ewan glanced at the 
 old man's empty glass and grinned evilly. 
 
 "Ah, little Dora," he said, "did not I tell you that I 
 should strike where your pride would feel it most !" 
 
 And with a shout down the passage he called to Lucky 
 Greentree that he was ready to pay the score. 
 
 "And I will settle the Dominie's too !" he added, gener- 
 ously, slapping his purse on the table. 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 WHAT DICKIE DICK FOUND ON THE GLEBE ROAD. 
 
 Now the course of St. Cuthbertstown justice was this. 
 The sheriff, good easy man, had committed Roy McCul- 
 loch to the gaol of the county town, and to the common eye 
 that seemed the end of the matter. There Strong Mac 
 must lie till upon the day of solemn assize, he should 
 be transferred to Drumfern, to stand before a jury of his 
 peers, and meet the frown of the terrible Red Judge from 
 Edinburgh. 
 
 But Strong Mac's case was a more than usually serious 
 one. All the papers must go to Edinburgh for the con- 
 sideration of the Crown Council there. Neither the fiscal 
 nor yet the sheriff was capable of deciding to proceed 
 with the charge against Strong Mac. First the lord 
 advocate's deputy and then as a court of final appeal the 
 great man himself, must state whether on the evidence be- 
 fore them Roy should be sent to the assizes on the capital 
 charge. 
 
 The advocate depute, to whom the docuquet was trans- 
 ferred, found nothing directly against Strong Mac, except 
 the fact, in itself sufficiently damnatory, that the sheep 
 skins had been discovered in his father's barn. But then, 
 though there was presumption, no evidence existed as to 
 who had placed them there. Roy had made no apparent 
 profit out of the killings, could have made none, except 
 possibly in the consumption of the flesh, in which case his 
 guilt must have been shared with his father. Nor had 
 the mutton been dried or salted. No inordinate number of 
 mutton hams were found swinging to the baulks of the 
 House of Muir. The McCullochs were in no want of fresh 
 
WHAT DICKIE DICK FOUND 193 
 
 meat, as could easily be shown. There was abundance of 
 smoked venison in their chimney, and a few casks of 
 brandy, probably undutied, lay in their cellar. A sufficient 
 sum stood to Sharon McCulloch's credit in the Bank of 
 Scotland at Drumfern. 
 
 Evidence of motive, therefore, was wanting evidence 
 of fact, weak! No^ said the advocate, there was not 
 enough of general suspicion or circumstantial evidence to 
 send the young man before the assizes. It was of no use 
 remitting him back to St. Cuthbertstown. The substitute 
 was one fool the sheriff principal another! Send them 
 word to let the lad go ! 
 
 Thus rapidly and picturesquely the lord advocate did 
 justice, when, at his beautiful hillside residence, his de- 
 pute laid the case before him. 
 
 Which word travelling down to St. Cuthbertstown, 
 Strong Mac with a sudden dazing of his faculties, found 
 himself free. His cell in the old jail had been both dusky 
 and dirty, and it seemed as if he had been forgotten as 
 if he must lie there for ever. 
 
 Roy stepped out into the clear light of early afternoon. 
 The young summer was already sprinkling the twigs of 
 the ashes with dainty green butterflies. Rosettes were be- 
 ginning to dangle from the larches along the plantation 
 edges. Outside the gaol door Strong Mac stood blinking 
 like an owl turned out into the daylight. He did not know 
 any one in St. Cuthbertstown, and had no desire to stay 
 there. So after a few minutes of hesitation he struck 
 through the narrow bye-streets, not because of the quiet 
 (for all streets are quiet in St. Cuthbertstown) but from 
 an instinct of shame. He seemed unclean to himself. 
 There was a vague offence, as of gaol fever, or worse, 
 about his clothing. He took his way up the riverside till, 
 arrived at a sheltered pool, he stripped, and plunged into 
 the cool brown water. Then after submitting it to careful 
 and prolonged consideration, he resumed his apparel. His 
 self-respect was thereby somewhat recovered. At least he 
 knew that he was clean. 
 
194 STRONG MAC 
 
 Strong Mac looked down at his clothes. They were 
 worn, shabby, tainted with the disgrace of the place where 
 he had lain. No, he was not fit to appear before her. He 
 knew that. Nevertheless, since she had seen his shame 
 that night when they took him, she also should be the first 
 in Lowran to hear of his rehabilitation. He would go to 
 the schoolhouse. 
 
 It was wonderful how the thought altered him. Dis- 
 grace seemed to fall away from him instantly. His heart 
 exulted that he would see her her, of whom he had had 
 such long thoughts in the prison. He was no more the 
 boy he had been, so he told himself. The new Strong Mac 
 laughed when he remembered that he had once tossed the 
 bar and putted the stone, rejoicing in his own prowess. 
 All that seemed a thing so inconceivably little and useless 
 to him now. But a gate had fallen from its hinges. Strong 
 Mac lifted it with one hand and replaced it. Then he laid 
 his fingers lightly upon the topmost bar and sprang back- 
 wards and forwards over it with the ease of a bird. He 
 caught the branch of a tree with his left hand as high as 
 he could reach, and drew himself up till his chin was over 
 the rough bark. This he did several times, raising and 
 lowering himself. Then he dropped lightly back upon the 
 ground. No, so far as bodily strength went he was still 
 able for anything that might come to him. 
 
 It was already growing dark as he approached Lowran. 
 The very air smelt different to his nostrils as he came over 
 Barstobrick moor. The famous heather of his native 
 parish was not yet in bloom, but the wind across the open 
 sweep of brown moorland, splotched with black where the 
 spring burnings had been allowed to wander, brought the 
 light into his eyes, the colour into his blanched cheeks. 
 
 Yonder in the hollow, nestled behind its dark green plan- 
 tations, lay Lowran. Its "lums" had almost ceased smok- 
 ing when Roy came in sight of it. Ebie Cargen had put 
 out his smiddy fire, and was sitting in the kitchen over his 
 supper when the young man paused on the green brow of 
 the knoll above. It was his instinct to go down and pre- 
 
WHAT DICKIE DICK FOUND 195 
 
 sent himself to Ebie, demanding news of him, as, at least, 
 a man who spoke no He. But another thought came to 
 dominate him rather the return of his first thought. First 
 of all before any one else saw him, he would go to 
 Adora. 
 
 Woodman and hillman as he was, accustomed to the 
 chase of wild things, Strong Mac carried out his intent as 
 silently as the shadow of a cloud passes over a hill. There 
 dark among its tall black pines was the schoolhouse. His 
 heart beat, as it had never done during his oft-repeated ex- 
 aminations before the sheriff. 
 
 He stood for a moment by the wall of the little private 
 garden, separated from it only by the dyke over which 
 he had so often cunningly conveyed cut fire-wood and 
 back-loads of peat. Now both piles seemed particularly 
 low. Roy smiled to himself as he thought that he would 
 not be long in altering that. 
 
 He laid his plaid on the dyke and leaped over. Every- 
 thing was quiet. As usual they would be at the other side 
 of the house, that which fronted towards the high road to 
 Lowran. 
 
 He turned the corner, smiling, expecting to see the light 
 burning in the window of the little parlour, and the 
 shadows of the potted plants making a black pattern on the 
 blinds. It was dark. He looked up to Adora's bedroom. 
 Dark also. He went quickly to the door and knocked. All 
 was silent. He could hear a noise within something like 
 the scutting of a rat among papers. 
 
 He tried the latch. It lifted, but the door did not yield. 
 It was locked. 
 
 Strong Mac stood back. For a long moment he could 
 not think what had happened. Was Adora lost to him? 
 Married? He would have heard of it. Was her father 
 dead ? Some one would surely have sent him word. He 
 went to the window. The white Ayrshire rose had been 
 pulled down by rude hands and trailed along the ground. 
 Torn paper, empty boxes, and bare walls were all that the 
 deepening twilight revealed to him. 
 
196 STRONG MAC 
 
 Roy McCulloch stood a long while under the sough of 
 the trees. He shivered a little after the closeness of the 
 cell. For the wind struck chill out of the north, sharp as 
 the front of the Scottish spring and mournful as its 
 autumn. 
 
 Then there came to him resolve, quick and sudden. 
 
 It was Sidney Latimer who had done this! Either his 
 pleading had been successful and Adora had gone away 
 with him. Or unsuccessful, and this was his revenge. It 
 is curious that, in spite of the quarrel at the smithy, Roy 
 never once thought of Sandy Ewan. The idea that such a 
 man could be anything to Adora Gracie found no lodgment 
 in his heart. But Sidney Latimer was another matter. 
 There was frank republicanism in this young hill-poacher's 
 heart. All men were not born equal, but all good men be- 
 came so. Latimer was the son of one landowner, he of 
 another. That the Laird of Lowran could count a hun- 
 dred acres for each of his father's was nothing to Roy Mc- 
 Culloch. 
 
 He would go to the Great House of Lowran now, as 
 he was. He would speak with Sidney Latimer. As he 
 turned down the little path along which he had so often 
 walked with beating heart, Adora by his side, he saw a 
 figure disengage itself from the gate. Something familiar 
 in the attitude took Strong Mac's eye. He sprang over the 
 dyke, and laid a sufficient retaining hand on the man's 
 shoulder. In another moment Roy found himself face to 
 face with Sidney Latimer. The meeting was unexpected 
 on both sides, and Roy's hand rested a second on the 
 rough tweed collar of the Laird's coat. Then Sidney Lati- 
 mer with a fierce gesture and a backward spring shook 
 himself free. 
 
 "What are you doing here?" he demanded, "I thought 
 you had been elsewhere !" 
 
 "I was coming to seek you, Laird Lowran," said Strong 
 Mac, slowly. His mind was altogether on the thing that 
 held his heart the fear that Adora was lost to him. He 
 had no care for politenesses. 
 
WHAT DICKIE DICK FOUND 197 
 
 "Indeed," said Sidney Latimer, somewhat frigidly, "in 
 what can I assist you ?" 
 
 "I have an interest," Strong Mac spoke steadily and with 
 rigid plainness, "an interest in Mr. Gracie and his 
 daughter. I was about to seek you in order to ask of you 
 what had become of them." 
 
 "And by what right did you suppose that I had any- 
 thing to do with their presence or absence?" demanded 
 Sidney Latimer, fiercely. For the man was before him of 
 whom he had been jealous. Nay, even now his heart re- 
 tained something of its former feeling. It was this man 
 who had brought about his quarrel with Adora. 
 
 But Strong Mac's simple straightforwardness van- 
 quished him. 
 
 "I have indeed no right to suppose anything nor do I," 
 he said, "but I have been . . . where I have heard nothing 
 concerning those dear to me. And I thought that if I 
 could find you, I should hear the truth. It seemed strange 
 to me to come home and find this !" 
 
 "Come with me," said the Laird of Lowran, melting 
 suddenly; "to you it is no stranger than it is to me." 
 
 And passing the porter lodge and walking together 
 through the dark arches of the trees, Roy listened to the 
 story of that which had befallen Adora. Poacher and 
 landowner took counsel together. 
 
 "And the man who did it ?" Roy demanded fiercely, the 
 nails of his fingers crisping into his palms. 
 
 Sidney Latimer laid a restraining hand upon the young 
 man's arm. "Wait," he said, "the thing will come right. 
 I felt as you do at first. But to do as you propose in 
 your heart will not advantage her!" 
 
 Tacitly the two men avoided mentioning the girl's name. 
 But Strong Mac would not be satisfied. 
 
 "No," he said, with a smothered forcefulness, "I will 
 not be content. Tell me was it Sandy Ewan ?" 
 
 The Laird was silent. 
 
 "Then if you will not answer, I take it that Sandy 
 Ewan made the old man drunk and pushed him into the 
 
198 STRONG MAC 
 
 school in order to disgrace his daughter before all the 
 people?" 
 
 "I have only heard such things said," repeated Sidney 
 Latimer, with sorrowful acquiescence, "I do not know !" 
 
 "Ah," said Roy McCulloch, deep in thought. "Then 
 will I go and speak with Sandy Ewan." 
 
 Before he left the gaol he had satisfied himself as to 
 who had laid the information in his own case. He knew 
 or thought he knew by whose orders the sheepskins had 
 been placed in the barn of the House of Muir. There 
 was another question which he had to ask of the young 
 laird, yet more important. 
 
 "Where have they gone?" he demanded of his com- 
 panion, abruptly. 
 
 It was with an equal brusqueness that Sidney Latimer 
 answered, "If I knew that I would not be here ! Have you 
 anything more to ask me ? If not, I bid you good-night !" 
 
 Thus with Sidney Latimer's curt salutation ended the 
 evening of Tuesday, the 3Oth day of April. 
 
 About eleven minutes past six on the morning of Wed- 
 nesday, the first day of May, or rather less than nine hours 
 after Strong Mac had parted with Sidney Latimer under 
 the trees of the avenue which led to Lowran House, one 
 Richard Dickie, known as Dickie Dick, ploughman on the 
 estate of Boreland, going out to his labour, ditching-shovel 
 and pick over his shoulder, came upon sundry curious 
 spots upon the road, irregular in shape. If it had been 
 autumn he would have thought little about the matter. 
 They looked exactly like trampled blackberries, the pur- 
 ple colour fading into black. 
 
 As it was, the intellect of Dickie Dick, never acute at 
 any time, did not attach any particular importance to the 
 marks. Some one had gone that way early carrying a pot 
 of paint. How carelessly he had handled it! Dickie 
 thought it was a strange colour to paint carts or barn- 
 doors. But Dickie Dick's day's work was on his mind, 
 
WHAT DICKIE DICK FOUND 199 
 
 and he would have let the matter of the spots slip but for 
 one circumstance. 
 
 A little further along the road, lying on his back, with 
 his hands gripped full of grass and leaves, the signs of a 
 fierce struggle all about, Richard Dickie found the dead 
 body of his master, Alexander Ewan, with six inches of 
 a steel knife sticking between his shoulder blades. 
 
 As the lightning flashes from the east to the west the 
 news ran across the parish, that between 10 o'clock on 
 Tuesday night and six of Wednesday morning Sandy 
 Ewan had been murdered within a hundred yards of his 
 own new house of Boreland. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 SANDY EWAN'S UNSEEN VISITOR. 
 
 WHAT follows is Dickie Dick's account of the matter 
 not that which he gave to the fiscal, but that which he re- 
 peated times without number to a very large proportion of 
 the inhabitants of Lowran and the neighbourhood, ex- 
 actly in the same words. 
 
 "Ye see, this is what I ken aboot it and Lord be thankit 
 that I ken nae mair. For the pesterfication I hae gotten 
 frae thae lawyer bodies is juist past tellin* and wad hae 
 driven mony a wiser man oot o' his wits !" 
 
 One of the auditors having made an obvious suggestion 
 why this had not taken place, Dickie Dick threatened 
 strong measures. 
 
 "Gin ye gie me ony o' your impidence, Ged Blyth, ye 
 can e'en tell the story yoursel'. Ye may think yoursel' a 
 clever lad, you and them that ken nae better than to laugh 
 at ye. But nane of you fand him but me, and nane o' ye 
 can tell the story but me that is, no as it ought to be 
 
 telled." 
 
 ******* 
 
 "It was this way/' he continued after a pause for 
 apology on one side and pacification on the other, "to begin 
 at the beginnin' and that was the nicht before, the 
 master had been unco dour and girnin' a' day, till, maybes 
 a wee while after nine o'clock when I was helpin' Davie 
 Kirklands, the unmarriet ploughman, to supper the horse, 
 there cam' a cry to us baith to gang into the hoose to 
 Maister Ewan that meenute!" 
 
" * YE CAN E'EN TELL THE STORY YOURSElA 
 
SANDY EWAN'S UNSEEN VISITOR 201 
 
 " 'It'll be to tak' the Bulk !' (to be present at family wor- 
 ship), says Davie Kirklands, lauchin' like. 
 
 " 'Aye, a gye queer Buik it'll be, then !' says I. 'Muckle 
 Sandy doesna trouble the Throne o' Grace verra often !' 
 
 " The mair's the peety/ says Davie (wha is a wee bit 
 o' a professor that is, atween his ploys wi' this lass and 
 that). The mair's the peety/ says he. Tor it brings a 
 blessing on a hoose to hae a bit prayer pitten up at e'en and 
 morn. Forbye, it's a rest frae wark !' 
 
 "And when we gaed up to the big hoose, faith, there 
 were the tumblers laid oot and the packs o' cairds, and the 
 toddy ladles, and certes, Davie Kirklands forgat a* aboot 
 the takkin' o' the Buik, and smacks his lips like ony ither 
 man ! For he thocht that no yin o' us wad gang sober to 
 bed. And that's a treat that doesna come often in the wey 
 o' puir ploomen and ditcher folk like me an' Davie. 
 
 "Ow aye, the maister may hae had his fauts some o' 
 them leeve after him, and some are even auld eneuch to 
 gang to the schule but at hame he was aye couthy and 
 bien wi' the bit dram. It gied a man a fine regairdless cock 
 to his Sunday bonnet to spend a winter aboot the Bore- 
 land. Wae's me it's a' gane ! It's a' by and dune wi' !" 
 
 "Gang on wi' the story? Weel, what else am I doin'? 
 Think ye a man's tongue gangs aye to yae lilt the day by 
 the length, like a mill-happer? And when we were 
 standin' i' the parlour wi' our hats in oor hand, gye 
 sheepish, Sandy orders us to throw them in the corner and 
 sit oor ways doon. And then he opens up his wull wi' us. 
 
 "It seems there was a man comin' to see him that Sandy 
 Ewan was some dootfu' o'. There was nocht by ordinar 
 or curious in that! He had a' sorts and kinds o' ill- 
 dealin's, the maister. Up to the elbows half his time in 
 jukery-packery wark wi' weemen an' horses an' gemlin' 
 (gambling) ! That was the airt o' Sandy Ewan ever since 
 his faither did him the warst service he could by giein' 
 up the ghost and leaving him heir to a' that he possessed. 
 
 "Wha' was the man that was comin' to the Boreland. 
 Aye, ye may weel ask ! Dootless, HIM wha's handiwark 
 
202 STRONG MAC 
 
 lies up in the chaumer yonder. We were no to set e'en on 
 the veesitor though, but to bide in a bedroom brave and 
 handy, if sae be we were cried on. But Sandy Ewan maun 
 hae been feared by ordinar when he sent for twa men frae 
 the stable to help him to pay a man siller. But Davie 
 Kirklands threepit wi' me, 'It will be somebody wha's 
 weemen-folk he has been meddlin' wi/ He will be payin' 
 the cradle stent to keep oot o' the clutches o' the law. He's 
 an awesome man this maister o' oors ! The deil will hae a 
 bonny bargain o' him when he gets him!' 
 
 "This Davie said lichtsomely, as ony o' you micht say 
 it, never thinkin' that the black deil himsel' was oot there 
 on the Glebe Road waitin' at that verra meenit. Had 
 he kenned, Davie michtna hae crawed sae croose. The deil 
 has nippit up better Christians than him mony a time, and 
 aff wi' them in his plaid-neuk to Muckle Hell. 
 
 "Weel, at ony rate, the maister gied us a candle to see 
 by and the feck o' three or fower drams apiece. Then he 
 pitches a pack o' auld worn cairds at us and tells us to be 
 ready when he cried on us the whilk he was only to do 
 gin he had the need. As we were shuttin' the door he 
 promised to thraw oor necks if we stirred or as muckle as 
 looked through the keyhole. We were to bide there, that 
 was a' ! He expectit a man that nicht, a man that micht 
 be friendly and micht no. That was as muckle as was 
 guid for the like o' us to ken. And then he dooble- 
 cursed us richt brisk and sharp but that we were weel 
 used to and minded nocht ava' ! 
 
 "Guess ye hoo we swat there in the inner chaumer, wi' 
 no* a soond in the great muckle hoose forbye the sclaff o' 
 the cairds and whiles the settin' doon o' a glass or the 
 clinkin' it made on the neck o' a bottle when oor hands 
 shook. But for a' oor game, ye may believe that oor lugs 
 were bane-stiff wi' hearkenin' what was gaun on in the 
 room Sandy Ewan caa'd the 'leebrary/ It had a lang new 
 fangled wundow at yae end that opened out like a door 
 a daft-like contrivance that onybody might hae kenned 
 was for nicht-hawk tricks and wad lead to nae guid. 
 
SANDY EWAN'S UNSEEN VISITOR 203 
 
 "After a while we heard twa men speakin' gye an' lood 
 Sandy's voice the loodest. The man maun hae corned 
 through the lang window. For deil a fit did he either 
 come or gang by the door into the passage. I'll swear that 
 Davie's e'e never left the keyhole frae first to last. 
 
 "But we could hear them speakin' an' it was a voice I 
 should hae kenned too, though I couldna juist pit a name 
 to the man that aught it! They werena 'greein' ower 
 weel either, sae Davie an' me keepit a firm haud o' oor 
 dickies, and, lads, for mysel' I wished that there had been 
 a lang French window in the chaumer that we were in. 
 Davie was mair prepared (wi' his ain tale o't) to meet his 
 Maker, sae I wad e'en hae been for lettin' him gang ben 
 and help the maister by himsel' ! 
 
 "But by guid luck we werena askit, either of us. There 
 cam' nae cry oot o' the leebrary. And by and bye the 
 maister comes ben, and orders us baith to oor beds, 
 threepin' that we will be cheatin' him oot o' the wark he 
 was payin' us for, by lyin' snorin' i' the mornin'. 
 
 " 'And see that ye sneck the stable door !' he says as we 
 gaed oot, 'for I'm gaun to gie a bit look roond the hoose 
 mysel', and if I find onything oot o' its place, I'll break 
 your lazy backs i' the mornin' as sure as my name's Sandy 
 Ewan !' 
 
 "And that was the last I heard o' him or saw till 
 steppin' cannily alang the Glebe Road I fand him lyin', 
 half i' the ditch an' half oot, his great braid face turned to 
 the heevens and a knife stickin' to the haft in his bull 
 neck !" 
 
 ******* 
 
 Such was Dickie Dick's tale, as it became stereotyped 
 for general use. And even the trained acumen of the 
 fiscal, who had at last a job to his mind, could make 
 little more of it than this. 
 
 It was evident that the murdered man expected a visitor, 
 whom he had reason to distrust. As a precaution he had 
 brought two of his able-bodied servants to remain within 
 call. But he did not wish them to see the visitor, except in 
 
204 STRONG MAC 
 
 case of an attack. The man came. The meeting passed 
 off without overt hostilities. Indeed, the suspicions of the 
 young farmer had by some means been allayed. For he 
 proposed to go out and lock up the premises, without ask- 
 ing the presence or assistance of the two serving-men. 
 
 Now the fact of Roy McCulloch's release on the after- 
 noon of the same day did not escape the attention of the 
 fiscal. But the young man had been seen bathing in a 
 pool of the river and afterwards crossing the hills in the 
 direction of his father's farm. It could not be supposed 
 that he had had time to go so far out of his way as to the 
 farm of Boreland by ten o'clock the same night. No one 
 had recognised him in the neighbourhood of Lowran, 
 much less in the vicinity of the spot where the murder had 
 been committed. So the sheriff and fiscal, still smarting 
 from the "back-set" administered to them from official 
 headquarters, were rather inclined, while keeping their 
 minds open, to let the young man alone. Besides, in this 
 case, as in the other, an apparent motive was lacking. For 
 Sandy Ewan had not appeared in the informations which 
 had been lodged against Roy McCulloch. It was re- 
 called that he had given evidence with apparent reluc- 
 tance, and as far as possible in favour of the accused. 
 Furthermore he had constantly come and gone to see Mc- 
 Culloch while a prisoner in the gaol of St. Cuthbertstown. 
 
 Nor in the countryside, generally so much better in- 
 formed than officialdom upon such matters, was there any 
 more suspicion. Roy McCulloch had come home. The 
 affair of the sheep-stealing had ended, exactly as every one 
 knew it would. Even the spite of the lairds could not 
 prove guilt where there was none. Whatever the McCul- 
 lochs were (and the parish knew very well all that could 
 be said against them throughout their generations), they 
 were no sheep-stealers. Smugglers, deer-poachers, private 
 distillers, ready for a rough give-and-take with the 
 gaugers or preventive men yes, any or all of these. But 
 slayers of an honest man's sheep no! Such a charge 
 must surely break down. All Lowran knew it would. So 
 
SANDY EWAN'S UNSEEN VISITOR 205 
 
 Roy McCulloch went about undisturbed. He was seen on 
 the hill with his gun, as usual. He was at the market buy- 
 ing and selling as if nothing had happened a market 
 where nobody did anything but talk about the murder of 
 Sandy Ewan, and how the murderer was still at large and 
 likely to be. 
 
 It was to be noticed that on this occasion the farmers 
 did not wait till dusk before ordering their horses at the 
 Commercial and the Cross Keys. Also on an average they 
 drank more by ?. couple of gills. They were earlier in 
 reaching home. If any one asked about the matter, he was 
 told very shortly that "their wives were feared to bide their 
 lane !" For the thought of a secret murderer, lurking red- 
 hand behind a dyke or ready to spring out of a thicket 
 upon the passer-by, has a strange effect upon all the people 
 of a district where such a crime has been committed. 
 
 It was a fine time for love-making. The Lowran lasses 
 would not go to the well without escort, even in broad day- 
 light. The lads had to accompany them in the summer 
 twilight to the ewe-milking at the buchts even across the 
 yard as far as the byre. Old pistols were furbished up 
 that had not been fired since Drumclog. Kate Brydson, 
 putting her fingers out to fasten a window shutter, felt her 
 hand shaken by a mischievous brother, and forthwith sank 
 down on the floor in a faint. Brydson Senior, tailor in 
 Lowran, was still correcting his son when Kate came to 
 herself, and Brydson Junior's objections to castigation, as 
 stated by him in a loud voice, caused his sister to shriek 
 out, "The murderer! The murderer!" Whereupon her 
 mother, a broad-beamed lady of mature nerves, fainted 
 dead away also. 
 
 Nobody was sorry for Sandy Ewan, except a woman or 
 two whom he had ill treated and a dog that he had fre- 
 quently beaten almost to death. Nevertheless, after the 
 medical examination, his funeral was celebrated with great 
 pomp, people coming from great distances merely to see 
 the place where the tragedy had taken place. 
 
 Crowds of them stood all day long, gaping stupidly at 
 
206 STRONG MAC 
 
 the trampled earth of the Glebe Road as if they expected 
 the blood of the slain to cry out from the ground, fulfilling 
 to the very letter the word of Scripture. 
 
 But there was one man who knew more than the others, 
 and whose heart was exceedingly troubled within him. 
 That man was Sidney Latimer. When he returned from 
 the funeral of the murdered man, where he had seen Roy 
 McCulloch walking calm and collected by his father's side, 
 and standing hat in hand by the open grave, he went di- 
 rectly into his study and threw himself down on a sofa to 
 think. He had need. For he alone of all the world knew 
 that Strong Mac had not returned to House of Muir by 
 way of the St. Cuthbertstown road and the Bennanbrack 
 hills. He alone had heard the words that had been spoken 
 in the Great House avenue under the moaning sough of 
 the beeches. But having heard, he could not forget the 
 grim bitterness of anger expressed in the simple phrase : 
 "Then will I go and speak with Sandy Ewan!" 
 
 What if Roy McCulloch were the visitor for whom 
 Sandy Ewan had made his preparations, whose voice was 
 heard in angry converse in the library of the gentleman- 
 farmer, whose entrance and exit had alike been unseen! 
 It seemed probable enough to Sidney Latimer that Ewan 
 had received notice of his enemy's approaching release 
 from prison ! It was Ewan's sheep the prisoner had been 
 suspected of stealing. It was natural that he should sus- 
 pect Ewan of laying the information against him. Even 
 apart from Adora Gracie the ill-feeling between them was 
 obvious. Moreover, Roy McCulloch had been in Lowran 
 late on the evening of the murder, instead of at home with 
 his father at the House of Muir, as every one else be- 
 lieved. His last spoken words had been a threat against 
 the dead man, and he had gone off in the direction of the 
 spot where the body was found. 
 
 Now Sidney Latimer was a gentleman. Before serving 
 as a soldier, he had studied law and had been admitted to 
 the Scottish Bar. He was also a justice of the peace. But 
 he could not be a tale-bearer. He had, it is true, little 
 
SANDY EWAN'S UNSEEN VISITOR 207 
 
 doubt of Roy McCulloch's guilt. In fact, he could easily 
 reconstitute the scene at the Boreland to himself. There 
 had been no premeditation. Of that he felt certain. But 
 there had been reproach and counter-reproach, till, most 
 likely, Sandy Ewan's dour temper had given way sud- 
 denly. He had struck the blow which had proved his own 
 death-warrant. The dead man's very fear was evidence to 
 Sidney Latimer's mind that the expected visitant could be 
 no other than Strong Mac. For Ewan was a man of 
 powerful physique reputed the strongest and most 
 dangerous fighting man in the parish, leaving Roy Mc- 
 Culloch out of the question. Who, then, was there for 
 such a man to go in fear of save the man who had set 
 out to visit him on that last night of April, with anger in 
 his heart and a grim threat on his lips. 
 
 Then all suddenly there came a thought across the 
 young laird's mind which caused the hot blood to flush 
 his cheek. With Sandy Ewan dead, and Strong Mac 
 well, out of the road would not his path stand clear to 
 Adora Gracie if not in one way, why then in another. 
 Conscious of her disgrace, penniless, outcast, saddled with 
 a drunken incubus of a father, she would not refuse no, 
 surely she could not refuse all that he had to offer her. 
 Sidney Latimer rose hastily, and picking up his hat, went 
 out into the stable to saddle his horse. It is always in 
 haste that a good man does a thing which in his heart he is 
 ashamed of. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE SECOND KNIFE THRUST. 
 
 BUT while the two men, Sidney Latimer and Roy Mc- 
 Culloch, stood before the empty schoolhouse of Lowran, 
 while Sandy Ewan made his preparations of fear, while in 
 the gaunt library, bare of books, but smelling of freshest 
 varnish, the last named stood face to face with Doom, 
 while he lay motionless, his clenched hands crisped to his 
 side with the tension of that last struggle out on the Glebe 
 Road, where was Adora Gracie ? 
 
 To the other mysterious events which had thrown the 
 two parishes of Lowran and Kirkanders into a ferment 
 there was added this other what had become of the 
 Dominie and his daughter ? Not that many people thought 
 of that. To have an unexplained murder and an unsus- 
 pected murderer at large in one's parish, is enough to pre- 
 occupy most people of quiet country habits. 
 
 But Sidney Latimer thought of it also his mother. 
 
 She had heard her son let himself in by the hall door, 
 and was on the way down to make an inquiry decided 
 upon as she descended the stairs as to whether he pre- 
 ferred goose-and-apple-sauce or cold-chicken-and-tongue 
 for his dinner on the morrow. Anything would do. But 
 it was necessary to have an excuse for intruding upon 
 Sidney in the strange humour which had lately come over 
 him. 
 
 But she was saved any further strain upon her imagina- 
 tion. While she was still on the first landing the outer 
 door clanged, and all that remained of her son was the 
 impression on the pillow of the sofa on which he had 
 hastily thrown himself down, and as hastily quitted. The 
 
THE SECOND KNIFE THRUST 209 
 
 flowered silk was slowly returning to its rounded shape, 
 and as the lady of the Great House of Lowran stood in the 
 doorway, even that token of her son's presence faded away 
 from before her eyes. She opened the window and list- 
 ened to the clatter of horse's hoofs, harsh on the gravel, 
 soft over the grass. Then came the click of a latch lifted 
 with a riding crop, an impatient word the hasty anger of 
 a man rebuking in his beast the restlessness which agitates 
 himself. To these followed the full gathering spring with 
 which a good horse takes its head over soft ground. 
 
 Mrs. Latimer listened till the sound of hoofs was lost 
 in the distance. 
 
 "He has taken the moor road," she murmured fearfully, 
 as she closed the window ; "in that direction there is not a 
 house or a cottage within three miles. If the murderer is 
 in hiding anywhere in the parish, it will be there !" 
 
 The few minutes which Sidney Latimer had spent in 
 putting the graith on his beast had given him time to alter 
 his first intention. He had been resolved to go to St. 
 Cuthbertstown, and there to divulge all that he knew to 
 the authorities with regard to the murder of Alexander 
 Ewan. He believed that they would listen to him. He 
 could substantiate fact, motive, threat. Indeed, as he told 
 himself over and over again, he held Roy McCulloch's 
 death-warrant in his hand. 
 
 But something not a belief in his rival's innocence 
 held him back. He would first of all see Strong Mac face 
 to face. He would charge him with his crime, and yes, 
 he would, perhaps, give him a chance to leave the coun- 
 try, if he found that the crime had been committed with- 
 out premeditation or in a fit of sudden anger. 
 
 So Sidney Latimer rode towards House of Muir 
 by the road which, years before, had been opened by 
 the broad-axes of Sharon McCulloch and his sons. His 
 thoughts were gloomy within him as he urged his beast 
 along. Darkness fell while he was still out on the wild 
 breadths of Bennanbrack moor. A brief red twilight flar- 
 ing in the west had soon been overcast by the cloud of 
 
210 STRONG MAC 
 
 night which shut down upon it like a gigantic eyelid. The 
 road, winding through league upon league of heather, 
 shone grey-white under his horse's feet. The boulders on 
 either side took on mysterious shapes, looming up indis- 
 tinct and uncanny, each fitted to shelter a crouching 
 murderer. 
 
 But Sidney Latimer had that on his mind which was 
 sufficient to banish imaginary fears. He was going to 
 confront and accuse a real murderer secret, strong, 
 unsuspected by any but himself. What if Strong Mac 
 were to repeat the blow that had stretched his other rival 
 dead at his feet, and so suppress the only possible witness 
 against him! The thought passed across Sidney Lati- 
 mer's brain, but it was at once set aside. 
 
 "Soit!" he said, "he can kill me if he likes ! But I will 
 have a few words with him first." 
 
 Sidney Latimer was no strong man. In many things he 
 was no better than the average of his class and of his time, 
 but at least the soul within him was neither little nor weak. 
 
 At the corner of the great Barnbarroch March (where 
 a former Chesney Barwhinnock had been killed by a dis- 
 charge of his own gun) Sidney Latimer heard something 
 move among the stones with a squeaking noise like a 
 weasel in a dyke. His horse shied, and Sidney, whose 
 temper was not then of the best, gave him the spur fiercely. 
 The spirited beast bounded forward, and as they passed at 
 full speed through the gap in the high march-dyke, some- 
 thing little and dark sped across the white thread of the 
 moorland track, almost immediately under the horse's 
 feet. 
 
 At the same moment Sidney Latimer heard again the 
 same strange sound, but stronger this time indeed almost 
 birdlike in its keenness, half snarl, half cry, which mingled 
 with the snort of his frightened animal. The horse, also, 
 instead of gradually calming down to a steady gait, made 
 a series of wild leaps across the moor at right angles to the 
 path, and, turning round, presently stood still, facing the 
 danger and trembling in every limb. 
 
THE SECOND KNIFE THRUST 211 
 
 Sidney dismounted, patted and reassured the grey, 
 which blew on him with full trembling nostrils. As he 
 stood in front of its face, he felt something warm and wet 
 drip upon his knee. He put down his hand and lo ! his 
 fingers encountered the unmistakable gluey touch of warm 
 blood. His horse had been wounded. Though it was too 
 dark to see clearly, Latimer felt that there was a consid- 
 erable wound in the loose skin between the chest and the 
 gullet. For the moment the grey's excitement would 
 permit of no very particular examination, but it was clear 
 to Sidney that some one or some thing lurked on the moor 
 over which he had passed, at once dangerous and deadly. 
 
 The Barnbarroch dyke was the boundary of the prop- 
 erty of the McCullochs. It was evident that the danger, 
 whether for him or for any intruder, began there. Sidney 
 Latimer was in quandary. To go on was to beard a mur- 
 derer in his chosen place of defence to return was to risk 
 a stab from the same weapon which had already wounded 
 his horse. 
 
 There were few things which touched Sidney Latimer 
 more than that an animal should suffer. He therefore 
 took off his coat, turned it inside out, and by means of the 
 reins, succeeded in extemporising a rough dressing for the 
 wound which, so far as he could judge of it in the dark- 
 ness, staunched the flow of blood. He and his horse were 
 now out on the moor away from the path which led to the 
 dwelling house of the McCullochs. Sidney was not the 
 less but the more determined to visit House of Muir that 
 night, because of the foul attempt that had been made 
 upon him. He did not doubt for a moment that it was 
 with intent upon the life of the rider that the steel had 
 been darted upwards in such dastardly fashion. 
 
 For some time he searched about for a tree or stone to 
 which he might with safety attach his horse, while he 
 continued his journey on foot. Chance guided him to one 
 of the common "scroggy" thorns low, twisted, mis- 
 begotten bushes, their branches spread abroad like the 
 claws of crabs and apparently as ancient as the peat-hags 
 
212 STRONG MAC 
 
 they spring from, which are to be met with on most Gallo- 
 way moors. Having found one then he fastened his horse 
 to it, and after an affectionate pat or two, set out over the 
 heather in the direction of the House of Muir. 
 
 Sidney Latimer had not proceeded far when he heard a 
 noise behind him, a cry of fear and distress almost human. 
 He turned, feeling instinctively for a weapon to defend 
 himself against the unknown dangers with which he 
 seemed to be surrounded. He found nothing except his 
 father's riding whip with the heavily loaded handle, which 
 he always carried at night. Sidney hastily twisted the lash 
 about his wrist, and grasped the butt by its thinner 
 extremity. 
 
 But it was only the grey, which, desperate at being left 
 at the mercy of the unseen enemy that had already 
 wounded it, had broken the fastening and now sought 
 his master, quivering and panting as if after a long race. 
 
 For a moment Sidney Latimer did not know how to 
 proceed. His beast was wounded, and yet would not be 
 left behind. His coat, imperfectly fastened in the dark- 
 ness, had been dropped when the animal reared in order 
 to snatch itself free from the "scroggy thorn." Neverthe- 
 less, something drove him on, perhaps the same fatefulness 
 which, a few months ago, had carried Sandy Ewan to his 
 doom. The young laird put out his hand and gently felt 
 his horse's wound. He decided that it was either ex- 
 tremely superficial or that the cold of the night had 
 stopped the bleeding. At all events, little was now escap- 
 ing from the cut. 
 
 The windows of the House of Muir were now before 
 him, bright upon the long level horizon. He could count 
 them. Two were illuminated, one slightly so, while 
 a door opened and shut, now completely obscured, 
 now sending a sudden flood of light over the surface 
 of the moor. 
 
 It was strange how as Sidney Latimer approached the 
 dwellings of men, both his own excitement and that of his 
 steed died down. The smell of habitation and the vicinity 
 
THE SECOND KNIFE THRUST 213 
 
 of creatures, human and domesticated, calmed his 
 nerves as well as those of the frightened animal. In- 
 stead of requiring constant attention and handling, the 
 grey now dropped behind with patient docility, as if 
 ashamed of his previous behaviour. Nor did he make 
 any objections when his master fastened him to the ring- 
 bolt of the "louping-on stone" at the gable-end of the 
 onstead of House of Muir. As was almost universal in 
 Galloway, this was a large boulder, to which generations 
 of horses had been tied, and where for ages the women of 
 the family had mounted behind their lords ere they took 
 their douce and legal way to kirk and market. 
 
 Sidney Latimer clearly understood the risks of what he 
 was about to do. But now he could not go back without 
 qualifying as a coward in his own eyes. He was deter- 
 mined to speak with Roy McCulloch if possible, alone 
 and without giving him time to consult his father. As he 
 came nearer, it seemed as if there was company at the 
 House of Muir. He could hear the sound of several 
 voices. Some irresistible impulse took him past the door 
 in the direction of the window, through which the light 
 streamed most brightly. 
 
 Now at House of Muir few sacrifices to external adorn- 
 ment had been made, and save where the dyke of the 
 potato garden cut a hard rectangle out of the home parks, 
 the grass and heather ran right up to the whitewashed 
 walls of the long low dwelling house. 
 
 Upon these Sidney Latimer's feet made no noise, and 
 presently he stood on the soft green turf under the drip 
 of the eaves. He looked within, feeling all the while like 
 a criminal himself and not at all like a man who had 
 come out to denounce a man-slayer. 
 
 The young man could hardly believe his eyes when he 
 looked through the imperfect green whirlpools which 
 served for glass. Yet what he saw was plain enough. 
 What he had expected to see as he rode across the moor 
 was a couple of haggard men, conscious of their crime, 
 bandying mutual recriminations, or at least the younger 
 
214 STRONG MAC 
 
 and less hardened pacing to and fro, or sitting with his 
 head in his hands, in the grip of an accusing conscience. 
 But whatever was the secret Terror that lurked about the 
 house of Sharon McCulloch, whatever the Thing of Evil 
 which had struck up at him so treacherously at the Dykes 
 of Barnbarroch, it was clear in a moment that its influence 
 did not reach to the kitchen into which the Laird of Low- 
 ran was now looking as an Israelitish spy might have 
 looked into the Promised Land. 
 
 Sidney Latimer saw before him a lighted kitchen, smil- 
 ing contentment, a girl moving easily about performing 
 the little duties of domestic work with the facility 
 of long practice. An old man sat at the fireside with a 
 book in his hand. A younger arranged a lamp that 
 the light might fall better upon the printed page. Such 
 a scene of cheerful domesticity he had not seen for many 
 a day, yet the very reason of Sidney Latimer seemed to 
 totter on its throne as he stood there. If he had not leaned 
 against the wall, he would assuredly have fallen. For the 
 girl who moved about so lightly and with so well-accus- 
 tomed a step was none other than Adora Gracie ! 
 
 ******* 
 
 Hastily, as if taken in a meanness, Sidney shrank away 
 into the darkness. He had seen enough and more. Mur- 
 derer or not, Roy McCulloch was now for ever free from 
 any word of his. He could not speak now. If he did, he 
 would feel himself worse than Sandy Ewan when he de- 
 coyed the old Dominie to his fate on the day of the exami- 
 nation. 
 
 Sidney Latimer knew the facility of the law of Scot- 
 land with regard to marriage, and he did not doubt for a 
 moment that Adora Gracie, situated as she was, burdened 
 with the care of her father, had gone straight to House 
 of Muir, where at least she was sure of welcome and an 
 open door. Then, when Roy came back, with whatever of 
 guilt upon his hands, there was no doubt that Adora had 
 married him, were it only out of gratitude. So Latimer 
 reasoned with himself. 
 
THE SECOND KNIFE THRUST 215 
 
 The young man stood by his wounded horse in the 
 darkness, stricken also. From the house there came to his 
 ears the sound of laughter. Sidney loosened the rope from 
 the iron ring and moved away quietly, as if ashamed of his 
 mission. 
 
 No, there could be no doubt none! Adora's whole 
 carriage, her assured step, was that of a house mistress. 
 The Dominie, her father, was seated by the fire reading his 
 book. Roy, by his side, arranged the lamp with filial 
 solicitude. Adora and Roy had exchanged glances over 
 his head ah, the inwardness of these glances took Sidney 
 Latimer by the throat ! 
 
 A sudden wild access of rage took hold of him. The 
 murderer the man with the guilt of blood on his hands 
 to have that for his reward ! He too would go back and 
 end it or himself be ended. Fool ! What good would 
 that do? He had seen the girl's smile the first perfectly 
 happy smile he had ever seen on her lips ! That she loved 
 the man there was no doubt ! Well ? Well ? 
 
 Yes, he knew. He had it in his power to shatter this 
 happiness, as an earthen pitcher is shattered with an iron 
 bar. Between them and that new-found love of theirs he 
 would dangle the hangman's rope. 
 
 So out on the ghastly solitary moor, scaring the wild- 
 fowl and the black-faced sheep, Sidney Latimer raved, his 
 beast, whose own trouble had abated, pushing against him 
 at times with moist, anxious nose, warning him to begone 
 from a neighbourhood so dangerous to honest horses. 
 But gradually the meanness of causing a woman to suffer 
 because of his private disappointment worked upon his 
 spirit. 
 
 "Who am I," he asked himself, "that I should lay an in- 
 formation against Roy McCulloch? I, who at this very 
 moment, feel my hands a-tremble with desire to kill! I 
 know my own, but do I know Roy McCulloch's provoca- 
 tion? Let me get away away never to return!" 
 
 So forgetting everything but the desire to put a great 
 distance between himself and this fatal house, he leaped 
 
216 STRONG MAC 
 
 upon his beast, and the frightened animal, partaking of the 
 feelings of his master, struck through the moor at speed. 
 Soon they were at the Dykes of Barnbarroch. This time 
 there was nothing to be seen. Indeed, there was little 
 chance for they passed like a flash, Sidney pulling the 
 reins away from the turn of the road which led towards 
 Lowran and home. He felt that he could not face his 
 mother's anxious assiduities that night. She would be 
 waiting for him. Of that he had no doubt. She would 
 have a thousand questions to ask. He would ride down 
 towards the sea find a little coaching inn on the Stran- 
 raer road and there abide the night nay, perhaps longer, 
 till he had thought things over and decided what it was 
 best for him to do. 
 
 He struck into the sea road. His beast moved easily, 
 seemingly less tired than before. It was the dark time just 
 before the birth of the dawn. He threw the reins down on 
 the grey's neck, and master and horse plunged blindly into 
 the unknown. 
 
 How long they wandered thus, lost to direction, straying 
 anywhither, cannot now be known. The world had come 
 sharply to an end for Sidney Latimer. His mouth was 
 shut. The girl he loved was bound body and soul to a 
 man whom he knew to be a murderer ! What mattered 
 anything any more? 
 
 The air grew fresher more salt upon the lips and in 
 the nostrils. They were descending from the moorlands 
 towards the little ports which dot the shore line of Gallo- 
 way here and there the Lake, the Scaur, Balearic, Port 
 Mary, Portowarren. But Sidney Latimer paid no heed to 
 his going. His heart was too exceeding bitter within him, 
 and as for his beast, he only hung a weary head and weakly 
 kept four grey feet moving. 
 
 Suddenly out of the ground, as in a dream, armed shapes 
 rose all about the young man. He was pulled from his 
 saddle to find himself in the thick of a fierce combat. A 
 blow was stricken which stunned him, and he was thrown 
 hastily along with several others into the bottom of a boat. 
 
THE SECOND KNIFE THRUST 217 
 
 "That does the night's work !" cried a voice, "give way 
 there !" 
 
 ******* 
 
 The next morning what a crying of men there was 
 athwart all the country. The young Laird of Lowran had 
 been assassinated by the McCullochs, the poachers of 
 House of Muir. His coat, all bloody and turned inside out, 
 had been found on their property. His footsteps had been 
 found and measured, at their very gable-end. His riding 
 whip was lying at their "louping-on stone." There were 
 signs of a struggle at the Barnbarroch marches. His 
 horse, wounded and (some said dying) had been found 
 straying on the cliffs near the Gate House of Cally. 
 Happily both of the murderers were in custody, after a 
 desperate resistance on the part of the younger, a dan- 
 gerous character who had been recently released from 
 gaol. 
 
 The motive, of course, was jealousy. Young men will 
 be young men. The disgraced Dominie's daughter of 
 Lowran was actually at the time in the house of the cul- 
 prits, and the Laird had gone to see her. Hence the quar- 
 rel, and the murder to follow. All was rounded, clear, 
 complete. And upon the killing of Sandy Ewan, also, 
 light, lurid and sudden, seemed to break. Dickie Dick and 
 his friend recalled to themselves with curious unanimity 
 and were read to swear (did, in fact, so take oath) that the 
 voice which they had heard in their master's room on the 
 night of the murder of Sandy Ewan upon the Glebe Road, 
 was none other than that of Roy McCulloch ! 
 
 Bands of men (so ran the report) were out everywhere 
 searching for the body of the murdered laird which, 
 strangely enough, had not yet been found. On the other 
 hand, the McCullochs were safe in the gaol of St. Cuth- 
 bertstown, under lock and key and well for them that it 
 was so ! For the countryside was up and they would have 
 had an excellent chance of being torn to pieces. Among 
 other things, the girl the first cause of all had gotten 
 her deserts. Ah, she had long been known to sundry good 
 Christian people for what she was ! They had always said 
 
218 STRONG MAC 
 
 so! Perhaps some one would listen to them next 
 time! 
 
 She and her drunken father had been turned to the door 
 of House of Muir by the officers of the law. It had been 
 asked of her if she could show any proof of a legal right to 
 remain where she was, and when she could not or would 
 not answer, she and her father had found themselves upon 
 the heather. "And serve them right," cried these same 
 apocalyptic Christian folk, who are for ever pouring out 
 vials and blowing trumpets over their neighbours' misfor- 
 tunes. "If all such were put in prison, the country would 
 be the better!" And at this point large quotations were 
 made from the early chapters of the Proverbs of Solomon, 
 son of David, king in Israel who certainly ought to have 
 known what he was talking about. 
 
 Thus the House of Muir, which but yesternight had 
 been so bright, filled from end to end with light and life 
 and the joy of seemingly settled happiness, was in a mo- 
 ment left desolate. And down in the Great House of Low- 
 ran there were two women who mourned also, both one 
 and also the other of them, as for an only son. 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 OUT OF GOOD EVIL. 
 
 WHEN Sidney Latimer left the lighted window of the 
 House of Muir he gave up all thought of denouncing Roy 
 McCulloch. This seemed a true and worthy thing to do, 
 yet had he contrived the worst possible against Roy and 
 Adora, the young laird could not have played the devil's 
 game better than by doing as he did. So mysterious is the 
 train of consequences which follows every action, however 
 trivial, that we suffer (and make others suffer) as 
 often and as severely for our well-intentioned as for our 
 evil deeds. Doubtless there are compensations, but the 
 fact remains. The philosophy of "Be good and you will 
 get a lump of sugar ! be bad, and you will get nasty medi- 
 cine" is untrue to the facts of life. 
 
 So many-tongued rumour, flying from door to door, 
 lifting the latch, and shouting an amended and re-edited 
 tale into every house, spoke more truly than usual when it 
 represented Adora and her father as having been turned 
 out upon the waste after the capture of the McCullochs 
 by the crowd of several hundred men from all parts which 
 suddenly invaded the solitudes of House of Muir. 
 
 How Adora came to be there at all may be told in a few 
 words. It chanced that Sharon McCulloch, stern, sober- 
 faced old ex-smuggler, whom no Examination Presby- 
 terial could for a moment have drawn a yard from his 
 door, had business in the village of Lowran on the day 
 when Sandy Ewan's trick was being spoken of, and even 
 laughed over at the bar of Lucky Greentree's public house. 
 
 Sharon was making ready for his homeward ride, and 
 
220 STRONG MAC 
 
 as a last precaution he always tossed over his throat a tass 
 of brandy to the good of the house. He stood tall and 
 erect, fingering the pewter in which his half mutchkin had 
 been served to him. Silently he listened to the tale how 
 in this very room the Dominie had been made to drink till 
 he could not see, Sandy Ewan plying him with liquor skil- 
 fully all the while. Then the hanger-on aforesaid, who re- 
 lated the instructive apologue with some humour, told how 
 he had "oxtered" Donald Gracie to his own school-door, 
 and there listened till at the proper moment, carefully 
 waited for, Sandy Ewan had pushed him "in amang a' the 
 ministers !" 
 
 Sterner and greyer each moment stood Sharon McCul- 
 loch, gripping his whip tighter in his hand, till, at the 
 climax, he astonished the company by reaching over a 
 huge hand for the narrator. Without a word of explana- 
 tion or apology he dragged him over the table into the 
 open, where he lashed him fierce and long, at last flinging 
 the tale-bearer on the ground, whimpering like the hound 
 he was. 
 
 Then the master of House of Muir made a little speech 
 to the company and departed to look for Sandy Ewan. 
 Happily instead, he found Adora Gracie. And then, at 
 the sight of the girl's desolation, the stern-faced old law- 
 breaker had melted completely. 
 
 "For my boy's sake for my loneliness' sake come!" 
 he had bidden her. "There is an empty hoose, but a 
 warm, warm welcome up on the muirs !" 
 
 Thus it was that, while Roy lay fretting in the gaol at 
 St. Cuthbertstown, there had come into his father's house, 
 in all good liking and free will, the one thing he had most 
 despaired of seeing there. 
 
 Upon his return, Adora had met his triumphant sur- 
 prise and rejoicing with quiet thankfulness and gratitude. 
 She had never doubted such an ending to his imprison- 
 ment. But she found so much that needed doing in the 
 House of Muir, that even Roy's advent made no great 
 change in her mode of life. Sharon McCulloch, grave and 
 reserved as ever, walked by her side every evening he 
 
OUT OF GOOD EVIL 221 
 
 or his son, but on the whole, most frequently Sharon. 
 Their path always led them towards the high angle of the 
 property the apex of the triangle near which was a cairn 
 on a little heathery knoll. Sharon did not look that way, 
 but instead gazed absent-mindedly into the sunset. He 
 never spoke of the wife whom he had found there 
 dead upon his return from market. But the mere compan- 
 ionship of the young girl by his side somehow softened 
 and warmed Sharon McCulloch, so that on coming in, Roy 
 would often notice a difference in his father something 
 about his face that he had never remarked there be- 
 fore, which was doubtless the resurrection of the young 
 man who in a certain old summer walked these hills of 
 heather with another girl as beautiful and as young. 
 
 Indeed it seemed as if at times Sharon himself forgot. 
 For on one occasion, after a long period of silence, he 
 turned upon Adora with the question, "But where have 
 you left the boys so long?" 
 
 Then, instantly recollecting himself, he added, sharply 
 for him in these days, "I think we had better go in !" 
 
 Upon which all suddenly, breaking into this life of peace 
 and happiness, there had arrived a howling furious mob, 
 led by Jonathan Grier. Then Adora had seen Roy, an an- 
 gered Roy, a Roy whom she had never seen, fighting for 
 his life, striking down one after the other till at last he 
 was mastered by numbers. Then the house which she had 
 begun to beautify and care for was put to sack the fur- 
 niture flung out of the window, the panelled walls of the 
 chambers torn down under guise of search for evidence. 
 After that, the officers of the law came, taking a kind of 
 possession, who posed her with hateful questions. 
 
 "Would she bear witness to this ? Had she been present 
 at that? What was her position in the household? By 
 what right was she there ?" 
 
 And so, as it was succinctly enough stated in the 
 popular report, she and her drunken father had been 
 turned out upon the heather. 
 
222 STRONG MAC 
 
 The Lowland Scots the Scots of Galloway in 
 especial, are a kind-hearted folk. So it has been said and 
 sung of them, and it is true. But students of national 
 manners know that upon occasion such a kind-hearted 
 folk can be more cruel than many a people whom the 
 world holds habit-and-repute for savagery. 
 
 The Laird of Lowran was popular. His family had been 
 "weel-likit" for generations before him. Much was ex- 
 pected of the young man, when once he had wedded "a 
 suitable person," and emancipated himself thoroughly from 
 the yoke of his mother, who, in spite of her forty years' 
 residence in Lowran, was still looked upon as an incomer 
 and "nae real Latimer." 
 
 On the other hand, Adora Gracie, save with a limited 
 number of the younger men (and Aline), could hardly be 
 said to be popular. She was too pretty and her tongue was 
 somewhat oversharp. Moreover, she was supposed to 
 hold her head too high for her position. Which is, in 
 Galloway, one of the cardinal sins. Then the sheep-steal- 
 ing, the killing of Sandy Ewan, and the disappearance of 
 the young laird were all, in the "giff-gaff" of old wives' 
 clatter, clearly traceable to the inexplicable attraction 
 which foolish young men feel for such "creatures." 
 
 As Mistress Girnwood said very judiciously to her gos- 
 sip Mistress Tod Lowrie, the senior baillie's wife of Cairn 
 Edward, as she put an extra "cinder" in her tea, "If I had 
 my way, it's her that should hang for it !" 
 
 When Adora took her departure from the door of the 
 House of Muir it was a typical September day, clear and 
 dry not warm, but with that grip in the air that wins the 
 com on the rigs, sets the stooks a-rustling, and rejoices 
 the heart of the farmer. Beneath her eye lay the little 
 hard-won gussets of plough-land which Roy had laid into 
 furrows for Sharon to sow, his tall, gaunt figure looking 
 Biblical in its girding of sackcloth, from the cross folds of 
 which he swung the grain abroad in alternate handfuls. 
 Farther yont, Adora's eye fell on the knoll where Sharon 
 had seen a woman sit as if asleep, being dead. 
 
 So taking her worse-than-dead in her hand, Adora went 
 
OUT OF GOOD EVIL 223 
 
 slowly about the corner of the barn. Certain of the baser 
 sort, the slack-water of the ruffian tide of the morning, 
 jeered at them through the open doorway. And there was 
 no strong Roy now to fell the insulter with a blow, nor a 
 stern Sharon fitly to lay whip-lash where it ought to lie. 
 But Adora, taking her father by the hand, led him a little 
 about so that he might not hear. She herself was not 
 much cast down, for she hugged closer to her heart that 
 eternal right of the down-trodden the appeal from 
 earthly injustice to the high universal Caesar who sits in 
 the heavens, who cannot do other than judge justly. 
 
 To the eye of sense it was a sad little procession enough 
 the girl leading the broken-down old man by the hand. 
 For Donald Gracie, suddenly divorced from his life's work, 
 fretted like a child that he was once more compelled to re- 
 move from surroundings that suited him so well. 
 
 "Adora, I have over and over endeavoured to impress 
 upon you/' he reiterated complainingly as they took their 
 way down the hill, "that I refuse to return to the school of 
 Lowran parish, where I was treated with such disrespect. 
 At least Dr. Meiklewham shall apologise to me in the 
 presence of the scholars, before I will consent to give a 
 single lesson there. The Presbytery shall apologise ! And 
 I cannot help thinking, Adora, that it argues a certain lack 
 of consideration for your father's feelings, that you insist 
 upon taking him back to a place of so many painful 
 memories !" 
 
 "We are not going to the schoolhouse, father," the girl 
 answered, with some of the apathy which accompanies 
 great sorrow. 
 
 "Then may I ask why/' cried the Dominie shrilly, "have 
 we left yonder most comfortable domicile, pertaining to 
 my excellent friend and late pupil? His father seems a 
 very superior man though he had finished his schooling 
 before I came to the district. And, though never cordial, 
 Mr. McCulloch, Senior, appeared to desire our company. 
 Also, though I cannot expect it to weigh with you, I must 
 point out that the mountain air agreed with me. I would 
 not for the world say anything hurtful to your feelings 
 
224 STRONG MAC 
 
 but I think you will admit that these frequent changes of 
 plan are not dictated by those thoughtful and unselfish 
 considerations which I have the right to expect from an 
 only daughter." 
 
 To this the girl answered nothing. Her heart was too 
 sore within her. She merely adjusted her arm so that the 
 old man might lean more heavily upon it, guiding him over 
 the rough places of the way with a tenderness surprising 
 in one so quick and brusque. It was not long before the 
 wandering wits of the Dominie took up a new aspect of 
 the subject. 
 
 "I fear much that I have been over-lenient with you, 
 Adora," he began again, tapping with his stick on the 
 hard roadway. "It has been borne in upon me lately that 
 I ought to have been more strict. I have given you your 
 own way too long as God forgive me, in my youth I took 
 mine I mean in matters of the heart! But I am per- 
 suaded that I have gone too far in submitting to 
 your girl's whimsies. There was, for instance, that excel- 
 lent young man, Alexander Ewan. Had you taken your 
 father's advice, a world of trouble would have been spared. 
 Even you cannot deny that. And now again, after some 
 time in this well-plenished and most comfortable house 
 not that it is a mansion, but a very respectable and yeo- 
 manly dwelling, where my comforts have been attended to 
 and my wishes studied we find ourselves turned out be- 
 cause you would not, in time, make up your mind to wed 
 the young man of the house, my old pupil and good friend, 
 Roy McCulloch !" 
 
 Adora held her peace, steadily pursuing her way. 
 
 "This is the more surprising that you yourself held con- 
 stantly by his innocence. You would hear no other word, 
 even from your own father. And that being so, and your 
 feelings evidently engaged, it would have regularised our 
 presence in the house if you had been married to him, even 
 according to the irregular Scots method, which (though 
 good in law and binding upon parties) as Clerk of the 
 Kirk Session of Lowran parish I have always thought it 
 my duty to discountenance. Still, there are cases and 
 
OUT OF GOOD EVIL 225 
 
 this is one of them. As Roy McCulloch's wife we could 
 not have been dispossessed of our honourable position and 
 downsitting at House of Muir. We would have remained 
 to take care of the young man's property, and whatever 
 happened we should have been provided for ." 
 
 "Oh, father," cried the girl, at last losing patience, "you 
 do not understand what you say. I am not married to 
 Roy McCulloch. I have no intention of marrying Roy 
 McCulloch. Roy McCulloch respected my position too 
 much while I was under his father's roof ever to ask me to 
 marry him." 
 
 The old man stood still and shook a tremulous staff at 
 the girl. "Ah," he quavered, "you must not try to deceive 
 an old dog yes, an old dog. There has been love- 
 making going on. I have watched. You thought me deep 
 in Virgil and Virgil, young lady, is the finest of all poets 
 that I will ever uphold. But, because of the Mantuan, 
 the father's eyes were not blind nor his ears deaf. There 
 was lovemaking going on with young Laird Lowran, 
 with that softish lout Jock Fairies, and in especial with 
 Roy McCulloch. Moreover, did he not always come the 
 latest, bide the longest, and did you not always see him to 
 the gate ? Ah, Adora, the old man has not been so short- 
 sighted as you gave him credit for." 
 
 Thus the Dominie went maundering on, Adora holding 
 him by the hand, drowned in the bitterness of her own 
 thoughts, yet ever and anon rebuking herself for her irri- 
 tation at her father's folly, till the forlorn pair came to 
 the march-dyke of Barnbarroch. It was, even in daylight, 
 a strange wild place a dip between two boulder-strewn 
 moors, the heather growing breast-high among the stones, 
 one jagged pinnacle of rocks looking down like a watch- 
 man over a conventicle, and beneath, the white thread of 
 the mountain road wimpling from verge to verge like a 
 flicked whiplash. 
 
 The gate, dragged from its hinges, probably by some of 
 the mischievous spirits among the rout which that morn- 
 ing had poured up towards the House of Muir, lay broad- 
 side across a heap of stones, the debris of some rough 
 
226 STRONG MAC 
 
 road-making operation, long ago interrupted and never 
 again proceeded with. 
 
 Cross-legged upon this a boy sat sobbing bitterly a 
 boy in a man's coat three or four inches too big for him 
 every way. He wore a ragged pair of breeches, but his 
 legs and feet were bare. A recent tear or wound showed 
 an irregular red edge across one brown and freckled calf. 
 As the two pilgrims approached, the boy alternately 
 staunched the bleeding and wiped his wet eyes with a 
 large blue Kilmarnock bonnet, the result of the double 
 operation fairly passing the power of pen to describe. At 
 first Adora did not notice him. She was immersed in her 
 own heart bitterness. It was the old school-master, with 
 the instinct of a lifetime where youth was concerned, who 
 observed the boy. He was certainly in trouble, probably, 
 therefore, a culprit. 
 
 He turned about stiffly so that he might face the seated 
 figure, pointing with his stick to the wound. 
 
 "Here, boy," he said, authoritatively, "stop crying. 
 And tell me who did that?" 
 
 The boy lifted his tear-stained face, and then, even 
 through the streaking and the swelling about the eyes, his 
 identity could not be hid. 
 
 "What, Daid McRobb !" cried Adora, for the moment 
 forgetting that for her there were no more roll-calls while 
 the world should last, "what are you doing here at this 
 hour and like that ?" 
 
 And sure enough Daid McRobb it was who presently 
 stood up shamefacedly, trying to conceal the hurt on his 
 calf with his broad bonnet. Finding himself before the 
 Dominie, the boy endeavored to stop sobbing, with this of 
 success that he gave himself hiccough instead. But 
 curiously, the result was in no way comic. 
 
 "Why are you not at school?" began the old Dominie 
 in his flogging voice. 
 
 "Father!" said Adora, touching him with her elbow. 
 
 "Ah, I forgot," said the old man, "I mean what are you 
 doing there with that that wound on your leg?" 
 
OUT OF GOOD EVIL 227 
 
 "Oh, that! It's nocht " said Daid, with a gasp, 
 "nocht ava'. I never noticed it. I think I fell on the 
 edge of my tin can." (His eye, having lighted upon this 
 last, perhaps suggested the explanation.) 
 
 But the old Dominie had his method. 
 
 "Answer my question, boy !" he said, sternly, with his 
 stick in the air, "this minute who did it?" 
 
 "D'ye think I was greetin' for that ?" cried Daid, in- 
 dignantly; "man, I wad tak' that three times i' the day 
 and never whinge. It's for what they hae dune to him." 
 
 "To your father?" said Adora, instantly forgetting her 
 own sorrow in sympathy with another; "why, what has 
 happened to your father?" 
 
 "My f dither!" 
 
 Voice of human creature never expressed more of con- 
 tempt and bitterness than did that of Daid McRobb in 
 these three syllables. 
 
 "Greet for my faither " he repeated; "he micht cut 
 me into bittocks and throw me into the water for ged- 
 bait, but he couldna gar me greet." 
 
 "But you have been with his dinner !" said Adora, point- 
 ing to the can. 
 
 "Ow aye he's my faither!" said Daid, simply for all 
 explanation, "I'm no deny in' that." 
 
 He looked about him as he spoke and rubbed the 
 wounded calf surreptitiously on the ragged fringes of 
 moleskin which dangled about his other knee. 
 
 "Then why are you crying?" said Adora, more gently, 
 "tell me." 
 
 At the word, as if a spring had been touched, Daid the 
 Deil raised himself from his lair of stones, his streaked 
 face stained with blood, his bonnet in his hand, his rags 
 flying in the moderate wind of September, and stretching 
 out a hand towards St. Cuthbertstown with a gesture 
 which no tragedian in the world could copy, he ex- 
 claimed, "Greetin', is it? I'll tell ye. It's for him I am 
 greetin' ! For him for Roy McCulloch, the best lad that 
 ever drew breath in this warl' the best freend the only 
 
228 STRONG MAC 
 
 freend that puir Daid McRobb ever had. And they hae 
 jailed him for what he never did. They hae ta'en him 
 awa'. And it's my faut ! Oh, it's a' my faut 1" 
 
 And standing there before them, Daid the Deil broke 
 into a wild irregular wail, ancient, autochthonal, not to be 
 heard among honest folk, the keening of the cave-women, 
 the rude aboriginal chaunt which saluted the sun-god 
 when the blood of the sacrifice dripped redder under his 
 first ray, falling from the tribal altar. 
 
 The boy at the very apex of his passion stopped dead. 
 Some sound unheard by the others had startled him. He 
 paused, suddenly stricken stiff in the attitude of listening. 
 
 "Coming !" he cried, and seizing his can, made off at a 
 run in the direction of the high sentinel stone which over- 
 looked the dell. 
 
CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE DEEPEST DEPTH. 
 
 FROM the marches of Barnbarroch the road lay across 
 a plain stretch of moorland, now spreading clear and crisp 
 beneath the September sun. The heather was growing a 
 little rusty everywhere, but the bracken, chance stricken 
 by an untimeous frost, had turned and now withered in 
 patches many-coloured in the sunshine orange and rus- 
 set and cardinal red. 
 
 After losing sight of Daid, Adora and her father 
 essayed this long open crossing, the old man growing more 
 soddenly weary at each step, and as he rested on this 
 stone and on that by the wayside, continuing to dilate on 
 his daughter's ingratitude and lack of consideration for 
 him. At last they reached, greatly to Adora's relief, the 
 head of the long Glen of Pluckamin, the uncommon name 
 of which started her father on a learned disquisition, thus 
 for the moment taking his thoughts off herself and her 
 shortcomings. 
 
 "Pluckamin Pluckamin !" he began, "ah, there's mar- 
 row in that aye, marrow and fatness. Those who care 
 for nought but how to put the most spoonfuls of porridge 
 into them, may indeed see nothing in Pluckamin but 
 matter for laughter. The thorns crackle bravely under the 
 pot. But to the learned and serious eye the whole of the 
 Covenant, count and tale, is unveiled. "Clachan Pluck" 
 the Heart of the Faithful Country, the heart of Galloway. 
 Even as the hub is the centre of the wheel, so was it about 
 Clachanpluck that the assemblages of all the faithful folk 
 
230 STRONG MAC 
 
 gathered. Griersons in Bargatton, Kerrs in Cullenoch, 
 Dicksons in Crocket-ford, but the best of all the Heart 
 of the Heart, were the McMinns of Pluckamin. All 
 scattered now. The New World across the water holds 
 them and their name. The ploughshare is passed over 
 their pleasant sites. Scarce a trace remains of the walls. 
 Only a greener line here and there, seen when the sun lies 
 low in the west, is left to mark the rigs that were turned 
 when the hands of the martyrs held the plough. But such 
 is our life we pass and are not. The Jacob the Sup- 
 planter, cometh in our place. He sits in the shade of our 
 pleasant bowers. He eateth of the vines which our hands 
 have planted, and crieth, 'Aha ! Aha !' " 
 
 ******* 
 
 Grateful for the momentary respite, Adora let her father 
 ramble on thus. The rugged fell of the moorland, shaggy 
 as an undipped garron, yet in spite of infinite diversity of 
 heather and rocks presenting no considerable elevation to 
 the eye, broke down suddenly. The bare hill track, 
 crossed with slaty edges every half-dozen yards, washed 
 clean as scraped bone by the thunder rains, changed all 
 at once into a woodland glade, with birches gracefully 
 light all about. 
 
 Down this track, where it began to skirt the policies of 
 Lowran, Adora was guiding her father, who was still 
 meditating on the past greatness of Clachanpluck and 
 Pluckamin, when at a turn of the path she came suddenly 
 upon a pair of women, stern of aspect as accusing spirits. 
 Both were wrapped in black, and the head of the elder was 
 bare, while the shorter and younger of the two had a 
 shawl drawn about her. 
 
 Adora knew them for Sidney Latimer's mother, and her 
 unfailing companion, Purslane. The women had been 
 ascending slowly, as if the steep slope which led out upon 
 the face of the moor had somewhat tried their powers. 
 But at the sight of Adora and her father they halted, 
 astonished. 
 
 Then Mrs. Larimer advanced a few steps, and leaning 
 
THE DEEPEST DEPTH 231 
 
 forward, as if she was about to spring upon Adora, cried 
 in a loud voice, "Where is he ? Tell me and I will forgive 
 all." 
 
 Adora stood aghast, not knowing what to answer. She 
 comprehended that the Lady of Lowran had come out to 
 seek her son the son for causing whose death Roy Mc- 
 Culloch had been seized with rude shoutings by the 
 ignorant rabble. But Adora did not understand that she 
 herself could be accused of having had anything to do 
 with the matter. However, she had to deal hourly with 
 one whom God had touched, and whatever the woman 
 said she was resolved to be patient with the grief-stricken. 
 She answered gently. 
 
 "Madam," she said, "I do not know where your son is. 
 It is many days since my father and I saw him. I am 
 sorry I would give my life if all were happily ended." 
 
 "Your life your life !" shrieked the old woman, 
 gaunt of cheek and wild of aspect, lifting up her clenched 
 hand frantically above her head as if in act to strike, 
 "his life say rather! Give him back to me I beseech 
 you. Ah, I never did harm to you or yours all my life 
 why should you come into mine to blight it? Give him 
 back to me, I say. Why are you so cruel ?" 
 
 "My Lady of Lowran" began Adora, going a little 
 nearer, as if to calm her. 
 
 "I am not 'my Lady of Lowran/ she cried, thrusting 
 her hand from her as if to push away something abomi- 
 nable, "I am merely a poor old woman seeking her only 
 son her only son. Ah, how I loved him ! And you have 
 taken him you have bewitched him. Ever since he saw 
 you he has never been the same boy to me. Yes, I noticed 
 the difference that first night when he came home to me 
 home from from from your den. Did I not say so, 
 even then, Purslane? In my despite he would seek after 
 the Strange Woman. She held him in spite of my prayers. 
 She holds him still. Look how she gloats over the ruin 
 she has made. But God will judge ! He is a just God, 
 madam. He will judge 'twixt the right and the wrong 
 
232 STRONG MAC 
 
 between you and me my lady ! Give me my son, for the 
 last time I bid you. I order you to give me up my only 
 son !" 
 
 Less agitated, though no less bitter at heart, Purslane 
 had been endeavouring to moderate the fierceness of her 
 mistress's vehemence. Now she succeeded to this extent 
 that Adora, who stood trembling before them, not with 
 guilt or fear, but with a new pitifulness, managed to get 
 in the first words of her answer. 
 
 "Listen," she said, briefly, "I have a right to be heard. 
 I am a young girl, as you were before you were married. 
 I am a human being. I have a right to defend myself. I 
 have never sought your son. I have never seen him since 
 the day, many months ago, when I told him that he must 
 not come to my father's house while I was there. He has 
 kept his word, and I mine also. It is true that through no 
 fault of mine I found myself cast out of the only home I 
 had ever known. Shelter was offered to us by a good 
 friend. We accepted it. It was the choice of the destitute. 
 We had nowhere else to go. That again by no fault of 
 ours is at an end. We go forth, my father and I, with no 
 more than we carry, but at least with our hearts clean of 
 any shame towards you or your son !" 
 
 But Mrs. Latimer was not to be appeased. While 
 Adora was speaking, Purslane had been able to restrain 
 her. But now she broke out afresh. 
 
 "No," she cried, "you cannot cozen me, madam, with 
 your lies. I am a woman and know you. You tricked 
 my boy. You drew him on till you had him in your toils, 
 then you pretended to cast him off as you cast off that 
 young booby whom your paramour murdered at his own 
 door-step. And now you have been the death of my son. I 
 say not with your own hands but he has come to his 
 death among you. Ah, that ever a Latimer of Lowran 
 should have evened himself to a beggar wench ! I said 
 from the first that ill would come of it. I warned him of 
 going to seek the company of a girl without family, with- 
 out name " 
 
THE DEEPEST DEPTH 233 
 
 So far the old Dominie had listened in a kind of daze. 
 He was physically wearied to exhaustion. The excite- 
 ments of the day had set his brain wandering. The road- 
 fatigue, in spite of his staff and his daughter's arm to lean 
 upon, had left him in a semi-comatose state. But at the 
 last words of the Lady of Lowran he seemed suddenly to 
 wake. 
 
 The cowered decrepit ex-drunkard seemed to become a 
 new man. He actually erected himself, so that in the plain 
 sight of all, a cubit was added to his stature. 
 
 "No " he cried, with a gesture of real dignity, "this 
 my daughter is no beggar wench. There is no disgrace 
 in her family tree, save her connection with me. Mrs. 
 Latimer of Lowran, I have the honour to inform you 
 that this young lady comes of as good and unstained a 
 lineage as the best of your husband's house. And if I may 
 be allowed the discourtesy in the course of a genealogical 
 discussion, she is of better stock than your own. You 
 have known my daughter only as Adora Gracie, the 
 daughter of the schoolmaster of Lowran. I have to in- 
 form you that my name is Donald Balgracie, younger son 
 of the late Archibald Balgracie, of Balgracie, in the 
 county of Midlothian, as you can ascertain by writing to 
 my brother, the present laird. I have the honour, madam, 
 of bidding you a very good day." 
 
 And taking his hand from his daughter's arm, the old 
 gentleman gentleman once more and for ever, lifted his 
 hat and swept the two women a ceremonious salutation of 
 leave-taking. 
 
 The Lady of Lowran instinctively bowed, overcome and 
 amazed. She remained with her hand pressed to her 
 breast, her mouth a little open, looking after the pair as 
 they took their way down the long sunlit Glen of Plucka- 
 min, with the afternoon glow lying bright and warm and 
 even upon everything. 
 
 When they had vanished the Lady of Lowran turned to 
 Purslane, and the first words she uttered, stammering and 
 amazed, were these: "If that be true Balgracie of Bal- 
 
234 STRONG MAC 
 
 grade is dead without heirs. I saw the advertisement in 
 
 yesterday's Observer and these two do not know." 
 * ' * * * * * * 
 
 The two women looked long at each other, reading even 
 to the dividing asunder of soul and marrow. Then with 
 one accord they turned and followed Adora Gracie with 
 their eyes as she went down the leafy glade, supporting 
 the painful steps of Donald Balgracie, drunken outcast 
 and proximate landowner. But if there was any thought 
 common to both their hearts, they gave it no expression in 
 words. 
 
CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 ADORA FINDS HER SOUL. 
 
 THERE are few hearts sadder than that of a brave 
 woman who after a long struggle finds that she is reaching 
 the limits of her courage. And it was thus that Adora 
 Gracie felt as she led her father away from the interview 
 with the Lady of Lowran. She had given little attention 
 and no concern to what her father had said to Mrs. Lati- 
 mer about his birth and position. From her childhood she 
 had been accustomed to such outbursts though never, it 
 is true, delivered with such assurance and detail. But at a 
 certain stage of his failing, high birth and noble connec- 
 tions formed a maudlin topic of her father's, particularly 
 distasteful to his daughter. 
 
 Indeed the prospect before her was one to daunt the 
 boldest woman. What to do she knew not. To beg she 
 was ashamed, and with her father to keep watch and ward 
 over, even honest "digging" of any kind seemed out of the 
 question. She dared not leave him a moment alone. 
 Adora felt that she could not go through Lowran. She 
 dreaded the faces at the windows, ugly, curious, sneering, 
 hateful faces. She could not bear to pass the schoolhouse 
 where Hardhill's "stickit" nephew had already been in- 
 stalled. The sight of the bairns at marbles in the school 
 playground would have been agony to her. A skipping- 
 rope (she thought) would have broken her heart. She 
 turned into the Loop Road the by-way through the poli- 
 cies of Lowran, along which on the night of his first ap- 
 prehension, Roy McCulloch had conducted her home. As 
 she passed between the bushes, strange thoughts darted 
 1 like lightning through her soul. 
 
 Ah, the by-ways of life! Ill and good alike lurk in 
 
236 STRONG MAC 
 
 them. Who amongst us, straying down some solitary 
 lane, idle of thought, empty of intention, has not come 
 suddenly upon that which has changed all his life? For 
 good, sometimes. For evil, perhaps oftener, teaching the 
 wisdom of the double-barrelled maxim : "Be not idle when 
 alone ; nor alone when idle." 
 
 Yet sometimes in the uncharted by-ways good sprites 
 lurk. For even now, when Adora's way was most desolate, 
 her future to the eye of sense most hopeless, such an one 
 appeared, as unexpected to the sight as the Queen of the 
 Fairies a-swing upon the topmost petal of a rose-bush. 
 
 Only this fairy queen had silvery hair with blond 
 lights in it, and for a magic wand carried knitting needles 
 of clicking steel, from which not even the most poignant 
 emotion caused her to drop a stitch. It was Aline Mc- 
 Quhirr, waiting for them to pass that way. She had 
 heard of the terrible events at House of Muir. Indeed her 
 brother had just come in, furious with anger at the treat- 
 ment which the mob had dealt out to Roy and his father 
 "bound like brute beasts and thrown into a cart bottom," 
 had been his report. 
 
 So Aline the gentle, knowing in her heart that House of 
 Muir would be no abiding place for Adora and her father, 
 came to compel what had been formerly refused, both on 
 account of the smallness of her accommodation and be- 
 cause of the jealousy of her brother Adam's wife at the 
 farm. 
 
 This time, however, Aline would take no refusal. She 
 was armed in advance against every objection. 
 
 "There are two rooms and a garret for three folk," she 
 said, "and ye can sleep bravely in my broad bed, lassie! 
 Ye are jimp and sma' ! And as for Flora up at the farm 
 nineteen months o' clarty byres and a rousing bairn to 
 suckle, hae learn her that she didna mairry Adam Mc- 
 Quhirr only to sit in a ben room, arrayed like Solomon in 
 a' his glory, surroonded wi' cheena ornaments !" 
 
 So it befell that, as with the children of the righteous, so 
 with the child of the drunken schoolmaster, Adora found 
 
ADORA FINDS HER SOUL 237 
 
 herself once more not forsaken, and without necessity to 
 beg her bread. Yet neither here nor elsewhere would she 
 eat the bread of the idle. In the cot house of Gairie there 
 was a spinning wheel at Aline's, and Adora was a past 
 mistress of the art. So the two women made a compact. 
 
 As much as anything else, what Adora needed was time 
 to bethink herself. Her father's boast of ancestry had in- 
 deed passed over her as the wind. That was less than 
 nothing. But there was Roy McCulloch lying in St. 
 Cuthbertstown jail under the dark suspicion of having 
 committed two murders for her sake. 
 
 For her sake yes, for her sake. True or untrue, she 
 was smitten because of that. Why else was she an out- 
 cast, scarce daring to set foot beyond the door, lest the 
 same wild insensate mob she had seen at House of Muir 
 should gather and sack the humble cottage of her gentlest 
 hostess. 
 
 Roy McCulloch was innocent, of that she had no doubt 
 but what of Sharon ? The question had often troubled 
 her, and amongst other things she must think it out. 
 During her evening walks with Roy's father, she had seen 
 deeper than perhaps any had ever done before into the 
 stern, silent, determined nature of the ex-smuggler. The 
 dark stain which the death of his wife had made across the 
 man's life had not been washed away by the tide of events, 
 nor yet had it faded out with the lapse of time. 
 
 As she walked Aline's beautifully clean floor, back and 
 forth, to the booming rhythm of her wheel, Adora went 
 over every circumstance in her mind, and the more she 
 thought, the greater was her perplexity. She saw that in 
 helping Roy, she might very well send his father to the 
 gallows. Carefully and dispassionately, as a judge sums 
 up, she laid the evidence piece by piece before her own 
 mind. First, there was the calmness with which, having 
 a son familiar with the law, Sharon McCulloch had 
 awaited Roy's release. He had said nothing, done 
 nothing, sought no advocate simply waited. Was it un- 
 natural calmness born of mere callousness, or did it spring 
 
238 STRONG MAC 
 
 from superior knowledge? Often in their wanderings 
 Sharon McCulloch had fulminated against the lairds 
 Lowran, Barwhinnock, Glenkells. Their very names were 
 anathema to him. She had seen the muscles working on 
 the grim old face as he spoke of them. As to Sandy 
 Ewan, had he not said of him : "The spilling of any man's 
 blood is doubtless a crime, and satisfaction for it is rightly 
 demanded of the slayer. But yet if the Lord of Justice 
 hath an Angel of Death abroad on the earth, it is surely 
 his duty to strike down such a man as Alexander Ewan." 
 
 But from these speculations Adora's mind constantly 
 returned to this Roy McCulloch, at least, was certainly 
 innocent, and if his father had indeed shed blood, Sharon 
 was not the man to let the innocent suffer in his place or 
 even along with him still less if that man were his own 
 son. 
 
 Yet the more she thought, the more tangled became the 
 skein. When she had turned matters over in her mind 
 Adora could not even arrive at any certainty that the Laird 
 of Lowran had been murdered. A blood-stained coat, 
 footsteps, a straying road-weary horse, a man mys- 
 teriously gone from his place these circumstances, 
 though demanding explanation, were no proof that actual 
 murder had been done. Doubtless Sandy Ewan was an- 
 other matter. His huge body, suddenly stricken inert 
 the devil that was in him for ever exorcised (so far as this 
 world was concerned), had been found making a blot upon 
 the fair God's morning, cumbering the Glebe Road. Only 
 his iniquities remained after him his plottings, his con- 
 trivings, his evil doings, which were still the talk of the 
 country and the scandal of the soberly inclined. No, it 
 was small wonder to a thoughtful observer that Sandy 
 Ewan had been found with that knife-haft right-angled 
 above his breast-bone. The only wonder was that it had 
 not happened years before. 
 
 ******* 
 
 Aline left her guest much to herself. The Dominie, 
 abundantly supplied with books from Aline's wall-press, 
 
ADORA FINDS HER SOUL 239 
 
 needed to be cared for chiefly at morn and even. For at 
 her flitting the old maid had brought with her to the cot 
 house of Gairie the entire family library. 
 
 "Gin I want them I'll come and borrow them, Ailie !" 
 her brother had said, "and that's no doom's likely. The 
 Drumfern Observer is as muckle as I can manage and 
 even that is maistly twa-three weeks auld afore I get it 
 through-hands." 
 
 So the clear wise head of Adora Gracie, by circum- 
 stances and training far too old for such young shoulders, 
 was filled with thoughts which came in thronging troops. 
 Sidney Latimer had spoken of her as a girl who ought to 
 have been a lawyer. In the commonest argument she was 
 never satisfied till she had disentangled a fact, and brought 
 it into relation with every other which she held duly 
 established. 
 
 As to her present inquiry, material in plenty was at her 
 disposal. For one thing Adam McQuhirr was a most de- 
 termined gossip his hospitable house a perennial centre 
 of talk and toddy. Every morning he would "cry in" as he 
 called it, to give Adora and his sister the benefit of the 
 "news" of the previous night. 
 
 "And ye may haud to that !" he would say of some fresh 
 fact, naming the source of his information, "I threepit 
 doon the man's throat it was a lee, but fegs, he proved it !" 
 
 For, as was natural, the whole valley of the Dee and all 
 the region between the three Cairnsimuirs were thick with 
 rumours of every sort. Each day a new "clue" was dis- 
 covered. There were men from Edinburgh. There were 
 all the peace officers in the Stewartry. There were ama- 
 teurs also, not a few. And there was a rumour, given for 
 what it was worth, of a certain awful Bow Street Runner, 
 more to be dreaded than the murderer himself, who had 
 been set upon the trail by the Lady of Lowran herself. 
 
 Outwardly it was a peaceful life which the two women 
 led at the Gairie cottage in the time of the falling leaf. 
 Kind Adam gave them their potatoes and peatleading. In 
 the idle summer weeks, " 'twixt hay and harvest," he set 
 
240 STRONG MAC 
 
 his men to chop wood and " clean up aboot the place." He 
 sent them down his own household yarn to spin, which, in 
 days when an entire family wore cloth woven from the 
 produce of its own flocks, was something considerable. 
 His wife, he said, whqn explaining the matter, was "juist 
 for a' the world a woman abandoned to curds-and-whey 
 and the settin' o' a' mainner o* hens' eggs !" 
 
 Adora had plenty of time on her hand for her task. She 
 had been trained for this, and with the quiet and the as- 
 sured peace of her new abode there came the need to do 
 something to clear up the terrible double mystery which 
 had overshadowed all the lives connected in any way with 
 hers. The girl felt her intellect sharpened for the duty. 
 She knew, without ever actually thinking it, that she was 
 cleverer than any one in the neighbourhood. Her mind 
 followed a clue instinctively, coldly, for itself even as 
 she had read mathematics for pleasure in the old days 
 at the schoolhouse, while her father was dissertating 
 lengthily upon the beauties of ancient literature. 
 
 So, like a machine, Adora set herself to the task of 
 the solution of the problem, dispassionately, impersonally, 
 with regulated speed and trained precision. What im- 
 pelled her? For no machine, however perfect, can do its 
 work without a motive power. Certainly no mere abstract 
 love of justice, which is a passion with some. 
 
 It might have been love though if so, Adora herself 
 would probably be the last to know it. Love? Well, per- 
 haps. But for whom ? 
 
 Her position, in the complete retirement, half conceal- 
 ment of the little house in the Gairie loaning, prevented 
 her from following up any clues on the spot. She could not 
 go to the Boreland or be seen on the Glebe Road, she could 
 not examine the spot where as the spring night drew to 
 morning Sandy Ewan had gripped his last handful of 
 earth and weeds. Nor yet to the Great House of Lowran, 
 guarded by Jonathan Grier, and inhabited by two women 
 who hated her. Least of all could she venture near House 
 of Muir, which remained in the hands of the lowest of the 
 
ADORA FINDS HER SOUL 241 
 
 law's myrmidons, deputy substitutes of the sheriff's officer 
 at St. Cuthbertstown. 
 
 No, it was clear to Adora Gracie that with no more 
 than her own unaided individual judgment, she must clear 
 and disentangle the true from the false, and find the way 
 of deliverance for those who had been staunchly her 
 friends in the day of her tribulation. 
 
 So day after day she set herself, during the long hours 
 of work, while Aline glided about like a noiseless fairy, 
 never interrupting, never leaving her wholly alone, to 
 trace out the course of events, line upon line, with the 
 aids of the calendar, the district newspapers and the local 
 road maps which Adam McQuhirr loaned her. She made 
 few written notes, and those chiefly at the close of the day, 
 when, as was her custom, she walked up into the fields 
 behind the cottage to a little look-out knoll, where was a 
 standing stone much used by cattle as a rubbing-post. 
 This was her study. 
 
 Here, her thoughts of the day became clarified, as the 
 cool of evening struck inward upon her bared head. All 
 that she had considered during the working hours drew to 
 a point. She knew not that she was beautiful as she stood 
 there in the rich glow of evening. She would have taken 
 it as an insult if any one had told her so or at least, 
 almost any one. 
 
 She was the thinker, the resolver, the only person in 
 Lowran capable of setting apart once for all Truth and the 
 lie. That she had been born a girl seemed to Adora a 
 pity. She could have done so much more as a man. Still 
 since that could not be helped, she must do the best she 
 could, in spite of the drawbacks with which an unkind 
 Nature had handicapped her. 
 
 In those days of rule-of-thumb she reconstituted the 
 crime according to the latest and most approved methods. 
 She ruled nobody out. She rose with a mind perfectly 
 open to conviction every morning. She imagined Roy, 
 furious with anger against the author, actual or sup- 
 posed, of his long imprisonment, hastening to face Sandy 
 
242 STRONG MAC 
 
 Ewan. She saw the quarrel, the slow provocation grow- 
 ing in the horse face, the quick outbreak, the blow, the 
 fatal return. She even imagined the cooler, more deliber- 
 ate carrying out of Sharon's crusade against the lairds. 
 All was possible to Adora, that is, as a working hypothesis 
 till she found a better. 
 
 Strange were the places her soul passed through, bound 
 to a body quietly going to and fro before a spinning wheel, 
 during these weeks. But each day lessened the circle, and 
 made her action clearer. And that action must be she 
 saw it every day more clearly, to find Sidney Latimer. 
 Dead or alive, she must find him. 
 
 The problem of what had become of the young laird 
 was sufficiently difficult. The wise folk of the law, both 
 those of home produce and the imported, had failed 
 utterly. His own friends were at a loss. The most active 
 researches that had been carried on had proved in- 
 effectual, and were gradually being dropped. 
 
 How then could a girl, practically confined to a two- 
 roomed house and a scanty round of fields, succeed in that 
 which so many had attempted in vain? Well, for one 
 thing they had not Adora's equipment or Adora's knowl- 
 edge, nor was it possible that they could possess these. 
 
 It may seem a strange, almost an inhuman thing to say, 
 yet it is true that not in the years when she could scarce 
 count her lovers upon her ten fingers, but in the course of 
 this anxious solitary quest did the girl find her soul. 
 
 And the first resolve which solidified in her was a 
 strange one. It was this. Upon a night after dark, when 
 there was a moon but not too brilliant a moon, she would 
 go alone to the Marches of Barnbarroch. 
 
CHAPTER XXXI. 
 THE WOLF'S CUB. 
 
 ALINE knew that there was that on the mind of her 
 little maid which preyed sorely upon its peace. But with 
 the reticent wisdom of age she said little, proffering only 
 the fine sympathy of silence in which she was an adept. 
 So when Adora, without explanation, informed her that 
 she meant to be absent a part of the evening upon business 
 of importance, Aline the gentle sighed, knowing it to be 
 no affair of sweethearts' trysting, and offered her a 
 pistol which had certainly not been loaded for a hundred 
 years. Adora declined smilingly the doubtful advantage 
 of this weapon. But she exhibited to the shuddering gaze 
 of Aline the ornamented clasp-knife which Sharon, the 
 ex-smuggler, had brought from Spain, and the very sight 
 of which open as Aline said, "made you think of 
 murder." 
 
 Since, however, at that time little else was thought about 
 over twenty parishes, the aspect of the weapon was less 
 bloodthirsty than the old maid's exclamation might lead 
 one to suppose. 
 
 Still Adora was armed. She knew how to defend her- 
 self. For Sharon had been at pains to teach her the 
 Spanish art of the knife-play, as he himself had practised 
 it for the favours of a certain Magarato girl of Astorga in 
 the open ground behind the huge gaunt cathedral of Leon. 
 
 Adora's purpose was clear. She felt that the key of the 
 whole mystery lay in or about the Marches of Barnbar- 
 roch. Very well, she would go there then, and at the time 
 she had chosen. 
 
 At last the suitable night arrived. It was just at the 
 time when the moon emerges from the crescent, a misty 
 
244 STRONG MAC 
 
 night with the mild haze of autumn suspended about 
 the height of the tree-tops. There is no use in saying that 
 Adora's heart did not beat, or that she was perfectly with- 
 out fear. Being young and a woman she was afraid 
 deadly afraid. But none the less she went because it 
 was a necessary part of her plan. 
 
 As Adora approached the Marches of Barnbarroch, the 
 moon was already low and the night serene, but the pearly 
 haze rendered all outlines indistinct and the whole land- 
 scape full of soft mystery. But Adora's mind was bent 
 upon one purpose, even as a steel trap is set. She saw 
 only what she had gone forth to look for, and she marched 
 on with eager and unfaltering determination. She passed 
 up the long Glen of Pluckamin, the moon struggling to 
 sift through the tall trees, and dappling sparsely the path 
 with curdled light. She paused for a moment at the top, 
 in order to gaze abroad across the heathery moorland 
 which ran ten miles to the west and north in long undula- 
 tions, unbroken save for a few such bowl-like "cleuchs" as 
 the Marches of Barnbarroch. 
 
 Adora laid herself down on a flat rock overlooking the 
 deep gully. She could see through the faintly frosted 
 moonshine the shapes of the stones and the white wimple 
 of the track as it descended and again ascended. But 
 nothing moved. Every sprig of heath, leaf of alder, and 
 frond of bracken seemed . carved in ebony, and a mystic 
 peace brooded over all. 
 
 Yet it was here, in this quiet dell, that Sidney Latimer's 
 bloody coat had been found. Here the footmarks had 
 been the thickest and the most deeply indented here (and 
 the thought came to her with a kind of thrill) she and her 
 father had met Daid McRobb with a flesh wound on his 
 leg. Adora was near her purpose now. So drawing a 
 long breath, and with her hand on Sharon's Leonese knife, 
 she rose to her feet and sent forth a far-reaching musical 
 cry. 
 
 "Daid! Daid! Oh-h-h- Daid!" 
 
 It was the call with which she had often witched the 
 
THE WOLF'S CUB 245 
 
 truants back to school, when her father's severity had 
 frightened them to the rocks and caves of the earth. As 
 interpreted by the youth of Lowran it meant at once for- 
 giveness and protection. 
 
 Quite unconsciously Adora stood beside the "standing 
 stane" which had been a Druid monument. She leaned her 
 elbow on the grooved altar-top and waited. 
 
 "Daid! Daid! Oh-h-hDaid!" 
 
 As girls that call the kine to the milking bars in the 
 quiet of eventide, so at the gate of the unknown 
 Adora called. Thrice the cry went forth without an an- 
 swer, but at the fourth, hardly were the words out of her 
 mouth, when apparently descending from heaven, Daid 
 the Deil stood by the girl's side. He pressed his fingers 
 to her lips, at the same time pulling her down among the 
 loose boulders, where she had stood, smothered to the 
 waist in heather. 
 
 "Hush," he said, "he's yonder!" 
 
 The two lay on the lip of the cup, which was cut 
 through the centre from verge to verge by the six-foot 
 dyke that gave the place its name of the Marches of Barn- 
 barroch. They could see the gap in the dry stone wall 
 its shadow pale blue in the misty moonlight and lengthen- 
 ing as the moon westered. Parts of the wrecked gate had 
 been used for firewood, and what remained now lay in the 
 gap a mere heap of posts and bars broken and splintered. 
 
 But all was strangely still and peaceful under the moon. 
 Nevertheless, Daid took the girl's hand to pull her away. 
 But a vague expectation held her. Down by the heap of 
 splinters in the darkest of the gap it seemed to Adora that 
 something had moved. She shook off Daid's hand and 
 looked long and eagerly. Perhaps perhaps after all she 
 had not come there for nothing. 
 
 And as she looked, a small black thing, toad-like and 
 squat, moved to the pile of wood as if to collect some of the 
 debris. So slow and deliberate were its movements that 
 several times Adora thought she must have been mistaken. 
 
246 STRONG MAC 
 
 But no the creature was nearer now than it had been 
 when first she caught sight of it. She could hear Daid 
 breathing supplications in her ear to come away. 
 
 "For the love o' God, come!" he said, invoking that 
 which, most certainly, the poor outcast knew nothing 
 about. 
 
 Then, sudden as two hands clapped together, something 
 happened which might well have daunted the stoutest 
 heart. Perhaps some flutter of woman's apparel, or some 
 bright glinting of button or metal clasp advertised the 
 presence of spies to the unknown thing crouched in the 
 hollow beneath. At any rate, in a moment the creature's 
 painful deliberation of movement was changed into a 
 rapid crab-like rush straight up the rough hillside, the 
 slaty stones clinking and spinning from under its feet. 
 
 With a hoarse cry Daid thrust Adora behind him, 
 snatching her Spanish knife as he did so. 
 
 "Quick I" Boon wi' ye ! Doon the brae ! Rin ! For 
 God's sake, rin !" he cried. 
 
 But he himself stood still, with Sharon's knife in his 
 hand. 
 
 And be it said that for once in her life Adora obeyed the 
 male without question. 
 
 It was not that she was simply afraid. Something hor- 
 rid, deformed, troglodyte, about the creature raised a 
 whirlwind of terror, wild and vague, in Adora's bosom. 
 But Daid, to whom apparently the mystery was no mys- 
 tery, remained behind, standing upon his defence. 
 ******* 
 
 At the foot of the hill, when Adora glanced round, she 
 saw the boy, immovable, with Sharon's knife still in his 
 hand. He was wiping it on his sleeve, but of his demon 
 assailant nothing whatever was to be seen. 
 
 Daid descended the hill tranquilly and with circumspec- 
 tion. Then he rendered Adora back her knife in silence. 
 
 "And noo," he said, "what is't that ye are wantin' wi' 
 Daid?" 
 
 "David," began the girl softly, "in the gaol of St. 
 
THE WOLF'S CUB 247 
 
 Cuthbertstown there lie two innocent men. I want you to 
 help me to get them out !" 
 
 The boy stood a moment uncertain, as if balancing 
 something in his mind. 
 
 "If I do help ye/' he said, "ye will sweer never to tell 
 what ye hae seen the nicht ! Nor say ocht aboot this ?" 
 
 He touched the wound in his leg, still bare and unhealed. 
 
 Adora promised, and the boy, reassured on that point, 
 gradually unbending, gave the girl more of his confidence. 
 
 "Aweel," he said, with a more friendly accent, "tell me 
 what it is ye want !" 
 
 There was nothing absolutely hostile in the boy's atti- 
 tude. But it was evident that he was there in a posture of 
 defence Daid contra mundum!" And it behoved him 
 to be wary even with an ancient friend like Adora. The 
 girl resolved to give him her full confidence. 
 
 "I want you to help me," she said, "to find out if Sidney 
 Latimer is murdered or not, and who it was that killed 
 Sandy Ewan." 
 
 "Let the second bide," said Daid the Deil, "they will 
 never hang ony man for that. But I'll help ye wi' the 
 findin' o' the Laird o' Lowran, gin he is to be fand aboon 
 the earth or oot o' the water !" 
 
 The girl gazed at the strange ragged outcast who had 
 once been her pupil in the law-abiding Presbyterially ex- 
 amined school of Lowran. 
 
 "What do you know about it ?" she said, breathlessly ; 
 "do you think he is dead ?" 
 
 "Them that are oot a' nicht on the face o' the muir, wi' 
 nae bed but the heather, ken a heap o' things that folk in 
 hooses o' biggit stane hear nocht aboot !" replied the boy, 
 enigmatically. 
 
 "But what do you know?" demanded Adora. "If you 
 have any care or love for Roy McCulloch or his father, 
 tell me at once." 
 
 "I hae nane o' either for his faither," said the boy 
 sulkily ; "as for him, he may hang by the neck for ocht that 
 Daid cares !" 
 
248 STRONG MAC 
 
 "Then you care as little for Roy McCulloch?" she said, 
 diplomatically ; "I thought you loved him !" 
 
 "Loved him aye, maybe as well as you, for a' your 
 talk," cried the boy, suddenly stung into hot anger. "Do 
 you love him, as ye caa' it you that's sae glib wi' siccan 
 awesome words? 'Love' indeed! Wha speaks aboot 
 'lovin' } fowk till they're deid !" 
 
 This was coming somewhat near home, and Adora 
 wished to change the venue. 
 
 "You wish to save him, don't you," she said "to help 
 me to save him that is ?" 
 
 But Daid had seen too many of the hithers and thithers 
 of life to be put off with mere verbal counters. 
 
 "I'll tell you," he said, turning and facing her in the 
 deep darks of Pluckamin Cleuch, into which the last strug- 
 gling slants of the moonlight could hardly enter, "I'll tell 
 ye, Adora Gracie, what ye aiblins dinna ken yoursel', 
 aye, and what maybe will no thank me for tellin' ye. It's 
 this lasses dinna gang at mirk midnicht to the Mairches 
 6' Barnbarroch, an' it be na for the sake o' them they love 
 (as ye caa' it) wi' a' their hearts ! Noo what yin is it? Is 
 it for the sake o' Laird Latimer, that's maybe deid an' 
 buried, an' maybe no or is it for Roy McCulloch, that 
 rins a sair chance o' being hanged for murderin' a man he 
 never laid hand upon ?" 
 
 The boy, who had spoken with extraordinary vehemence, 
 unexpectedly seized Adora by the wrists, as if to compel 
 her to answer. The girl, taken by surprise, temporised 
 after the manner of women. 
 
 "Why do you ask such foolish questions?" she said, 
 trying to shake herself loose from his grasp. 
 
 "Aye, but are they foolish ?" demanded the boy, keeping 
 his grip and thrusting his face nearer to hers ; "they are 
 juist this foolish, that if it be for the sake of Laird Lati- 
 mer that ye cam' to Barnbarroch at this time o' nicht 
 then Roy McCulloch had better be hanged in peace in St. 
 Cuthbert's gaol !" 
 
THE WOLF'S CUB 249 
 
 "Why would it be better?" said Adora, as the boy 
 paused. 
 
 "Aye, better for him than to gang on wi' a broken 
 heart to see you ridin' to the kirk as my Leddy o' Low- 
 ran !" cried the boy, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight 
 like those of a wolf cub which indeed he was. 
 
 And Adora Gracie, who feared not the face of man, 
 quailed before him. 
 
CHAPTER XXXII. 
 DEVIL'S WORK. 
 
 THE pair went down the Cleuch of Pluckamin together. 
 At intervals, as if to guard their rear from attack, the boy 
 turned and listened keenly and with the most anxious sus- 
 picion. Adora listened too, but she heard nothing save 
 the hooting of the cue owl, the chatter of discontented 
 blackbirds squabbling on their perches in the pine thickets, 
 together with that faint under-rustle of mystery which 
 may be heard at night in every wood the coming and go- 
 ing of beast and bird and creeping thing upon their 
 errands, private and personal, under the friendly cover of 
 the dark. 
 
 But the particular creeping thing which had taken the 
 brae at the March of Barnbarroch like a charging tiger, 
 seemed to have relinquished the chase, for the boy turned 
 away satisfied. 
 
 "Mind, ye are no to come hereawa' again, or 1*11 no an- 
 swer for *t!" he adjured his companion. "It michtna be 
 canny." 
 
 "But how about yourself, Daid?" the girl said, kindly, 
 "are you in no danger ?" 
 
 "Danger ? Me ?" answered Daid, with marked surprise. 
 "Aye, maybe but no mair than ordinary !" 
 
 "Then you will find out about Sidney Latimer, as you 
 promised," she continued; "you will come to Aline Mc- 
 Quhirr's cottage and bring me news of what you find out 
 down by the Gate House of Cally !" 
 
 "I hae said I will, and I will," the boy answered steadily, 
 "on the day after the morn. It will be in the gloamin' 
 
DEVIL'S WORK 251 
 
 likely gye and late. Ailie will be in her bed when I come. 
 Ye can tell her what lee ye like, but ye maun come doon to 
 the White Yetts to meet me !" 
 
 "She trusts me/' said Adora, simply. "I can come and 
 go when I will." 
 
 "She has need!" returned Daid; "it's no every lass that 
 wad venture as far, wi' nae ither convoy than Daid the 
 Deil !" 
 
 It was true, Aline of the Silver Hair had indeed great 
 confidence in her guest. But then the gracious silent per- 
 ception of the old gentlewoman made it clear to her that 
 anything of the nature of a common intrigue was wholly 
 foreign to the character of Adora Gracie. So, from the cot- 
 tage at the loaning-end, Adora went and came unques- 
 tioned and unreproved, at hours when even a roving 
 ploughman, in the first rush of young blood, would 
 
 scarce have ventured to be abroad. 
 
 ******* 
 
 It was long past the set time for his return, and yet Daid 
 the Deil had not appeared. Adora, knowing in what a 
 secret hell of dangers and uncertainties it was the boy's 
 lot to dwell, grew seriously alarmed for his safety. She 
 had slipped out by the door of the little cot house, and now 
 stood at the gable-end near the peat stack, under the full 
 glow of the moon, now increased in light and favour, sail- 
 ing high in the serene heavens. 
 
 The night was large and gracious. The deep tran- 
 quillity of a still autumn night held everything breathless. 
 It was chillish, evidently making for frost towards the 
 morning, and occasionally a broad ash leaf, nipped at its 
 base, came noiselessly balancing down. 
 
 Never had girl expected lover as Adora did Daid's 
 coming. What if she had sent him to his death ? It was 
 possible nay, remembering the Marches of Barnbarroch 
 
 even something more than that. 
 
 ******* 
 
 At last, about four in the morning, he came. But how ? 
 Beaten and torn and stamped almost out of all image of 
 
 
252 STRONG MAC 
 
 humanity, Daid the Deil it was who crept out of some 
 secret wild-beast lair into the clear moonlight and the 
 homely smell of the fire-warmed hearths of men. 
 
 And seeing him thus, come from doing her message, 
 Adora touched to the heart, suddenly wailed aloud. Then 
 Aline, who, faithful to her word, had neither watched nor 
 spied upon her guest, but only lain sleepless, threw a gar- 
 ment about her and sped out to her assistance. 
 
 Between them they lifted the boy within, and laid him 
 on the bed from which Aline had just risen. There was, 
 as always in the cottage, water hot by the "keeping coal" 
 upon the fire. So, carefully and with suppressed sobs of 
 pitifulness, the two women removed the saturated rags 
 from about Daid's poor body, washed the wounds and 
 bruises which they found there in abundance, softened 
 the matted masses of his hair, and wrapped the boy in 
 such luxury of white lavender-scented linen as he had 
 never imagined to be anywhere in the world. 
 
 All the time he was conscious. His eyes followed them 
 about as they went and came, but with a kind of desire, 
 dumb and wistful, which Adora could not explain. Still 
 they found upon him no deadly wound, nothing to account 
 for the terrible exhaustion of the patient. 
 
 Yet he seemed somehow dazed lying and gazing at 
 them, dumb, helpless, pathetic. It was evident that, for 
 the moment at least, he was beyond speech. For during 
 all their tendance of him no sound had escaped his lips, 
 except once or twice a low inarticulate moan, as if forced 
 from the depths of his being. 
 
 On the other hand his desire to drink was insatiable. 
 Adora had already brought him two full jugs of water 
 cold from the well. It was Aline, however, Aline the 
 gentle, who, lifting up his head to administer some cool- 
 ing draught, made a gruesome discovery. 
 
 The boy's tongue was gone in its place a terrible 
 wound! 
 
 Then, both together, the two women broke down, cry- 
 ing bitterly and rocking to and fro, while Daid gazed 
 
DEVIL'S WORK 253 
 
 mournfully at them without tears. Then Aline, recog- 
 nising that this was more responsibility than they could 
 undertake alone, resolved to go for assistance much as 
 they wished to keep secret the presence of Daid McRobb 
 in the cot house of the Gairie. 
 
 The farmer came down instantly at the sound of his 
 sister's voice underneath his window. And just as ready 
 was he to saddle a horse from the stable that he might ride 
 to Cairn Edward for the doctor. But before this was 
 done, Daid had been removed to the garret of the little 
 cot house. Good-hearted Adam offered the hospitality of 
 the Gairie, but as half the parish made the farm parlour 
 a place of call, Aline declined, much to Adora's relief. Not 
 only must the boy be nursed, but here was a third mystery 
 to be solved. 
 
 "Then if ye willna bring the laddie up to the Gairie, I 
 will gie ye a hand to carry him up to your ain baulks !" 
 said Adam McQuhirr, to whose strong arms the trans- 
 port of a boy like Daid, even up a crazy ladder, was a 
 light and easy task. 
 
 It was six of the morning when Dr. Erasmus Steven 
 arrived at the Gairie a wise, silent man, whose eyes had 
 seen curious sights in their time, but whose tongue had 
 never mentioned one of them not even to his wife. 
 Which is saying no little for a country practitioner in a 
 district where, next to an overruling Providence, the dis- 
 tributor of news is the greatest bearer of blessings. 
 
 The tall doctor could hardly stand upright in the garret 
 of Aline's cottage, but he went about his duties with that 
 air of efficient gentleness which not palatial halls would 
 have enhanced. 
 
 Finally he motioned for the two women to go out 
 Aline, who had stood trembling, and Adora, who had 
 been his helper, holding herself as sedate and composed 
 as if she had done nothing but assist a surgeon all her life. 
 Then, seeing Daid a little recovered, he got out his 
 sheaf of paper slips on which he was accustomed to write 
 down his notes and prescriptions. 
 
254 STRONG MAC 
 
 "Do you hear me and understand what I say?" he 
 asked, looking the boy in the eyes, as the grey light of the 
 forenoon fell upon him on the little bed beneath the sky- 
 light in Aline's garret room. 
 
 Daid nodded. The dazed look left momentarily his 
 eyes. 
 
 "Then," said the doctor, "write me the name of the man 
 who did this, on the sheet of paper I put before you. I am 
 a magistrate. It is a dastardly affair, and, as soon as may 
 be, we must get to the bottom of it !" 
 
 The expression on the face of the boy never changed as 
 he listened. He took the pencil and wrote. With a glow 
 of satisfaction on his impassive face the doctor watched 
 him. But this faded as he read the three words in Daid's 
 laborious boyish script. 
 
 "I tfinna ken!" 
 
 Dr. Erasmus paused and frowned as when he had an 
 awkward case to diagnose. He pushed the paper back 
 again into Daid's hands, saying, "Tut, tut, this will never 
 do such a thing could never have taken place without 
 your being aware of the personality of the perpetrator. 
 And consider the importance of the information. It may 
 have been the murderer of the late Mr. Ewan and of Mr. 
 Sidney Latimer, into whose hands you have fallen. Try 
 and recollect yourself. I ask it in the interests of justice." 
 
 Again certain words were painfully traced out. 
 
 "I dinna mind !" 
 
 The doctor, thinking that perhaps he had been over- 
 hasty, or that he had made his appeal in a manner too 
 official, tried again. 
 
 "But, my boy, you do not realise what this means to 
 all of us. It may be your good fortune to put the law on 
 the track of a dangerous murderer. Nay, my poor lad, 
 there is not the slightest doubt that a very serious attempt 
 to murder has been committed on your own person. I 
 have seen many a one succumb to injuries far less serious 
 than yours !" 
 
 The boy lay looking up at Dr. Erasmus Steven as if 
 
DEVIL'S WORK 255 
 
 dazed by the flow of words. He made no endeavour to 
 take the pencil and paper again. 
 
 The doctor decided on a last attempt, though he saw 
 that his patient's strength was failing. 
 
 ''You are prevented from speaking indeed," he said, 
 "but your eyesight is mercifully preserved to you. You 
 have the hearing of your ears. Tell me how this terrible 
 mutilation happened. Add, if possible, a brief description 
 of your assailant. It may help us to the arrest of the 
 culprit, and even lead to consequences more important 
 still ! You will certainly be rewarded !" 
 
 As if driven to it against his will the boy seized the 
 pencil and wrote long. The doctor watched him eagerly. 
 At last he fell back exhausted. The pencil rolled on the 
 floor. His eyes closed. Dr. Erasmus Steven almost shook 
 with excitement. What if he, a plain country practi- 
 tioner, should have within his grasp the heart of the mys- 
 tery which had so long perplexed his ablest legal friends. 
 
 He read the words which the boy had written, clearly 
 enough expressed with his own official pencil. 
 
 "I heard nocht 7 saw nocht 7 ken nocht mind your 
 ain business!" 
 
 With unabated good humour Dr. Erasmus Steven re- 
 tired defeated. He could not break down the boy's re- 
 serve, but he had sufficient contempt for the methods of 
 the fiscal not to report the case at St. Cuthbertstown. If 
 there was anything to be learned, he would learn it first 
 he and not another. The women, who had so strangely 
 taken it into their heads to nurse the boy might perhaps 
 succeed where he had failed. But they did not know what 
 they were undertaking. Injuries of that kind were slow 
 and difficult to heal. There would be time enough to 
 find out by whom, and for what cause, so cruel a mutila- 
 tion had been inflicted upon a boy. Dr. Steven knew that 
 time is the best detective in the world, and that woman is 
 an excellent second. 
 
 So in the "upstairs" of the little but-an'-ben at the 
 Gairie loan end abode Adora's messenger, the secret of his 
 
256 STRONG MAC 
 
 disaster grimly shut up within his own heart. His eyes, 
 indeed, followed every motion wistfully, especially when 
 he and Adora were alone together. Sometimes when he 
 heard the voice of the Dominie below he would shrink, 
 and for the moment appear uneasy. Perhaps he was 
 remembering the nights when Adora used to let him sleep 
 about the peat house at the back of the school in Lowran 
 and when the Dominie, less tender-hearted, came looking 
 for him with an ash plant. 
 
 One day, of his own accord, Daid signified a desire for 
 a pencil and paper. By this time he was getting a little 
 stronger and could even be left occasionally to himself for 
 an hour or two. These were the words which he wrote 
 upon the paper. 
 
 "When is he to be tried?'' 
 
 "In Drumfern at the Spring Circuit," answered 
 Adora, instantly. 
 
 Daid fell back on his pillow, and though he only lifted 
 his eyes to the green bubble on Aline's skylight, there was 
 a prayer in them that reached infinitely higher. 
 
 Then he wrote : 
 
 "Leave me the pencil, if ye please!'' 
 
 So, his request granted, all that morning, at intervals, 
 Daid wrote painfully, word by word, with long rests be- 
 tween the sentences. Adora would come on him again 
 and again with his eyes closed, either deep in thought or 
 recovering after exhaustion. 
 
 At last, about noon, Daid the Deil with a weak hand de- 
 livered his completed message to Adora. 
 
 "Laird Latimer is no deid they pressed him for a man 
 to fecht on the King's ships, thinking he was some ither 
 body. But he got aff, and has gane to fecht Bony, because 
 ye wadna hae him the truth as sure as daith David Mc- 
 
 Robb." 
 
 ******* 
 
 It was an important an all-important communication, 
 even though it revealed nothing as to the cause of Daid's 
 own misfortune. In an instant much that had been dark 
 
DEVIL'S WORK 257 
 
 was clear to Adora Gracie, though not all. Sidney Lati- 
 mer's escape from death she had been in a manner pre- 
 pared for, though why he continued silent when innocent 
 men were in danger of their lives had not previously been 
 explained. 
 
 "They pressed him/' Daid had said. That in itself 
 was likely enough. Pressing parties made the tour of the 
 coast of Solway, and one likely young fellow was as 
 liable as another to be knocked on the head and hurried 
 aboard ship, in these times when recruits were so hard 
 to get for his Majesty's marine, presently at war, both 
 with the Old World and the New. 
 
 The truth of the second part of the message was more 
 difficult for Adora to accept. If a young man could not 
 have all that he wanted, it was surely weak to run away. 
 And at any rate he ought to have let his mother know 
 where he was. Still, Sidney Latimer had never been like 
 other young men of his class or station. He was a spoilt 
 child. Even as a man Adora recalled his sulks in 
 the matter of Strong Mac, and her final rebuke to 
 him. 
 
 It was quite possible, she thought, that such a man 
 might take himself off to the wars without a word said to 
 any one. It was possible he might even think himself in 
 some way quits with Adora by so doing. Young men 
 were apt to take curious things into their heads of which 
 she was not without her experiences. 
 
 How serious might not such childishness turn out to 
 be in its consequences! Yet it was quite possible that, 
 pressed for his Majesty's marines, and escaping by 
 chance, or by some revelation of his quality, Sidney Lati- 
 mer had taken service with the land forces either in Spain 
 or America. 
 
 Nay, was there not a certain friend of his of whom he 
 had spoken, an officer in the army of my Lord Wellington, 
 presently under arms in the Peninsula? Doubtless he 
 would make his way thither. As to this there was no cer- 
 tainty. Yet if Adora could not get word to Sidney Latimer 
 
258 STRONG MAC 
 
 in time, Roy McCulloch (and his father) would almost 
 certainly be hanged for the murder of a living man. 
 
 This, then, was the problem which Adora Gracie had to 
 solve. Sidney Latimer was alive. But if he did not appear 
 at the trial of the McCullochs at the Drumfern sessions, 
 innocent blood would be spilt. Though she tried more 
 than once, Daid could give her no information as to the 
 whereabouts of the missing man. She did not know the 
 name of his friend in the army, nor yet with any cer- 
 tainty whether he was still with my Lord Wellington. A 
 letter a messenger? But how could she depend on that 
 letter or messenger being in time, or discovering Sidney 
 Latimer in the constantly changing camps of the British 
 army, then fighting a succession of the most hardly con- 
 tested battles of the Spanish campaign ? 
 
 Then as to a messenger, whom could she trust to go? 
 
 Swift as a flash, the solution came to Adora, as all great 
 thoughts come. 
 
 She must go herself to Spain to the armies. At 
 whatever risk, at whatever cost, go she must. It was 
 the sole means of preserving the McCullochs and of 
 preventing Sidney Latimer from being the cause, through 
 his own sullen temper of the death of two innocent men. 
 
 In sum, there seemed to Adora nothing for it but this 
 she herself must go to Spain and bring back Sidney 
 Latimer to the Drumfern sessions. No matter what peo- 
 ple said, she must seek him she must find him. 
 
 No matter (and this was the most serious reflection of 
 all to Adora Gracie), no matter what Sidney Latimer him- 
 self might think, she must bring him back to do his duty. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 THE CAPTAIN OF THE "FORTUNE'S QUEEN" 
 
 THAT long serrated line of indigo blue, flecked with 
 touches of remote white, was the coast of Spain. Adora 
 looked at it with a heart that struggled to be brave. She 
 had done this for what for whom? The little household 
 gods of the schoolhouse, hitherto stored in Cairn Edward, 
 had passed into the possession of others that she might 
 come hither. She had left her father a burden on Aline. 
 An additional loan (Adora thought of it with shame) had 
 been obtained from the farmer of Gairie through Aline's 
 mediation. All these things weighed on the heart of the 
 young girl beyond even the thought of the strange coun- 
 try and the warring, unknown peoples among whom she 
 was soon to find herself. 
 
 On Adam McQuhirr's part there had been great will- 
 ingness to lend, even to give, with the sole stipulation that 
 his wife should not be told of his generosity. 
 
 "It wasna her that brocht the siller into the hoose, and 
 it winna hurt her no to ken how it gangs oot!" was 
 Adam's view of the matter. 
 
 But his kindness had gone further. Most opportunely 
 he remembered that when a laddie he had "shorn on the 
 next rig" along with a callant who had afterwards taken to 
 the sea. "And they tell me/' he added, "that he's up to the 
 neck in the Portugal traffic. It's maistly the Oporto wine, 
 ye ken, that the Government are sae keen to hae fowk 
 drink nooadays, and, fegs, if there's a drappie gaun Ebie 
 Sinclair is fell sure to be in the thick o't !" 
 
2<5o STRONG MAC 
 
 So after many backs and forths of letter-writing un- 
 kindly to the farmer's stiff fingers, Adam McQuhirr had 
 set Adora on board Captain Ebenezer Sinclair's ship at 
 Port Glasgow. As it happened, he had business at Fal- 
 kirk a debt to collect (as he asserted), for "some twal' 
 score o' as guid hoggets as ever gaed to tryst or market. 
 And gin the man bena at Falkirk on the Monday, he is 
 sure to be i' the Grassmarket o' Edinburgh i' the Wednes- 
 day!" 
 
 At any rate it was obviously an easy thing for Adam to 
 see Adora on board the Fortune's Queen as she lay off 
 Port Glasgow, ready to spread her wings for flight, along 
 with other twenty sails, escorted by three of his Majesty's 
 war frigates as a convoy, and their destination, as at 
 present announced, the mouth of the Tagus. 
 
 Ebenezer Sinclair proved to be a gruff, bearded man 
 whose vocabulary of Galloway Scots had taken on no 
 other sea-change except a slight flavour of the Tail of the 
 Bank. He received Adora without enthusiasm, indeed 
 with a certain daunting severity. 
 
 "Ye are a daft lassie," he said, glowering at her under 
 his eyebrows, "to gang sae far for ony man, and into 
 siccan a country. But I kenned your faither afore ye, 
 and onything that Captain Ebenezer Sinclair can do for 
 ye shall no be found wantin' !" 
 
 Once on deck he called Adora to him as he stood con- 
 ning the ship down the narrow muddy river, and in the 
 intervals of proclaiming Anathema Maranatha upon all 
 sailor-men, he gave her sundry counsels of utility. 
 
 "I'm a rough man, lassie," he said, "ye will often hae to 
 excuse my ill-scrapit tongue, but, ye see, thae waistrils 
 gathered aff the seeven seas wadna understand ony ither 
 kind o' talk. But it will be as weel for ye to say, gin ony 
 body speers, that Ebenezer Sinclair o' Port Glasgow is 
 your uncle, and that, as ye are on his business, he will 
 answer ony questions that folk hae to ask. And when ye 
 win to the airmy, haud nae talk wi' this yin or that, 
 neither wi' sargeant's cane nor cockit hat, but gang 
 
CAPTAIN OF THE "FORTUNE'S QUEEN" 261 
 
 straight to my Lord Wellington himsel'! An' when ye 
 meet on wi' him, says you to him, 'My 'Lord, I am a 
 decent Scots lass, the niece o' Captain Ebenezer Sinclair 
 o' Port Glasgow, that has dune an obleegement or twa for 
 your Lordship in his time, and naething said about it!' 
 Dinna be feared o' his crooked neb an' his grand ways. 
 Haud till him, and aye keep mindin' him o' your Uncle 
 Ebenezer. Then oot wi' your askin', lassie an' the Lord 
 be mercifu' to ye ! For me, I wuss I had been a younger 
 man to hae a lass come that far for the sake o' me. No but 
 what I hae seen the day aye, and let it slip awa' frae me 
 like a slack-handed villain ! And noo I am ower auld for 
 ony young thing to gang to the doorstep for the sake o' 
 my auld cankered veesage, wrinkled and wizened up like 
 a year-auld tawtie !" 
 
 So, as Adora stood on the deck of the Fortune's 
 Queen of Port Glasgow, it was as niece of the captain 
 and owner of that stout brig that she made her passage. 
 She had a Spanish grammar and dictionary constantly in 
 her hand, and she laboured hard at the language, enlarg- 
 ing the scanty vocabulary which Sharon McCulloch had 
 taught her during those summer evenings, in the intervals 
 of his tales of the old-time free-trade and his explanation 
 of the nicks on the handle of the Leonese knife. 
 
 Besides the master there were two young officers on 
 board, the first and second mates, both hailing "oot o' the 
 Clyde." John White, the first mate, was a tall, blonde son 
 of Anak, with a sort of gentle perspiration always break- 
 ing over him, which, as a matter of course, caused the 
 crew to dub him Sweatin' Jock. The other, Edgar Hil- 
 lowton, was a stoutish thick-set little man with a tre- 
 mendous voice, and a fist like the Day of Judgment. So 
 that if the crew had any nickname for him, they confined 
 it strictly to the forecastle. 
 
 A well-found ship was the Fortune's Queen. There 
 was no lack of sound viand or excellent water on board, 
 nor was the "auld man" at all stingy with a drop of grog 
 upon occasion. But it was a working ship. If any A. B. 
 
262 STRONG MAC 
 
 did not do the whole duty of man aboard, he heard 
 about it unto demonstration, and the next time was apt to 
 do it on the run. 
 
 Adora thought it was beautiful to see the fine swift war 
 frigates working the convoy like shepherd's dogs, bring- 
 ing up the laggards, restraining the clean-heeled, and, as 
 often as a clump of sails showed suspect above the hori- 
 zon, forming up for defence, the black muzzles of the guns 
 at the portholes, ready to fight to the death for the com- 
 merce committed by them. Verily, as our great enemy 
 said, in 1813, we were a nation of shopkeepers only the 
 shopkeepers could fight and did fight for their shops, and 
 above all for the right of the highway of the sea upon 
 which to bring home their wares. 
 
 The coast of Spain was steel-grey and ragged in the dis- 
 tance, when there shot out towards the convoy a swift 
 Basque schooner, crusted to the masthead with the salt 
 Biscay spray. The three British frigates instantly closed 
 in. There ensued a going and coming of messages, hot 
 consultations, and in an hour the direction of the whole 
 convoy was changed. San Sebastian had been taken with 
 infinite fury and shame. The Port of Bilbao was in 
 British hands, and my Lord Wellington was calling up 
 every soldier and every pound of provend and ounce of 
 ammunition for his dash across the Pyrenees into France. 
 
 Among others, the Fortune's Queen received orders 
 to cross the bar of the Nervion and disload her cargo at 
 the quays of the port of Bilbao. 
 
 Through the white breaking surf the ship of Captain 
 Ebenezer Sinclair took her way to her new destination. 
 The narrow Nervion with the straight quays of Bilbao on 
 either side, seemed, after the leaping surges of Biscay, no 
 more than an ugly ditch. 
 
 But on the other hand, and rising tier above tier up the 
 hillside, Adora saw the white houses of the town of many 
 sieges, and the wooded heights that stand about it. She 
 heard the speech of the chill disdainful Basque folk, proud 
 of their fueros,and their unknown ancient descent. Mixed 
 
CAPTAIN OF THE "FORTUNE'S QUEEN" 263 
 
 with these were the soldiers of a dozen nationalities, 
 British, Spanish, Portuguese, Brazilians, Hanoverians, 
 Swiss. A clamour of voices, a swarm of men, not a 
 woman to be seen anywhere such was Adora's first im- 
 pression of Spain from the ship's deck. 
 
 The captain of the Fortune's Queen was abundantly 
 fitted to hold his own in such a scene. Never had the 
 virtues of Gallwegian vocabulary, added to the powers of 
 vituperation acquired along the water-front of fifty ports, 
 stood the stout mariner in better stead. He sent Adora 
 down to his cabin and saw to the closing of the portholes. 
 Then he went on deck and expressed his opinions with a 
 sober joyous freedom. 
 
 "It's as weel Mr. McPhail o' St. Cuthbert's disna hear 
 me, or I wad hae sma' chance o' the next eldership when I 
 get name," he confided to Jock White, his first mate, who 
 stood by his side with a pistol in each pocket. "But faith, 
 this is nae place to be askin' a blessin' afore meat in! 
 The strong hand, the primed pistol, and the braid aith 
 them's the jockies that will bring ye safe hame to your 
 wife an* sma' family ! An' after that, ye can gang to the 
 kirk three times ilka Sabbath to square the accoont, gin 
 it happens that your conscience checks ye !" 
 
 And it is to be feared that in 1813 these were largely 
 the moral principles of the Scot abroad. They have 
 altered since, of course. 
 
 Now, Captain Ebenezer was a stout and valiant sailor, 
 and he had kept the type of his farming-stock intact 
 through years of sea-spray and wind-tan. Also his heart, 
 unknown to himself, had grown warm for his girl pas- 
 senger. He knew the peril of her journey, the wild places 
 into which she must venture, and in especial he heard with 
 terror and shame the unspeakable details of the sack of 
 San Sebastian, the deepest disgrace with which the British 
 army have ever been attainted. Small wonder, then, that 
 he feared for Adora, and he resolved that he, a country- 
 man and a bachelor, without a soul to mourn for him or 
 the bond of tie domestic, should undertake the girl's task 
 
264 STRONG MAC 
 
 while she remained by the vessel, or if that would not 
 content her, he would accompany Adora on her quest. 
 
 The next evening after supper he opened out his plan. 
 
 "Lassie," he said, "I am an auld carle, but like an aik 
 tree in the plantin gye an' sturdy aboot the girth. I will 
 never tak' ony maiden's e'e for my beauty, though some 
 that I ken o' micht do waur than draw up wi' the auld 
 sailor-man into a snug bit anchorage wi' white stanes 
 about the door, and gravelled walks, and maybe a painted 
 figurehead or twa set up aneath the flagstaff. But, lassie, 
 that's neither here nor there an' we'll e'en let that flee 
 stick to the waa' !" 
 
 The captain of the Fortune's Queen rested his eyes a 
 moment or two a little sadly on Adora, who sat with her 
 slender pocket-book open before her. He had been 
 changing ten of her slender store of English guineas 
 into Spanish dollars, which now sat squatly before her in a 
 canvas bag. Certainly Ebenezer Sinclair of the good 
 ship Fortune's Queen had not made money by the ex- 
 change. 
 
 "Aweel, lassie," he continued, seeing she did not an- 
 swer, "we'll say nae mair aboot that. Auld Captain 
 Ebenezer made his bed lang syne, and noo them that he 
 wad tak' winna hae him, and them that wad tak' him he 
 wadna hae at a bargain. But, lassie, ye can look in the 
 glass, and if ever on your travels ye come across onybody 
 that micht pass for your born sister, you juist send word 
 to the auld captain, and fegs, Ebenezer Sinclair will brush 
 himsel' up, and pit on his Sunday coat, an' syne aff to try 
 his luck!" 
 
 Adora smiled, but still said nothing. There was a little 
 pile of dollars laid in a place by themselves which seemed 
 to belong to nobody. These were the covenanted pieces 
 for Adora's passage money, presently in dispute between 
 them. 
 
 "Na, na," said the captain, "na, na, lass. Your bite and 
 your sup are neither here nor there! And faith, if ye 
 count a' the repairs ye hae made in my wardrobe no to 
 
CAPTAIN OF THE "FORTUNE'S QUEEN" 265 
 
 gie the thing a mair intimate name faith, I'm thinkin' the 
 balance micht weel be on the ither side ! When I cam' 
 f rae the Tail o' the Bank, I declare I had never a hale clout 
 to sit me doon on and now I micht dance the Heelant 
 Fling afore the Queen hersel', God bless her, and never 
 be shamed ! Siller, na, faith ! If there's ony siller gangin', 
 it's Captain Ebenezer Sinclair that will hae to pay the 
 piper!" 
 
 "But, captain," said Adora, with genuine distress in her 
 voice, "it was agreed between us. Mr. McQuhirr of the 
 Gairie told me himself that the charge for my passage 
 was exceedingly reasonable, and, indeed, take it you 
 must !" 
 
 And she pushed the little pile of pieces towards the old 
 sailor, who looked at the dollars as if each might be ex- 
 pected to bite. Then he shook his head still more em- 
 phatically. 
 
 "Na, na, lassockie," he said, "Captain Ebenezer has no 
 come to that o't yet, that he wad tak' the hard-won siller o' 
 a Lowran lass wha has corned to a foreign land to save a 
 lad frae the wuddy (gallows) ! And mair nor that, 
 hearken you to me, mistress, ye are gangin' to nae 
 misleared airmy by yoursel' Captain Ebenezer Sinclair 
 couldna sleep soond in his bunk for thinkin' ot ! The ship 
 is braw and safe wi' Sweatin' Jock White there and Lang- 
 airmed Hillowton to look after her, no to speak o' thae 
 deevils o' artillerymen up there on the hillside wi' their 
 pieces loaded to the muzzle. Na, na, Gallowa' is Gallowa', 
 and it shall never be said that a Gallowa' man let a 
 Gallowa' lass gang her lane into sic a deil's byke o' wick- 
 edness as the camp o' the allied armies. Guid's truth, 
 no!" 
 
 And though Adora strove valiantly to carry out alone 
 what she had imagined alone, the sturdy sober determina- 
 tion of the veteran was too much for her. 
 
 And when she left the gate of Bilbao with a pass from 
 the governor, the stout sailorlike figure of Captain 
 Ebenezer Sinclair marched at the right hand of her mule. 
 
266 STRONG MAC 
 
 In vain in that land of cavaliers had she besought him 
 to ride also. 
 
 "It's no for me at my time o' life to be temptin' Provi- 
 dence on ony beast's riggin' !" was all his answer. And so 
 he trudged along stoutly, with a complete pirate's arma- 
 ment at his belt, careless of the amusement the convoy 
 caused to the entire garrison of Bilbao. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 ENEMY'S COUNTRY. 
 
 LUCKILY for the little cavalcade which went forth from 
 the gate of Bilbao, on the side which looks along the hill- 
 foreheads towards San Sebastian, they came across many 
 parties taking their way northeastward, with stores for the 
 troops, arms and ammunition for headquarters. Among 
 these were several transport officers who had been long 
 in Spain and who knew Captain Ebenezer well. To them 
 the master of ships frankly explained himself. 
 
 "Noo, hearken/' he said, "ye ken Eben Sinclair frae 
 Gallowa' ! Or if ye dinna, it's time ye did. His word is 
 as guid as his aith, though whiles no juist sae convincin' 
 amang sailor-folk. Weel, here is Eben, cut adrift frae his 
 ship and wi' a bonny bit craft in tow. Noo, it's nae use 
 speakin' to thae haythen fowk. Them I'll shoot at the first 
 word, gin yin o' them meddles the lass. But as for you, 
 ye are bauld birkies and understand a guid Scots tongue. 
 Noo the lass is no for you, nor for your like. She's my ain 
 sister's dochter, gin it behoves ye to ken and she is gaun 
 to find a certain Captain Sidney Latimer that was last 
 heard o' here in the King's airmies. So her and me are 
 gangin' to my Lord Wellington to get news o' the lad. 
 And if ony man, be he French or English, Scot, Irisher or 
 black Don Dumbolino, sets a finger on the lass that's kin 
 to Ebenezer Sinclair, he will find himsel' shot oot o' hand, 
 and then if he's no deid, my friend wi' the crookit nose 
 
268 STRONG MAC 
 
 will forthwith order him to be hanged for a warnin' to a* 
 blackguards. That's a' !" 
 
 ******* 
 
 The headquarters of Lord Wellington's armies was 
 presently at the village of Estella, a tumble of white houses 
 with rickety green sun shutters, streets of alternate mud 
 and ankle-deep dust, white as flour, a village that scram- 
 bled and struggled up a grey hillside in the heart of the 
 Pyrenees. By its position Estella forms a natural strong- 
 hold, and all war commanders have striven for its posses- 
 sion, from the earliest guerillas who withstood the Roman 
 arms to the last Carlists, who tried hard to put life into the 
 bleaching bones of a dead cause. 
 
 But Estella was many long leagues across the moun- 
 tains, the way thither perilous with desperate unfed men 
 who cared not in what way, or from whose military train, 
 their bellies were filled. 
 
 The last months of Wellington's sojourn in Spain were 
 marked by the growing brigandage of the country popula- 
 tions, and by the stern methods of repression which in 
 turn caused the Spaniards of the northwest to hate the 
 British troops more bitterly than the French themselves. 
 
 Nor was this wholly the fault of the Spaniards. From 
 the first they had lacked generals, and indeed officers of 
 any rank, in whom they could have confidence. Their large 
 armies never had any commissariat worthy of the name. 
 Their troops in the field were never fed save when partak- 
 ing with British soldiers, never paid except out of the 
 British army chests above all, if they were caught 
 plundering while near the provost-marshals of "El Gran 
 Lor" they were promptly and remorselessly hung. 
 
 Therefore, it was no wonder if the sack of San Sebas- 
 tian rankled in the hearts of such men, and if, hungry and 
 desperate, with winter closing in upon them, these starving 
 bands flung themselves fiercely upon Wellington's rear, 
 and cut off his details and provision trains as if he had 
 been in an enemy's country. 
 
 Towards evening on the third day, after leaving Bilbao, 
 
ENEMY'S COUNTRY 269 
 
 the small convoy of fourteen mules, with an equal number 
 of muleteers, the four British transport officers, and our 
 two voyagers arrived at the little hill village of Hernani. 
 Indeed it was hardly a village a "farm town" rather, as 
 they would say in Scotland which denotes a large farm 
 house with offices. Yet Hernani was almost like a 
 fortress, its walls loopholed and ready for defence, the 
 cluster of huts for herdsmen and labourers well away from 
 the main buildings, while at the end of the little street was 
 a venta, or public house, of the commonest kind, the imme- 
 morial haunt of brigands and broken men of all sorts. 
 
 No caution was used by the four British officers all of 
 them sergeants of commissariat, except one, a warrant 
 officer on loan from a frigate. They cared nothing for the 
 muleteers, speaking to them as to so many dogs, and 
 treating their silent resentment as sulkiness to be exor- 
 cised with blows and curses. 
 
 The chamber of their first lodging at Hernani was the 
 common room of the venta. But the British sergeants, 
 loudly swearing that the place was not good enough for 
 an English dog-kennel (which was true enough), made 
 bold to demand quarters of the owner of the farm, Don 
 Juan Hernani, recently returned to his patrimony after a 
 prolonged expulsion during the French occupation. 
 
 The night was already falling rapidly, and at these alti- 
 tudes the cold begins to bite keenly. The sergeants ham- 
 mered on the door with the butts of their guns and shouted 
 impatiently for the inmates to open. At last with infinite 
 creaking of bolts and jingling of chains the great door 
 was opened, and a tall, stoop-shouldered old man stood be- 
 fore them, a lantern in his hand. 
 
 "What might it happen to your Honours to require at 
 the door of this poor house ?" said the man with the utmost 
 formal politeness. 
 
 The four officers were about to brush past him with 
 a rough word, after the manner of their kind. But Adora, 
 who had not forgotten certain lessons in Spanish character 
 which the ex-smuggler, Sharon McCulloch, had given her, 
 
2;o STRONG MAC 
 
 along with the Leonese knife, went forward and, taking 
 the old man's hand, kissed it, saying in her pretty broken 
 child's Spanish, "We ask only your hospitality for the 
 night!" 
 
 The old man instantly took his lantern in the other hand 
 and offered his arm to Adora. 
 
 "Your Ladyship's house is at your service," he said. 
 "Permit an old man to attend you to your chamber !" 
 
 So it came about that for that night Adora was lodged 
 as a grandee of the first class, while in the wide kitchen or 
 house-place, the three sergeants, the warrant officer, and 
 Captain Ebenezer waited upon themselves. 
 
 Don Juan Hernani occupied two or three rooms of 
 his large house. The rest had been completely gutted by 
 the attentions of its last occupants, the soldiers of the 
 Duke of Dalmatia. But, nevertheless, the old Spaniard 
 proved himself an epicure after his kind. His herdsmen 
 had brought him game from the hills in celebration of his 
 return, and he prepared and cooked it in little casseroles in 
 a tiny kitchen, attached to the larger sitting-room by a 
 short passage. As he finished the preparation of each 
 dish, he would transfer all the choicest portions to Adora's 
 plate, putting up himself with a crust of bread soaked in 
 gravy, and sending all the rest down to his guests in the 
 kitchen. Adora and her friend, Captain Ebenezer, did 
 their best to mediate between the sensitive exigencies of 
 Spanish politesse and the rough-and-tumble of soldiers, 
 whom the years of campaigning had accustomed to take 
 the gifts of the gods without either "Prithee" or "By- 
 your-leave !" 
 
 Meanwhile there were the fourteen muleteers. All day 
 long they had been taking words and blows with a danger- 
 ous quietude. It now occurred to one of the Englishmen 
 that they had better see how the Spaniards were spending 
 their time. 
 
 "The brutes will get drunk, ten to one !" said Sergeant 
 Taddy, who hailed from the leafy lanes and brambly 
 hedges of Essex, where such methods of spending the 
 

 ENEMY'S COUNTRY 271 
 
 evening are not uncommon. "Anyway they will never be 
 ready for the morning work unless we stir them up a bit ! 
 A little kicking never does a Don any harm!" 
 
 It was by such methods that the British soldier in Spain 
 has left a name and fame most unsavoury in the country 
 he delivered. So that to-day the general sympathy is more 
 with the Frenchman who oppressed and enslaved than 
 with the Briton who shed his blood to deliver. Which 
 thing shows the advantage of personal good manners even 
 in warfare. 
 
 Now, Ebenezer Sinclair, like a cautious old ship's cap- 
 tain, had insisted upon arrival, that the ammunition and 
 valuable lading of the mules should be placed within the 
 farm buildings of Hernani, and therefore out of reach of 
 the muleteers and their allies without, that is, their pass- 
 ing through the house of Don Juan, or breaking down the 
 strongly barred gate of the alqueria. It was to this 
 thoughtful naval prevision that the party now owed its 
 safety. For hardly had Sergeant Taddy and his friend, 
 Warrant Officer Oswald, passed outside the door than a 
 bullet whistled from the direction of the venta and flat- 
 tened itself on the carved work of the lintel close to his 
 ear. 
 
 "Back into cover !" cried the sergeant. "To your mus- 
 kets, boys ! There's fun forward !" 
 
 For though they were ready enough to plunder when 
 they had the chance, as well as prone to abuse the Span- 
 iards for "bally-banded scattermouches," these soldiers of 
 the great Peninsular commander were never so well 
 pleased as when there was prospect of a fight. 
 
 "Can you load muskets ?" they asked Adora when they 
 were back again in the kitchen. 
 
 "No, but I can teach her !" answered Captain Ebenezer 
 promptly, before the girl had time to speak. 
 
 "Well, go ahead then, captain, there are plenty in that 
 rack over the mantelpiece. And keep an eye on the old 
 Don," said Sergeant Taddy. "Blow out his brains if he 
 tries any of his Dago tricks on true-born Britons !" 
 
272 STRONG MAC 
 
 But Don Juan Hernani went calmly about the washing 
 up of his dishes, doing it finically, rubbing the plates, 
 breathing on and polishing the glasses, even examining 
 them critically with one eye closed, and so on till he was 
 satisfied. 
 
 Stray shots went off without. There were loud cries 
 and shrill screams. The Englishmen looked at one an- 
 other a little grimly, and sniffed the burnt powder. 
 
 "I think if these are only our muleteers," said Taddy to 
 Warrant Officer Oswald, "the business will not be a long 
 one." 
 
 "If by the grace of God my particular rascal has come 
 to try and steal my saddle bags, which are the property of 
 his Majesty," cried Sergeant Taddy, "I shall have great 
 pleasure in putting a bullet through him. I never saw a 
 face and figure better fitted for being set up between a 
 wall and a firing party." 
 
 The cries took on more distinctness. The shouters 
 seemed to be quite near the doors of the alqueria. 
 
 "San Sebastian ! Come out, and die, robbers and mur- 
 derers ! Dogs of English ! Remember San Sebastian and 
 come out !" 
 
 "That we will!" said Sergeant Taddy, priming his 
 musket. His pair of pistols lay ready on the table before 
 him. "If you refuse a Spaniard's invitation, he knifes you, 
 so they say. If you accept, you die of the grub he gives 
 you !" 
 
 "See here," said Oswald, the warrant officer, to Cap- 
 tain Ebenezer, "none of us can speak their beastly lingo. 
 Just you ask the old fellow over there which is the way 
 to a window or a balcony that will overlook his front door, 
 will you?" Tell him he is to come himself to go in 
 front, too! And by the Lord, if he gives us away well, 
 there will be a good government pistol within two inches 
 of his ear!" 
 
 All this while Don Juan was calmly proceeding with his 
 after-dinner work of washing up. Adora and the captain 
 went to him together, and then, by pooling their scanty 
 
ENEMY'S COUNTRY 273 
 
 store of Spanish, finally made him understand the request 
 of the four English soldiers. 
 
 "These outside there are but sons of dogs," he said, 
 jerking his elbow towards the door, "they will not venture 
 here ! They know Don Juan Hernani !" 
 
 "That may be," said Captain Ebenezer in English, "but 
 these four gentlemen in the kitchen are somewhat hasty 
 in their manner. You see, Sefior Don, they are in charge 
 of a considerable amount of military stores, and if they 
 lose so much as a musket or a pound of powder it will be 
 the worse for them !" 
 
 "The worse for some other folk first!" growled 
 Warrant Officer Oswald, who had come to the door ; "do 
 tell the old cockatoo to hurry up. We can't keep these 
 noisy donkey prickers waiting all night !" 
 
 Adora managed to convey the substance though not the 
 form of these observations to their host, who, hanging his 
 towel over his arm to give it the benefit of the drying night 
 air, led the way up a stone staircase in the angle of the 
 wall. 
 
 Adora ascended along with the five men, chiefly that 
 she might not be left alone in the great empty salon. In 
 a few minutes they came out on a parapet, roughly 
 made by joining two parallel walls together with broad 
 flagstones. The space was about four feet wide, and ran 
 along the whole length of the front of the square of build- 
 ings constituting the alqueria of Hernani. 
 
 "Don't let the rascals glimpse us !" whispered the war- 
 rant officer. "I claim first pot shot." 
 
 But the old Don was already some way along the battle- 
 ments, his white hair flying in the wind. In the dim light 
 of the pine knots and pitch torches that had been lighted 
 below, they could see twenty or thirty men trying to force 
 the great door which led into the arcaded courtyard, where 
 the mule loads had been placed. 
 
 The old Spaniard ran towards them along the parapet 
 waving his towel as if he had been chasing flies out of a 
 room. 
 
274 STRONG MAC 
 
 "Go away !" he cried in the country speech, "go away 
 quickly. I am Don Juan Hernani, and I desire that my 
 guests' property should be respected." 
 
 "Come down and help us, Don Juan," they answered 
 him, "your father would have helped us ! Aye, or your 
 son Don Pedro either, who is with his partida in the moun- 
 tains. These four English are of the men who sacked San 
 Sebastian. We will do the same and worse to them. Open 
 the doors to us, or we will burn your farmhouse about 
 your ears, for a traitor and a spy !" 
 
 "Burn and welcome !" cried Don Juan, with unexpected 
 spirit, "but while I live you shall not steal so much as an 
 ounce of salt from the guests of my house of Hernani !" 
 
 A volley of musketry from the Englishmen put a sharp 
 end to the colloquy. They had stolen along under cover 
 of the battlements, and now fired directly down on the 
 group who, with a battering-ram made -of the trunk 
 of a fir-tree, were endeavouring to burst in the great 
 door. 
 
 "That shook the rascals!" cried the warrant officer; 
 "give them another while they are on the quake. Quick, 
 the pistols ! They are near enough for that !" 
 
 And leaning over the walls, the four shot their pistols 
 point blank into the cluster of struggling men beneath 
 them. Adora could see many wounded, who limped away 
 into shelter, while others lay on the ground motionless. 
 Fierce yells and shouts filled the air. This time the noise 
 seemed to come from all around the square of the alqueria. 
 Also from the farther end, which was sheltered from sight, 
 a red, unsteady light began to rise, pulsing against the 
 volumes of rolling smoke which the breeze carried tow- 
 ards them over the dark quadrangle of buildings. 
 
 "They have fired the cattle fodder!" cried Don Juan, 
 clasping his hands ; "it is all that the Frenchmen left. Be- 
 tween English thieves, French thieves, and one's own 
 countrymen, the sooner a poor old man is quiet in the 
 grave, the happier for him ! And I have not had time to 
 hide my glass and silver either !" 
 
ENEMY'S COUNTRY 275 
 
 And with that he was hurrying away towards the 
 ground floor. 
 
 "Stop him!" cried Sergeant Taddy, ''old Gracios-a-Dios 
 is going to open the gates to that howling crew. Stop 
 him, or by heaven, sir, I'll stop him myself as quick as 
 wink, with a bullet in the back ! Stop there, I say, Senor 
 Don !" 
 
 Something in the soldier's tone, even more than Adora's 
 warning cry, caused Don Juan to turn back in time to pre- 
 vent Sergeant Taddy from carrying out his threat. 
 
 "Captain Sinclair/' said the warrant officer, "here are a 
 pair of good navy pistols. They are all we can spare you, 
 but you have plenty of muskets and ammunition of your 
 own. We leave you here in charge of the main door. We 
 must go and examine the other side, where the villains are 
 trying to fire the buildings. Do not fail to shoot any one 
 who tries to enter there. You see the door. If they 
 bother you there, wait till they are within a yard of it and 
 then even a sailor can't miss. If you lean far enough over, 
 you can put the muzzle to the rascal's ear, and have the 
 papist in Purgatory in two shakes of a cat o' nine tails !" 
 
 In a few moments the long parapeted southern wall of 
 the alquerie was deserted, save for Adora and Captain 
 Ebenezer, who, with his own armoury and the pair of 
 pistols which he had confided to Adora, stood watching the 
 great gate which the partida of muleteers and brigands 
 had vainly tried to force. 
 
 Beneath, faintly visible, could be seen the pine trunk 
 which had been used as a battering ram. A man was 
 lying behind it as if wounded. It was very dark, but 
 along the ground there lay a mild phosphorescent mist 
 which rendered objects faintly visible. In a little while 
 it seemed to Captain Sinclair that the man behind the 
 tree trunk had moved. He had been quite at the lower 
 end. Now he was half way up and nearer to the door by 
 at least a couple of yards. 
 
 "Adora," said the old man softly, "is that man lying 
 still?" 
 
276 STRONG MAC 
 
 Adora looked intently. Her younger eyes could make 
 out details more clearly. 
 
 "He is moving," she answered at last, "and he is hold- 
 ing something dark in his hand as well !" 
 
 "Keep away from the door/' shouted Captain Ebenezer 
 suddenly, "or I fire!" 
 
 The man hastily threw something in the direction of the 
 great door, and at the same moment the captain's piece 
 cracked. The man broke into a run towards the woods, 
 but presently stumbled and fell on his face. The pro- 
 jectile which he had launched at the door struck it heavily, 
 rebounded a little, and lay between the bottom of 
 the door and the tree trunk. From this last a spark of 
 light crawled slowly towards it. 
 
 "That is a slow match," said the old man, "and I am 
 nothing of a shot or I could cut the line !" 
 
 "Give me the musket," said Adora, "I will try. I can 
 see better than you, and the distance is not great !" 
 
 She aimed in the centre between the dark mass of the 
 bomb and the creeping wink of light. 
 
 She fired once, apparently without result. Then she 
 leaned as far over as she dared and fired a second musket. 
 The spark crawled on for some time, but in the mfdst, with 
 a little bluish jet of flame, suddenly went out. Adora had 
 cut the train of the slow match, and, for the time being, 
 saved the door from being blown in. 
 
 Meantime the light from the distant northern front of 
 Hernani loomed up brighter, the lurid smoke bellied out 
 more lurid than before, while shoutings and cries of pain 
 came to their ears from that direction. Ever and anon 
 they could see, cut against the glare, the figures of the four 
 defenders of Hernani as they leaned over and fired in de- 
 fence of their commissariat loads. 
 
 "This is poor work !" said Captain Ebenezer, setting his 
 musket against the wall ; "if I had not got my orders I 
 would be over yonder, where at least there's something 
 doing!" 
 
 But the fire died down. There was less and less crack- 
 
ENEMY'S COUNTRY 277 
 
 ling of musketry. The shouting seemed further off. 
 Captain Ebenezer lit his pipe with a flint and steel, crouch- 
 ing meanwhile behind the parapet of the roof. Not even 
 Adora's sharp young eyes could see a sign of an enemy on 
 their side of the alqueria. 
 
 Suddenly from the darkness of the wood in front came 
 an astonishing burst of flame, against which the entire 
 quadrangle of building stood out bright as day. A roar 
 deafened their ears, and part of the wall by the gate 
 crumbled and fell forward on the abandoned battering 
 ram and the dead men, with a crash of shattered stone and 
 lime. 
 
 "God in His heaven !" cried the captain, "all our throats 
 are as good as cut ! They have got a cannon somewhere. 
 That is an eight pounder at the least!" 
 
 Once more the cannon spoke, and then with a rush up 
 came the four valiant defenders the warrant officer 
 touched in the arm by a chance bullet, but having tied a 
 handkerchief about the place, making nothing of it. 
 
 "All up," they said, "unless we can find some under- 
 ground place in which to hold out in till morning. Some 
 of our fellows may hear us and turn up ! The fools are 
 making enough row to be heard twenty miles off!" 
 
 The gun went off again, the ball striking the gate full 
 this time, crashing and splintering it into small fragments 
 of wood and twisted iron. Still, the fear of the growing 
 light and of these five inevitable British muskets, which 
 they knew were waiting for them, held back the partida 
 from making a final charge. 
 
 But at the longest it could not last long. Men were to 
 be seen creeping nearer under cover of trees and bushes, 
 waiting at all the angles of the alqueria, and lying thick in 
 the ditches below the cattle sheds. 
 
 "Crash!" The last fragments of the gate were down 
 this time. The brigands renewed their loud shouts. 
 
 "San Sebastian ! San Sebastian ! Death to the Eng- 
 lish !" they cried. 
 
 But at the very moment when they were clear of the 
 
278 STRONG MAC 
 
 wood a storm of bullets from behind lashed their rear. 
 They fled this way and that, the swift horses of four com- 
 panies of British cavalry, fiercely riding them down. 
 Swords flashed and were dulled in the fast-coming- dawn. 
 The little cannon was captured, and just as the morning 
 broke, a young officer rode up to the gateway of 
 Hernani. He leaped his horse over the debris of the 
 planking, and so made his way fearlessly into the court- 
 yard of Hernani. 
 
 " What's up here?" he cried, for the moment seeing no 
 one. 
 
 At the first glance Adora had precipitated herself tow- 
 ards him. She ran down the stairs and, without know- 
 ing how, found herself clasping Sidney Latimer round the 
 neck, with the tears streaming from her eyes. 
 
 "Oh, thank God," she cried, "thank God I have found 
 you in time!" 
 
 And she was not even conscious that the young man, 
 struck to the heart by this greatest marvel of earth, had 
 stooped and kissed her with the kiss of possession. 
 
CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 THE LATIMER TEMPER. 
 
 ADORA awoke from a brief period of unconsciousness to 
 find herself the centre of a deeply interested group. She 
 was still in Sidney Latimer's arms, and that young man 
 seemed to have no intention of letting her go. The troop- 
 ers of "El Gran Lor" tried to look uninterested, or grinned 
 broadly according to their upbringing. There was even 
 a serene smile of content in the eyes of the stout sea-cap- 
 tain. His part was played. He had brought this dainty 
 craft to port. Responsibility was lifted from his shoulders. 
 The true pilot had come on board. 
 
 Instantly, with one quick nervous motion, Adora re- 
 moved herself out of Sidney Latimer's arms, but she was 
 not comfortable. Slowly and surely out of the lifting 
 mists there came to her the hot consciousness that she had 
 been kissed ! Yes, in sight of all these men ; this other 
 consciousness also that she had not resented it. Indeed, 
 how could she ? And it was too late now, at any rate ! 
 
 She put out her hand against Sidney Latimer's breast 
 as if to push him from her. 
 
 "No, no you must not you do not understand," she 
 stammered, the words coming pell-mell ; "I have much to 
 say to you. I have come all this way to find you to tell 
 you." 
 
 The young man's arms went about her again. 
 
 "You make me happy " he said, "ah, if only I had 
 known !" 
 
 "That is it that is it !" she moaned "you do not know ! 
 You will not understand, and I cannot speak to you be- 
 fore all these !" 
 
28o STRONG MAC 
 
 "No, of course you cannot," cried Sidney Latimer, with 
 joyous alacrity ; "how stupid I am. Let us go in. I under- 
 stand that there is a convoy belonging to Lord Welling- 
 ton's army here. General Barnard sent me out to seek it 
 to bring it in. Little did I think when I started ah, how 
 little what was waiting for me seeking me how 
 precious a thing I should bring back !" 
 
 And he gazed tenderly at Adora, with such a face of 
 radiance that the girl was for the moment borne away. 
 She let him press her hand, saying all the while to herself, 
 "This is not the time to speak ! This is not the time !" 
 
 So guess ye how fast the bruit ran about the companies, 
 busily unsaddling their horses, or gingerly watering them 
 after their long ride, how that their captain's sweetheart 
 had come all the way to find him out of Scotland, they 
 said. And they were all glad, for the young friend of 
 General Barnard had not shared the fate of most military 
 favourites he was liked by his comrades and adored by 
 his men. He was rich, too, they said, and a girl's hard 
 heart had driven him to the wars. Well, most of them 
 could say something like that, but this at least was new. 
 
 With the breaking of the day and the arrival of the de- 
 tachment sent to bring in the ammunition convoy, the par- 
 tidas had vanished like blown smoke among the moun- 
 tains. The sun had risen, and only the patient mules, the 
 empty venta, and the dead brigands about the quadrangle 
 of the farm buildings gave evidence of the struggle of the 
 night. 
 
 Don Juan Hernani was as calmly courteous as if an at- 
 tack upon his alqueria with cannon, and the arrival of a 
 cavalry relief in the dawn, had been every-day events. 
 
 He had already given directions for the transport of 
 the dead men to their homes. They were laid out tem- 
 porarily in the orchard, and as Don Juan looked at each 
 he took his cigarette out of his mouth and crossed him- 
 self, muttering the while, "God be merciful to him ! He 
 belonged to an excellent family !" 
 
 Or, as the case might be, and without any religious sign, 
 
THE LATIMER TEMPER 281 
 
 he said aloud, "The devil hath gotten a sore bargain this 
 day for no ranker raterillo ever chewed slug behind a 
 stone wall than thou, oh unblessed one !" 
 
 Meantime Adora and Sidney Latimer have been wait- 
 ing. 
 
 Down in the court was Don Juan, going from group to 
 group, deploring that he had so little to offer the cavaliers 
 of my Lord Wellington's army. But these accursed 
 French Soult's men! His friends, the English, would 
 understand. The thieves had hardly left as much as would 
 fodder a mouse over the winter in all his barns. Never- 
 theless, the camp fires were lighted, and with fresh-killed 
 lambs from the hills, and old pressed wine from some 
 secret vats, untapped by the French troopers, the gentle- 
 men cavaliers and their companions did none so ill. In- 
 deed they thought themselves in clover after the half 
 rations of the bleak hilltops around Estella, where, as the 
 saying went, the Portuguese dug for pig nuts and the 
 Irish ate them, all the while cursing their benefactors for 
 dagos because they could not find them potatoes. 
 
 Adora knew that a difficult task awaited her in the great 
 upper room, where she had dined in solitary state the night 
 before, with the Don fluttering to and fro with his dainty 
 cates and made dishes, while his Britannic Majesty's com- 
 missariat sergeants fumed below over their snail patties 
 and sparrows' legs. The good captain kept careful watch 
 that the first meeting of the lovers should not be over- 
 looked, nor their privacy broken in upon. 
 
 Strange as it may seem, Adora's eyes dropped before 
 the smiling gladness she saw in those of Sidney Latimer. 
 Of course he thought what any man would think in the 
 circumstances. It seemed a hard thing to begin to unde- 
 ceive him. Yet she must. He had kissed her once, and 
 that must be done with for ever. Yet what if he were to 
 refuse her request refuse to return to Scotland with her ? 
 She might indeed return thither, and, with good Captain 
 Ebenezer to back her, swear that with the eyes of flesh, 
 she had seen Sidney Latimer. But from a person as sus- 
 
282 STRONG MAC 
 
 pect as she, that might advantage Roy McCulloch but 
 little. For Adora knew that she was looked upon by the 
 legal authorities as being the cause of the quarrel. 
 
 They stood awhile, gazing at one another uncertainly. 
 Then it was Sidney Latimer who spoke first. 
 
 "You love me?" he began, in a low questioning voice, 
 looking at her with sudden shyness. 
 
 Adora shook her head sadly. 
 
 "You mistake!" she said. 
 
 "Then why are you here ?" he asked, the colour fading 
 from his face; "have you not come to find me? I 
 thought" 
 
 "Yes," she said, looking away to avoid his eyes, I came 
 to meet you. I came to find you, but not for the reason 
 you think ! I have much to tell you. Sit down and listen. 
 I ask you to grant me a hearing, if you have any feeling 
 for the old time !" 
 
 Sidney Latimer sat down. He unhooked his sword be- 
 cause it fretted him, and threw it with a jangle upon the 
 table. Adora's eyes followed it. "Well," she thought, 
 "at least if I hurt him, he will have something else to turn 
 to. A soldier easily consoles himself, so they say." 
 
 She reached out her hand towards him. He did not 
 take it. 
 
 "I must know first," he said, "to whom that hand be- 
 longs ! Is it mine ?" 
 
 "It is my own!" said Adora quietly; "it belongs to no 
 man !" 
 
 "Then you are not married ?" 
 
 "No !" 
 
 "Nor yet engaged to marry any man?" 
 
 "No!" 
 
 His eyes looked the further question his lips did not 
 utter. The girl apprehended and answered it. 
 
 "I am here to ask you to come back with me to save a 
 man's life two men's lives ! They are accused of your 
 murder!" 
 
 "Of my murder?" The look on Sidney Larimer's face 
 
THE LATIMER TEMPER 283 
 
 was one of genuine astonishment. "How can that be? I 
 have written repeatedly to my mother. All that she had 
 to do was to produce my letters dated from the camp of 
 General Wellington!" 
 
 The marvel was now as swiftly transferred to Adora's 
 face. 
 
 Had Sidney Latimer' s mother kept back the letters? 
 At the first blush it seemed like it. But no she remem- 
 bered the countenance of the woman who had cursed her 
 on the road through the Cleuch of Pluckamin. That was 
 not the face of a woman who knew that her son was in 
 safety. 
 
 "Then," said Adora, "this much is certain. Your 
 mother has not received those letters, for two men 
 are to be tried at Drumfern spring sessions for your 
 murder." 
 
 "And who are these men?" asked Sidney Latimer, look- 
 ing steadily upon the ground. For indeed he knew 
 already. 
 
 "Sharon McCulloch and his son Roy!" said the girl. 
 And she supported his gaze almost defiantly, knowing that 
 it was fixed upon her with meaning. 
 
 After this ensued a long time of silence before either of 
 them spoke. 
 
 Adora knew what the young man was thinking. He 
 knew that Adora knew. But he gave his thought words 
 all the same. 
 
 "And you have come to Spain for this," he said, with 
 slow, strong emphasis ; "you ask me to leave my profes- 
 sion, to return home with you, only to save Roy McCul- 
 loch'slife!" 
 
 It was Adora Gracie who this time looked straight at 
 the young soldier. 
 
 "That is why I have come !" she said, "for that and 
 for no other reason !" 
 
 The face of Sidney Latimer glowed hotly. Then the 
 fire faded till it grew grey and pallid. He compressed his 
 lips sternly. The Latimer temper was showing. 
 
284 STRONG MAC 
 
 "And suppose I refuse!" He shot the words out 
 brusquely. 
 
 "You will not refuse !" said Adora, with that same look 
 as before, firm and straight and confident, which always 
 found its way to his heart; "I know you better!" 
 
 He jumped up, went hastily to the window, then two or 
 three times paced the whole length of the chamber. 
 
 "Yes!" he cried, "yes that is just it! You know 
 that I will not refuse. I have to play up to what you think 
 of me ! And you make me better than I am better than 
 I want to be ! Adora Gracie, I could kill the man the 
 man who took you from me yes, kill him with my own 
 hands ! Yet you would make me you ask me to go home 
 to save this very man from the gallows he has twice 
 merited! I will not go!" 
 
 He flung out his hands with a sudden fierce gesture of 
 defiance. 
 
 "I tell you I would not go a mile to save Roy McCul- 
 loch, that you might marry him ! He can swing for me 
 that is all I have to say !" 
 
 Adora's glance never shifted or weakened. She looked 
 him squarely in the eye. 
 
 "Yes," she said tranquilly, "you will come back not 
 because I am going to marry Roy McCulloch, or because I 
 am not going to marry Roy McCulloch, but because it is 
 your duty as a man to save two innocent men from the 
 gallows. I expect it of you. I have come here to ask 
 you !" 
 
 Adora smiled at him, for the first time since they had 
 begun to talk together. 
 
 "Ah," cried Sidney Latimer, bitterly restive, "you think 
 that a smile pays for all ! I will not go !" 
 
 But Adora still held him with her eyes. The right that 
 was in the girl's heart mastered the selfishness in his. A 
 certain fearless elan of manner made it difficult for a man 
 to refuse Adora anything. Sidney Latimer knew that he 
 was conquered and at length he yielded. 
 
 "Well, I will go!" he said, "and if I ask you nothing in 
 
THE LATIMER TEMPER 285 
 
 return, it is only because I know you have nothing to give 
 me that I would care to accept !" 
 
 Even then the bright directness of the girl's gaze an- 
 swered neither yea nor nay. 
 
 "When I have anything to say of love to you or to an- 
 other man, I will say it," she said. "Now I only ask you 
 to do justly for your own sake, that the guilt of innocent 
 blood be not upon your hands." 
 
 The fierce Latimer blood swung loose as a gate on crazy 
 hinges. 
 
 "I tell you if all the McCullochs from Dan to Beer- 
 sheba were hanged as high as ever Haman was, it would 
 not lose me one night's sleep !" he cried. "Nevertheless, I 
 will go, because you ask me ! That is how I take it ! So 
 pray understand that any nobility of sentiment is entirely 
 on your side!" 
 
 Adora laughed, and at the ripple of sound something 
 heavy and threatening seemed to pass away from their 
 colloquy. The old captain bustled in as at a signal. 
 
 "Well now," he said, "have you young folk no arranged 
 your affairs yet?" 
 
 Whereupon, with one breath, they reassured him. And 
 he shook his head with mock severity as he pointed out 
 Sidney Latimer's blushes. 
 
 "It's aye the woman that has the brazen face at sic 
 times and seasons !" he declared. For Captain Ebenezer 
 had seen the kiss, when for a long moment Adora lay un- 
 conscious in the young officer's arms. And after that, had 
 an angel from heaven come down to declare that these two 
 were not lovers, the sea-captain would have told him that 
 he lied in his throat. Nay, more sacred still, he would 
 have put the fact of their plighted troth in the ship's log, 
 so prone are people to see what they expect to see. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 THE PROPHETIC UTTERANCES OF CAPTAIN EBENEZER 
 SINCLAIR. 
 
 IT was some time before even the good will of General 
 Barnard and the necessities of the case, duly reported in 
 the highest quarters, smoothed Sidney Latimer's way out 
 of the victorious allied army, now watching at the thresh- 
 hold of France. But it was done, and when the good ship 
 Fortune's Queen sailed from Bilbao, she carried with 
 her Adora Gracie, and the captive of her bow and spear, 
 the ex-commander of horse, Sidney Latimer. 
 
 The old captain was more pleased with himself than 
 ever. The pair had kept their secret. And the unflagging 
 zeal with which the ship master removed Sweatin' Jock 
 White and Hillowton of the Long Arm out of the way of 
 possible lovers' conferences, was worthy of more success 
 than the manoeuvre obtained. 
 
 Indeed, even in the snug cabin of the Fortune's Queen, 
 with the lamp swinging aloft and throwing strange bars 
 of light and shadow athwart the wall and roof as the brig 
 turned and swayed in the Biscay surges, the pair found 
 strangely little to say to each other. Sidney Latimer 
 held himself bitterly wronged in that, without hope of any 
 reward to himself, he must go back to set free a successful 
 rival, who, if he were indeed innocent of one murder, was 
 as certainly guilty of another. Not only so, but he must 
 not speak of what he knew to Adora. Honour forbade 
 him. He could not teli her what he had seen and heard on 
 the evening when Roy McCulloch had been released from 
 
SINCLAIR'S PROPHETIC UTTERANCES 287 
 
 prison or how his rival had started for the house of the 
 murdered man only an hour or two before the deed, with 
 threats of vengeance on his lips. 
 
 No, his mouth was closed by the girl's very confidence 
 in him. He must go back to save the life of a guilty man ! 
 And for what ? In order that that man might rob him of 
 all that had become most precious to him. Sidney Latimer 
 brooded upon the thought. He was not of the Adora 
 stamp, to whom the doing of one noble action for its own 
 sake would afford satisfaction for years. His selfishness 
 was of the more blatant, masculine kind though perhaps 
 not more really selfish. It was no satisfaction, so Sidney 
 told himself, to go back all the way to Scotland to do this 
 thing. Any pleasure he got out of it was of the dour na- 
 tional sort. 
 
 "I said I would do it, and I will !" 
 
 Nor can it be said that Sidney Latimer showed to better 
 advantage when the Fortune's Queen began to near home. 
 A worse man would have managed to give a better im- 
 pression of himself to a woman he loved. Yet no man 
 could have treated Adora with more courtesy and reserve 
 in the difficult position in which the girl had placed her- 
 self. And this was all the more to Latimer's credit because 
 he was of the class set apart in the land of Scots a Brah- 
 man twice born, the thread upon his forehead, lord of 
 lands and heritages, patron of parochial cures of souls. 
 Adora was the outcast daughter of an outcast father. Yet 
 Sidney Latimer treated her as though she had been the de- 
 scendant of a hundred earls. A young girl, she had gone 
 to a far land to seek him, *o ask a great service of him 
 for the sake of another. Yet, after the first outbreak of 
 temper, he acted as if the sacrifice of his prospects had 
 been the merest matter-of-course courtesy. 
 
 When they talked at all, it was chiefly concerning how 
 his letters, of which he had written a good many, had not 
 reached his mother. Difficulties of service, the accident of 
 camp and transport, were urged. But, truth to tell, neither 
 of them believed much in their own arguments, though the 
 
288 STRONG MAC 
 
 suspicions which underlay them were wide as the poles 
 asunder. 
 
 Like a man, and knowing his mother's jealous nature, 
 Sidney suspected Mrs. Latimer. As to Adora but the 
 time was not yet ripe to state plainly what Adora sus- 
 pected. 
 
 The winds in the bay were contrary, as their manner is, 
 and as each ship, however fast, had to wait for the slowest 
 of her convoy, it was the time of long passages. Thus it 
 came about that it wanted but three days to the date of the 
 opening of the Drumfern Sessions, when the Fortune's 
 Queen made her way up to the quay of Port Glasgow, and 
 set the captain and his two passengers safe ashore. 
 
 Captain Ebenezer's eyes were still tight shut as to the 
 relations which existed between Adora and Sidney Lati- 
 mer. These had received a rude shock when first he knew 
 of Sidney's quality, and he had promptly subjected that 
 young man to the straitest of cross-examinations as to his 
 position and intentions with regard to Adora a catechism 
 which, considering the circumstances, was submitted to 
 with very creditable outward good humour, but with much 
 internal restlessness. 
 
 The result, however, was satisfactory so far as Captain 
 Ebenezer was concerned. 
 
 "The laddie's a guid laddie an* means weel by the lass," 
 he confided to Sweatin' Jock White, who, being taciturn, 
 was his confidant, "maist- ways he's no like a laird ava' no 
 ava' !" For the lairds o' Scotland are either wild asses 6 1 
 the desert, roarin' bulls o' Bashan, wi' a' their strength in 
 their tails, or else fushionless as frosted turnips in a thaw, 
 pokin' their noses here after auld Druid stanes and there 
 after Roman camps ! But this yin's amaist as sensible as 
 if he had been a' his life a decent grocer, or even 'prenticed 
 in his youth to the sea-farin' like you an' me, Sweatin' 
 
 Jock!" 
 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 The captain was pleased with his success as a diplo- 
 matist. In his own view, he, and he alone, had assured 
 
SINCLAIR'S PROPHETIC UTTERANCES 289 
 
 Adora's position as Lady of Lowran. He said as much 
 to Jock White. "You wi' your heid half doon the com- 
 panion-way listenin' an' me for a face-to-face witness 
 certes, gin we canna haud him til't, my name's no Ebene- 
 zer Sinclair ! Young birkies wi' landed estates o' their ain 
 are no to lippen to wi' a guid-looking lass !" 
 
 "It's my opinion that this particular lass will no be the 
 waur o' the braw landed gentleman, or ony ither gentle- 
 man," said Sweatin' Jock, drily ; "na, she'll send them aff 
 wi' a flee in their lug, estate or no estate !" 
 
 And it is quite possible that Jock had his own reasons 
 for knowing. 
 
 "Noo," said the captain, when at last the three stood to- 
 gether on the solid stones of the Port Glasgow quay, 
 "understand, I'm gaun to see ye hame baith the twa o' 
 ye! It's no befittin' for a young pair to be gallivantin' 
 the country, as if they were on the road to Gretna. Na, 
 na, when ye gang into Lowran it maun be wi' the min- 
 ister's blessing on your heads, and sax horses in front o' 
 ye, wi' a postillion on ilka yin! And, faith, auld daft 
 Ebenezer Sinclair wad scatter half the profits o' a cruise 
 to the Lowran bairns gin he could see the sicht." 
 
 So they posted down to Drumfern, with the captain in 
 jubilant spirits. He had organised the festival games at 
 Lowran, and even settled where the bonfires were to blaze, 
 by the time the party had reached Sanquhar. And as they 
 passed Thornhill, he was deep in the architecture of the 
 new house which Sidney Latimer was to build on his 
 estate. 
 
 "It maun be on the Fairy Knowe, there's nae doot aboot 
 that!" he said with immense earnestness of manner, 
 marking the site and ground-plan on the back of a receipt 
 for dock dues with the remains of a stubby pencil, the light 
 twinkling all the time in his small grey eyes, sunk 
 deep in the puckers of forty years among the salt sea 
 winds. 
 
 "The way o't is this," he cried ; "the Muckle Hoose o' 
 Lowran is a' weel an' weel eneuch. But it will simply no 
 
290 STRONG MAC 
 
 do for twa young folk ! 'Deed, and it's me that should ken, 
 for mony's the time I hae carried the letters to your ain 
 grandfaither, Master Latimer and a deevil o' a man he 
 was, asking your grace for lettin' oot the word aboot yin 
 that's blood-kin to ye. But it was for that verra reason it 
 was laid on me to speer at ye sae carefully ye ken what 
 you an' me had the bit palaver aboot ! But at ony rate on 
 the Fairy Knowe the new hoose o' Lowran is to stand. 
 Dod, sir, but I'm pleased ye agree wi' me. The auld yin 
 did weel eneuch for a bachelor man wi' twa auld wives 
 to mix his grog and see that he gaed to his bed in time o' 
 nicht. But to be plain wi' ye, the auld hoose is no in the 
 proper situation for a man wi' a young family ! An' your 
 honour kens it will tak' some while for them to grow up 
 wi' a pond afore the door for the laddies to be for ever 
 faa'in' into an' frichtin' their mither oot o' her reason, 
 thinkin' them droonin'. Whilk is, of coorse, a moral im- 
 possibeelity. For to my kennin', Lowran Big Hoose pond 
 is no mair than three feet deep, if that. But a' the same, 
 same muckle water afore the door is nane healthy. For 
 grown folk it is little maitter, but for bairns, be they never 
 sae sturdy on their legs ." 
 
 At this point, Sidney Latimer, after vehement attempts 
 to change the current of the captain's meditations, took the 
 extreme measure of pleading a sudden faintness and ask- 
 ing leave to go outside in order to sit with the driver. 
 
 Whereupon Adora, thus basely deserted, was willy-nilly 
 instructed upon the conduct of married life and the up- 
 bringing of a young family, and listened to wisdom from 
 lips of a bachelor sailor-man who had left home at four- 
 teen, and never seen a boy since, except when springing 
 responsive to a rope's end ! 
 
 This year the spring had come early over all the Scot- 
 tish southland. The leaves on the hedgerows, the buds 
 on the ash-trees, were ushering themselves calmly and 
 temperately into a snell, dry, airy world of abundant but 
 not intemperate sunshine. They were, indeed, in no par- 
 ticular haste to be born. On the whole, they were more 
 
SINCLAIR'S PROPHETIC UTTERANCES 291 
 
 comfortable where they were, with their overcoats lapped 
 about their ears, but business was business, and must be 
 attended to by all things Scottish. 
 
 So it was the first gay push of this lowland spring the 
 yellow time which brings a certain untranslatable glad- 
 ness into young hearts was upon the land whin spikes 
 surging along the bank sides and the lemon yellow of the 
 broom laughing up from every cleuch like the provocation 
 of a spoilt beauty. 
 
 There are perhaps times more beautiful in Scotland 
 the rich summer abundance of green woods and full-fed 
 waters, the autumn ling spreading league on purple 
 league, but nothing touches the heart of the country-bred 
 boy like the first yellow of the primrose and the daffodil, 
 of the prickly gorse and the tall lady broom, and, above 
 all, like that first thrilling rush barefoot over the grass of 
 the meadow lands. Something tricksome and flaunting 
 doubtless there is about this garish gold, but nevertheless 
 the contrast with the rich dark breadths of ploughland 
 and the chill unsmiling grey of the mountain sides makes 
 the Yellow Time of broom-flourish and whin-blossom the 
 gladdest in all the year. After passing through miles of 
 this brave canary-coloured wood, it was at Thornhill that 
 the first whisper of what was before them reached the trio 
 in the post-chaise. There was a halt of a few minutes at 
 the change house near to Morton Kirk, and Sidney Lati- 
 mer, strolling somewhat apart, heard two men call to each 
 other across the road, both of them weary with the do- 
 nothing of a village afternoon. 
 
 "They'll hae gotten their sentence by noo, eh, Robin?" 
 said one. 
 
 To which in due course Robin replied, equally glad to 
 have a topic upon which something new might be said, 
 "Aye, Gib, ye're speakin' ! They'll ken the day an' hour 
 o' their latter end by this time, and that's mair nor ony o' 
 us can tell !" 
 
 In an instant Sidney Latimer was upon them. 
 
 "Of what do you speak, men?" he cried, "not of the 
 
292 STRONG MAC 
 
 Drumfern Assizes, surely? They do not open till 
 Monday !" 
 
 "Maybes no," answered the man who had been called 
 Robin, "since your Honour seems to ken sae weel aboot 
 them. But ony way, the judges' procession was yester- 
 day morning, for my ain e'en saw it. And the twa Gallo- 
 way men were to be tried for their lives this verra day 
 McQuilliams or McCullochs or McCardles some o' thae 
 auld cut-throat, covenanting west-country names !" 
 
 The young laird ran back quickly to the inn, and told 
 Adora what he had heard. 
 
 "I am going to get a horse," he said, "and ride to Drum- 
 fern as hard as I can !" 
 
 "I will come with you !" she said, taking his arm. 
 
 "No," said Sidney Latimer. "I have a work to do I 
 will do it alone !" 
 
 She looked long at him, but this time his eye did not 
 falter or shrink. It was as steady as her own. 
 
 "You may trust me !" he said. 
 
 And five minutes afterwards Sidney Latimer was gal- 
 loping down the valley of the Nith as fast as whip-leather 
 and spur-prick could send his hired hack towards the 
 court where Sharon and Roy McCulloch were being tried 
 for his own murder. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE. 
 
 WITH splendour of Town Council robes and militia 
 drummings, with banners that waved in the morning and 
 torches that flared at night, the sessions of the Southern 
 Circuit Court of criminal jurisdiction had been opened in 
 Drumfern. 
 
 There were two judges, Lord Barmack and Lord Pit- 
 fairly. The first of these was of the old type of the 
 previous century, haranguing every jury with threats, 
 even to oaths and cursings, if in aught it failed to do his 
 will. 
 
 On the occasion of this Drumfern riding the lords of 
 assize had come from Jedburgh, each on his own proper 
 beast. It was not yet the day of carriages and four. In 
 addition, each judge had with him his own unfortunate 
 "wig-of-all-work" a young advocate who was assured 
 by his friends that the path of glory consisted in riding 
 circuit as the judge's companion of voyage. 
 
 But to some, at least, the path to glory was certainly 
 through suffering. For my Lord Barmack, whose temper 
 was perennially bad, vented any that accumulated on 
 young Cosmo Taylor, whose only crime was that he 
 wrote for the reviews, while Lord Pitfairly, a man of 
 militant piety, persisted in discussing with his attache, one 
 Kenneth Maitland, the immortality of the soul at a time 
 when Mr. Maitland was thinking of the deuced pretty 
 girl he had danced with four times at the Jedburgh circuit 
 ball the night before. 
 
 On the way from Jedburgh to Drumfern the two 
 judges, wearied of the "Yes" and "No" of their subordi- 
 nates, and momentarily soothed by dialectic victories over 
 
294 STRONG MAC 
 
 them, had, as a last resort, sought each other's society as 
 they jogged along. 
 
 "I am sacredly glad to be quit of that sordid hole," said 
 Barmack, with an expletive which caused his companion 
 to shiver. "I can always tell a Royal Borough by the 
 stench yes, sir, by the stench! I wish to heaven some- 
 thing would come between me and the wind of Jedburgh's 
 regality! Ouff!" 
 
 "Ah, my Lord," said Pitfairly, mildly, "for me I have 
 not found it so. I have always been well treated in Jed- 
 burgh. There is a soft sweetness, even a sanctity about 
 the place" 
 
 "Sanctity be hanged, Pitfairly," shouted Barmack; "it's 
 the stink, man I tell you it's nothing but the want of 
 drains !" 
 
 "The minister of the parish who preached to us on Sab- 
 bath morning appeared to be a most meritorious person," 
 piped Pitfairly, eager to change the subject ; "I have just 
 been remarking as much to my young friend, Kenneth 
 Maitland." 
 
 "Oh, damnable ! Simply boss-timber, yon head o' his !" 
 cried my Lord, judicially; "there's eneuch planking and 
 cuddy's skin about the man's skull to mak' a new drum 
 for the Crailing Guard ! If it hadna been that I fell 
 asleep within the first quarter of an hour, by my faith, 
 Pitfairly, I declare I wad hae thrown my wig and cocked 
 hat at his pate! But speakin' o' cocked hats, Pitfairly, 
 I'm thinking from what I hear that ye'll need to smuggle 
 yours into the court at Drumfern. And mind ye, Pit- 
 fairly, it'll be your ain. For the last time ye sentenced a 
 man to the mercy o' the Almichty and the hangman, ye 
 blubbered into the crown o' mine so that it was never fit 
 to put on my head again !" 
 
 "I had not heard of the case particularly!" said Pit- 
 fairly, still mildly; "what is it?" 
 
 "No, ye wadna, tied up wi' sic a sumph as Kenneth 
 Maitland, that has nocht in the noddle o' him but haverel 
 lasses and houses-o'-call. It may do for you, Pitfairly, to 
 
COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE 295 
 
 be acquaint wi' the pattern o' every prick-me-denty petti- 
 coat between Carlisle and the Grassmarket, but I'm tellin' 
 you it's no beseeming in a decent married man like me." 
 
 "I know not to what you are pleased to refer," said Pit- 
 fairly stiffly ; "I presume you jest. That is not a practice 
 in which I strive to compete with some of my colleagues. 
 But I have heard nothing of this capital indictment of 
 which you speak. It is, if I mistake not, a Galloway 
 case!" 
 
 "A Galloway case, hear to him !" cried Barmack, bring- 
 ing down his whip-lash on his friend's horse with a slap 
 which caused it to curvet, to the rider's exceeding dis- 
 comfiture, "have ye never heard hath it not been told you 
 even at the kirk door hath it not been revealed to you in 
 a vision of the night, that a couple of poaching bonnet 
 lairds aye, bonnet lairds, no less, stand accused of two 
 murders with malice aforethought, and that it is your ex- 
 cellent good fortune first to try and then to sentence them ? 
 Lord, I wish it had been me! But I have to take that 
 abominable appeal about a man that buried a horse in an- 
 other man's yaird, and the gardener took the chicken-pox 
 or maybe the cholera! Maybe you will be willing to 
 change with me ! It were a truly Christian act !" 
 
 "Are you sure of this ?" said Pitfairly, obviously begin- 
 ning to roll his summing up like a sweet morsel under his 
 tongue. 
 
 "Aye, ower doom's sure!" groaned Barmack, "I wad 
 hae gi'en a guinea to gar thae poachin' deils shake in 
 their shoon ! But you, Pitfairly, will talk to them as if ye 
 had a detachment o' angels at the door to tak' them richt 
 up to heeven ! Almichty, but it's me that wad be croose, 
 if I were as sure o' gettin' quit o' the wee deils wi' the 
 reed-hot pincers, and sittin' snug amang the harps, as thae 
 twa will be afore ye hae dune wi' them. Oh, I ken your 
 style, Pitfairly 'It's never ower late for repentance' says 
 you ; f yow very crimes, as you look back on them, will 
 seem sae mony steppin' stanes to Abraham's bosom !' ' 
 
 "My Lord, it pleases you to be irreverent!" said Pit- 
 
296 STRONG MAC 
 
 fairly ; "I have need of solitude, if it be that my duty calls 
 me to be the means of ushering any two of my poor sinful 
 fellow-creatures into eternity! You will pardon me if I 
 ride on a little way by myself !" 
 
 "Aye, do that !" growled Barmack as he looked at the 
 bowed shoulders and nodding mandarin head of his cir- 
 cuit companion, "and faith, if it werena that a hempen 
 cord's nae friendly comforter to hae pitten about your 
 craig on a frosty mornin' by my sang, I wad e'en be 
 temptit to commit weel, it couldna be 'homicide' ha, ha, 
 no but auld-wifie-ci de ! Lord, Lord, I maun tell that to 
 yon eediot Cosmo Taylor. Not that he'll understand the 
 length an' breadth o' it like Hermand, but I am bound to 
 
 tell it to somebody!" 
 
 * * * * # * * 
 
 The Court of Assize of the Southern Circuit was in full 
 session in the old court-house of Drumfern, a reeky and 
 "sleechy" place, looking as if there had been rubbed off on 
 the very walls and ceilings the mean contemptible rascality 
 of a hundred gaol deliveries. On the bench sat my Lord 
 Pitfairly, a decanter of wine and a platter of biscuits be- 
 fore him, to enhance with a note of deeper colour the scar- 
 let-and- white of his judicial robes. 
 
 The Advocate Depute Melville Dundas, a cold, limited, 
 just man, stated the case for the prosecution. The two 
 McCullochs were at the bar. They looked pale and quiet 
 in the cobweb filtered light of the narrow court-house 
 windows. No man could say which was the taller as they 
 stood close together. For though Sharon was more grim 
 and gaunt than usual, facing the bench with a kind of 
 stern and silent determination, Roy seemed to have grown 
 in prison, and his face, always firm and manly, had taken 
 on a new fineness of line and quiet dignity of expression. 
 
 As the afternoon wore on, there seemed to be less and 
 less doubt as to the result of the trial. Indeed, the case for 
 the Crown was so strong, that the young advocate engaged 
 for the defence seemed cowed, and hardly made more than 
 a formal defence. James McCulloch had obtained such 
 
COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE 297 
 
 legal assistance as the firm he was engaged with could 
 supply. But the evidence as to the making away with 
 Sidney Latimer was so crushing, that as the judge said 
 privately to his companion of voyage, Kenneth Maitland, 
 it was strong enough to hang every one connected with 
 the case, and his wonder was that the fiscal had allowed 
 the girl Gracie, who seemed to be the cause of all this 
 unchristian feeling among neighbours, to escape furth of 
 the country. He himself would speak to the Lord Ad- 
 vocate about it immediately upon his return to Edinburgh. 
 
 "Yes, that would doubtless have made it more interest- 
 ing," said the young man, without taking thought ; "if all 
 tales be true she was a lass worth fighting about !" 
 
 "No daughter of Eve is worth fighting for!" said the 
 judge, sententiously. "Not if the woman were more beau- 
 tiful than the sun, and above the order of the stars ! Only 
 last Sabbath, did not the excellent Dr. Mullhead in his 
 circuit sermon say of that light-headed queen we had be- 
 fore us at Jedburgh, that her favour was deceitful and her 
 beauty vain?" 
 
 To this Mr. Kenneth Maitland wisely answered noth- 
 ing, but as his patron turned away for a moment (it was 
 during the stated pause for refreshments) he smacked 
 his lips and winked at the nearest young advocate, who 
 
 made an answering gesture of commiseration. 
 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 The speech of the advocate depute was over. It had 
 been not only severe but overwhelming. The clear mo- 
 tive, jealousy the fact of the presence of the unfortunate 
 Laird of Lowran at the house of the accused had been 
 made plain beyond dispute. What drew him there was 
 without doubt to see the girl Gracie, who had been installed 
 for some time, but had now fled the country. Young 
 men would be young men in spite of the sagest advice, and 
 it could be proved that the deceased had often been warned 
 of his danger by the aged lady whom they all honoured, 
 and who had given her evidence there that day with such 
 distinguished dignity and reticence. 
 
298 STRONG MAC 
 
 Secondly, was it not on the verge of the property of the 
 accused that the blood-stained coat had been found, the 
 very coat in which Mr. Sidney Latimer had left his own 
 house of Lowran a few hours before ? The horse, too, had 
 been recovered, wounded by a foul blow from some sharp 
 weapon, evidently given from beneath, thus showing inten- 
 tion of concealment. The footsteps of the unfortunate 
 victim had been traced right up to the door of the house 
 of the panels. There were evident traces of a struggle in 
 the vicinity. Though the body of the young gentleman 
 whose end had been so tragic had not been discovered, the 
 jury must decide whether that hiatus in the evidence was 
 enough to shield the criminals from the penalty of their 
 crimes. As to the other accusation, charged chiefly, 
 though not exclusively, against the younger prisoner at the 
 bar, there was every reason to hold that in that case 
 also his guilt was patent. The same motive was present 
 in it as in the other jealousy. 
 
 It could be shown that there was also revenge. For let 
 the gentlemen of the jury remember (and they were most 
 of them closely connected with the sheep-farming in- 
 terest) that the accused Roy McCulloch had spent some 
 weeks in gaol upon the accusation that he had stolen a 
 considerable number of sheep, the fleeces of which were 
 found in a barn at House of Muir ! Now these animals 
 were the property of the deceased Mr. Alexander Ewan. 
 The evidence, however, had not been strong enough to 
 ensure condemnation. The Crown officials at a distance 
 had exercised, rightly or wrongly wrongly, as it now ap- 
 peared, an undue clemency to the man before them. And 
 in all human probability the first use which Roy McCul- 
 loch made of his liberation was to proceed to the farm of 
 Boreland and there provoke the quarrel that ended in the 
 dastard blow which had proved fatal to that singularly 
 eminent agriculturalist, whose scientific treatment of all 
 the problems connected with the breeding of domestic 
 animals, especially horses, had brought so great honour 
 upon the parish and district. But though the name of Mr. 
 
COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE 299 
 
 Alexander Ewan was known far and wide, the proofs of 
 the connection of the accused with his death were less 
 firmly established, and less overwhelming than those 
 which had been proved in their hearing with regard to the 
 tragic disappearance of Mr. Sidney Latimer. For these 
 reasons his Majesty's advocate depute was content, find- 
 ing himself in the presence of so intelligent and able a 
 jury, perfectly conversant with the gravest affairs and 
 capable of judging upon them, to leave them to say 
 whether this state of things was to continue. Were they 
 to have murderers yes he would use the word mur- 
 derers abroad among them, dwelling upon their own 
 borders, not only defying the law of the land, but a con- 
 tinued menace to the lives of all honest and well-doing 
 people? Manifestly the unfortunate gentleman to whom 
 he had so often referred had met his death upon the lands 
 of the McCullochs nay, in the immediate vicinity of their 
 house. He would leave it with confidence to the jury to 
 say whether these two men, the sole persons in the neigh- 
 bourhood capable of such a crime, the only ones with any 
 motive, the only ones inculpated by evidence, were the 
 guilty persons or not. So strong did he consider his posi- 
 tion upon the matter, concluded Mr. Melville Dundas, 
 that he had purposely left the other charge, the murder of 
 Mr. Alexander Ewan, somewhat in the background, feel- 
 ing that he was able to depend upon the evidence that the 
 sagacity of the Crown officials had been able to put before 
 the jury in order to secure the conviction which, he felt 
 strongly, was necessary to the security of his Majesty's 
 lieges throughout all these well-doing and most respec- 
 table southern counties of Scotland ! 
 
 This, with infinite reduplications and returnings upon 
 the same arguments, was, in brief, the speech of his 
 Majesty's advocate depute. 
 
 Now, Messrs. Gleg and Gleg, writers in Drumfern 
 (whose managing clerk was a brother of one panel and the 
 son of the other), did a large, but not particularly distin- 
 guished business. They were reputed (perhaps libel- 
 
300 STRONG MAC 
 
 lously) to take by preference the cases which lay on the 
 purlieus of the law, rather than wait for the more serious 
 and distinguished landed-estate business, upon which most 
 country lawyers' offices starve throughout the year. In 
 the case of the McCullochs, with the eye to the main 
 chance which distinguished them as a firm, they had em- 
 ployed a certain young advocate, who had just passed his 
 examinations and been received at the Scottish Bar (a 
 nephew of the senior partner's), Mr. Apollos Dunn. This 
 gentleman was widely known to the circuit as ''Polly" 
 for the reason that it was believed that no original thought 
 had ever passed that mouth of gold, which nevertheless 
 could imitate with all a parrot's irritating exactitude the 
 peculiarities of every man on the circuit, from Pitfairly's 
 pious platitudes and Barmack's humor-spiced brutalities, 
 to the halting and hiatused oratory of Mr. Kenneth 
 Maitland, who, to do him justice, practised much 
 more frequently at Fencible dinners than "before the 
 Fifteen." 
 
 Mr. Apollos Dunn, very undesirous of making the 
 plunge, was hitching his gown and arranging his papers. 
 The jury was already shaking sapient heads and confer- 
 ring together. The judge took yet another sip from his 
 decanter in an absent-minded sort of way, nibbled a bit of 
 biscuit, and sat back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. 
 There was just time to make notes for his summing up. 
 He even began, as it were casually, to think over the 
 moving words in which he would address the condemned. 
 There was now so little doubt in his mind about the issue, 
 that he felt under the desk to make sure that the cocked 
 hat (the "black cap" which is always noted with a kind of 
 awe as being "assumed" by the judges on such occasions) 
 lay snugly on the shelf where he had placed it alongside 
 his sacred judicial snuffbox. Just as little doubt as to tne 
 fate of the McCullochs existed in any mind throughout the 
 court. Only the junior bar nudged each other and made 
 bets as to who "Polly" would ape on this occasion. 
 
 Mr. Apollos Dunn cleared his throat for the twentieth 
 
COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE 301 
 
 time. His papers were at last to his mind, and he was 
 sorry for it. His handkerchief was ready. He had re- 
 solved to make a thrilling appeal to the jury on the score 
 of the age of his senior client and the youth of his junior. 
 The style was to be that of the judge himself in child- 
 murder cases, when Lord Pitfairly was noted for the ex- 
 hibition of true pathos (but always hanged). 
 
 "My Lord, and gentlemen of the jury," said Polly, 
 getting the range of the court, "it is with the utmost 
 humility and with the sense of my awful responsibility that 
 I rise to make an appeal to you on behalf of the unfortu- 
 nate men before you. While admitting the serious char- 
 acter of a portion of the evidence brought before you I 
 propose to show that nothing but a collocation of circum- 
 stantial evidence connects either of them with the much- 
 to-be-lamented death of the late Mr. Sidney Latimer of 
 Lowran " 
 
 "Sidney Latimer is not \dead!" cried a clear resonant 
 voice from the back of the court. 
 
 "Silence there !" called out the usher, while the sheriff's 
 men hustled the audience to this side and that on their way 
 to the zone of disturbance. All heads were turned in that 
 direction. Even Lord Pitfairly half rose from his chair. 
 His principles of charity did not allow of an interruption 
 in his court, even for the purpose of saving two men's 
 lives. Besides he had just thought of something particu- 
 larly moving for his "black cap" address. If the McCul- 
 lochs were acquitted, he might forget it before he had a 
 chance of using it. 
 
 A young man of military bearing and dress was seen 
 forcing his way through the crowd. The peace officers 
 met him half way, but the strength of his purpose, and 
 perhaps also the uniform which he wore, restrained them 
 from actually laying hands upon him. 
 
 By this time most of the Bar were on their feet. Polly 
 Dunn and his speech were lost in the throng. He stood 
 open-mouthed, his head thrown forward, his gown rucked 
 up about his neck and his whole appearance ridiculously 
 
302 STRONG MAC 
 
 suggesting the bird to which the more frivolous of his con- 
 temporaries compared him. 
 
 "Who are you, sir ?" cried Lord Pitf airly, when he had a 
 little regained his composure. Then he took another sip 
 of his decanter, as mechanically as if he had been replen- 
 ishing a fire with wood in fact, as if his hand had found 
 the wine-glass in the way, and Lad not known what else 
 to do with it but carry it to the judicial mouth. 
 
 "I am Sidney Latimer!" said the young man, simply. 
 
 "Sidney Latimer " repeated the judge, this time like 
 a parrot himself, "impossible! We have just heard it 
 proved to demonstration that Sidney Latimer was mur- 
 dered and by the prisoners before us ! What have you to 
 advance as an excuse for this scandalous and unseemly as- 
 sertion?" 
 
 The young man, who had by this time arrived at the 
 little flight of steps, which in the old court-house of 
 Drumfern conducted to the witness box, now turned tow- 
 ards the Bar. 
 
 "You know me,. Kenneth?" he said to the judge's 
 travelling companion, "and you, Melville, and you, and 
 you! Besides, every Lowran person here present knows 
 me!" 
 
 But a better witness than any of these he named had 
 arisen from the seats set apart for the witnesses. Gaunt, 
 worn, haggard, the Lady of Lowran stood up, hanging at 
 first for a moment uncertain, her hands tremulous, her 
 body swaying. Suddenly with a piercing cry of "My son ! 
 my son !" she threw herself into Sidney Latimer's arms. 
 
 And behind the young man's mother was seen another 
 woman, aged like the other and also trembling. 
 
 "Mine too," she muttered, setting her hand on his 
 shoulder almost jealously. Then with a glance at the 
 court, "It's no fittin' here!" she murmured. And so sat 
 down, content to caress with her eyes the dead-come-to- 
 life-again, the man whom she had -nursed as a boy and for 
 whom her arms still yearned. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 "BY A MAJORITY!" 
 
 "ORDER! Order!" cried the judge, "all this is most un- 
 seemly. If your statement be exact, sir, be true, why have 
 you not appeared in this court sooner?" 
 
 "My Lord," answered Sidney Latimer, "I have come di- 
 rectly from Spain on board the ship Fortune's Queen, 
 presently at Port Glasgow. When the news reached me I 
 was serving with his Majesty's troops in the Peninsula. 
 I posted from Port Glasgow to Thornhill, believing that 
 the assizes were not to be opened till Monday. From that 
 point, having learned my mistake, I have ridden the horse 
 which is at this moment at the door of the court !" 
 
 The advocate depute, zealous in his office, raised him- 
 self with a jerk. "I will recall to your Lordship," he said, 
 "that the witnesses have all been heard. Saving the 
 speech for the defence, the case is closed. I submit that 
 this gentleman has no standing here !" 
 
 Instantly the quick Latimer temper kindled. 
 
 "Indeed," he cried, "no standing here? We will see. 
 Kenneth, Cosmo, Dickson who of you will lend me a 
 gown ?" 
 
 The nearest advocate, a tall, good-looking fair-haired 
 young lawyer of the name of Dickson, perhaps more in- 
 terested in literature than in pleas, quickly divested him- 
 self of his gown. Sidney threw it about his shoulders. 
 
 "I appear," he said, "as counsel for the prisoners in 
 addition, that is, to any other who may have been acting 
 for them. I trust he will accept of my assistance, and you, 
 Mr. Advocate Depute, will now inform me if I have no 
 standing here !" 
 
 The judge, whom repeated casual encounters with the 
 decanter had made a little muzzy as to his head, said with 
 
304 STRONG MAC 
 
 a little stutter, "But have you been admitted to the Bar 
 the Scottish Bar, I mean?" 
 
 "Certainly, my Lord," said Sidney ; "as to that, several 
 of the gentlemen present can bear me witness. It is true 
 I have never practised, nor even appeared, except formally, 
 before any court. Nevertheless, I am an advocate, and as 
 such have a right to plead in any court in the realm ! May 
 I ask who is the gentleman I am to assist ?" 
 
 A sharp turn of all eyes directed Latimer's gaze towards 
 Mr. Apollos Dunn. "Polly" stood looking about him in 
 dumb surprise. His faculty of imitation had deserted him 
 in the unusual circumstances. His carefully prepared 
 pathos lost its point; words departed from him. He 
 gobbled in his throat and sat down abruptly. 
 
 Sidney Latimer, all uninstructed, was left to make the 
 speech for the defence. 
 
 Even this was not to be permitted to him uninterrupted. 
 It was a day of surprises in the Drumfern Circuit Court. 
 A tall, rough-looking, but jovially- faced man upreared 
 himself in the well of the court. 
 
 "Heavens and earth," whispered the younger members 
 of the Bar, "what if it be the other murdered man ! Ten 
 to one it's Ewan !" 
 
 "And the sea gave up the dead that were in it !" quoted 
 Kenneth Maitland, irreverently, under his breath to 
 Cosmo Taylor. 
 
 But it was not Ewan. It was far indeed from being 
 Ewan. Instead, it was none other than our ancient friend, 
 Adam McQuhirr of the Gairie. 
 
 "There's a Dumbie here that canna speak," he said, 
 "but nocht will serve him but he maun hae a twa-three 
 words wi' your Lordship ! It's aboot the killin' o' Muckle 
 Sandy Ewan, I'm thinkinM" 
 
 "And why," said his Lordship, angrily, "if the deaf- 
 and-dumb person has anything of value to relate, was not 
 his evidence brought forward by the counsel for the de- 
 fence at the proper season ? All this is extremely incon- 
 venient !" 
 
"BY A MAJORITY!" 305 
 
 "Beggin' your pardon, my Lord," said the honest 
 farmer, "but the coonsel-man kenned nocht aboot it, puir 
 falla! I hae had to watch Dumbie for three nichts up 
 at the Gairie me and Ailie, my sister, that is. For he 
 was neither to haud nor to bind. And sair wark I had to 
 get him here, your Lordship. I wad rayther hae pitten a 
 scythe through the hale Lowran meadow twenty times 
 ower, I can tell ye that !" 
 
 "It is no matter," said his Lordship, "what you would 
 or would not have done. The whole business is most 
 irregular. I never yet have known a defence conducted in 
 such a way, Mr. Dunn ; I cannot but think you are 
 seriously to blame. If all cases were dragged out in this 
 fashion, the circuit courts might never adjourn at all." 
 
 "Better that than the hangin' o' twa men for what they 
 ken nocht aboot !" asserted honest Gairie in the same tone 
 in which he proposed a health at a Wednesday's farmers' 
 ordinary. 
 
 "Sit down, sir," said the judge, severely ; "it is very un- 
 seemly for you to instruct me unworthy instrument of 
 human justice as I have always acknowledged myself to 
 be. I do not even know your name !" 
 
 "My name, sir, is welcome to you to ken, and to every 
 ither honest falla !" returned the farmer. "I am juist plain 
 Aidam McQuhirr o' the Gairie! And, by my certes, if 
 ever ye are passin' that way, dinna be blate caa' in, and 
 ye shall get a gless or twa o' the best whusky in Galloway ! 
 And atween you and me and the post, my Lord, never a 
 penny o' duty " 
 
 "Silence!" cried the judge, rising in majesty; "if you 
 say a word more, or address me in that familiar fashion 
 again, I will instantly order your removal from the court 
 in custody!" 
 
 "Weel, it was a fair offer and kindly meant !" said the 
 burly farmer, standing to his guns ; "onybody that kens 
 Aidam McQuhirr will tell ye as muckle. There's the 
 shirra himsel', at your ain elbow. He's fell fond o' 
 the Gairie un-ta'-en-doon ! 'Deed I'm no sae sure that he 
 
306 STRONG MAC 
 
 wad refuse a gless o' what ye hae under your ain nose, 
 though gin ye gat it at the 'Queen's Head' it's maistly 
 logwud, I'll haud to that!" 
 
 There was a peal of laughter all over the court. For the 
 tendencies of the excellent sheriff were well known in the 
 profession. Even the judge himself was pleased to smile. 
 
 "Well, well," he said, tolerantly, "doubtless you mean 
 no harm. Let us see this dumb man. I am somewhat 
 acquainted with the system, having taken a great interest 
 in the establishment and hospital of the excellent Mr. 
 Braidwood previous to his removal to London, often visit- 
 ing him at Dumbiedykes. I have therefore some con- 
 siderable skill in his new manual of signs alphabetically 
 expressed upon the fingers. Perhaps your deaf-and-dumb 
 witness has been at some period of his life a pupil of his." 
 
 The chance to cross-examine a difficult subject, a task 
 at which he had been specially successful as an advocate, 
 quite restored the temper of my Lord Pitfairly. But 
 Adam McQuhirr had not got over the rejection of his 
 offer of hospitality, to which, indeed, he was but ill accus- 
 tomed. 
 
 "The laddie is nae mair deaf than you, my Lord 
 'deed, to tell the truth, no sae muckle ! And as for dumb, 
 he hasna been dumb verra lang, and hasna learned a great 
 deal since syne, forbye what the whaups hae cried to him 
 up on the muirs !" 
 
 "Ah, then his dumbness has been the result of an acci- 
 dent," said the judge; "let him come and be sworn. I 
 permit it if he has anything to put before the court." 
 
 The advocate depute interposed a merely pro forma ob- 
 jection, for even he was curious to know to what all this 
 might tend. 
 
 Presently Adam McQuhirr's tall and rugged form was 
 seen forcing a way through the densely packed masses of 
 people in the direction of the witness box. He appeared 
 to be carrying a swathed bundle in his arms. 
 
 "Ye see," he explained generally to the court, as he ad- 
 vanced, "it's no that he needs to be carried ! He's no that 
 
"BY A MAJORITY!" 307 
 
 ill. Na, na, 111 wager that oot on the muirs, deevil a yin 
 o' ye could catch him no even you young birkies o' 
 lawyers. He can rin like a hare and hide like a whutterick 
 in a stane dyke. But here, amang sae mony feet, the puir 
 thing micht get trampit on." 
 
 And with these words Adam deposited on the seat of 
 
 the witness box Daid the Deil ! 
 
 * # # * * * * 
 
 The judge, who had affected not to hear the later re- 
 marks of the incorrigible Aidam now began some ex- 
 cessively complicated manoeuvres with his fingers, while 
 at the same time his lips formed the letters he was en- 
 deavouring to express upon his hands. Sometimes he 
 would get tangled in a combination, whereupon he would 
 shake his fingers pettishly, as if wiping them of soap-suds. 
 
 "Tut-tut," he muttered, "I am out of practice. It is so 
 long since I studied the system." 
 
 Then glancing up, for the first time my Lord looked at 
 Daid. His jaw instantly dropped. Never, in all his ex- 
 perience of courts, as member of the Bar, advocate depute, 
 or judge, had such an object faced him in the witness box. 
 He half started up from his chair, as if to make a more 
 careful observation, then as abruptly dropped back again. 
 
 "What what is this?" he stammered; "is it human? 
 Who has done this?" 
 
 He was forgetting the old examining practice of getting 
 an answer to one question before asking another. 
 
 "Perhaps," he added with sudden compunction, "it 
 would be better if he were first of all examined in my 
 private room !" 
 
 A murmur of dissatisfaction went up from the crowded 
 court. 
 
 "It's my opinion," said Adam McQuhirr, deliberately, 
 "that if your Lordship wad hand him a killyvine (lead- 
 pencil), Daid could answer your questions as weel as if 
 he had been bred to the law !" 
 
 "He can write, then ?" said Lord Pitfairly. 
 
 "Write ?" cried Adam, indignantly, "aye, as weel as ony 
 
308 STRONG MAC 
 
 clerk amang them a'! Faith, I'm tellin' ye no lee it 
 was Adora Gracie that learned him !" 
 
 Pencil and paper were handed up to the dumb boy, 
 whose terribly scarred face sent a shuddering awe through 
 the packed ranks of the spectators. His Lordship pro- 
 ceeded to ask the questions, after having given Adam Mc- 
 Quhirr permission to remain near the box in case his 
 strength or influence was required. 
 
 "What is your name?" said the judge in a loud voice. 
 
 "Ye needna billy like a goat, my Lord," said Adam Mc- 
 Quhirr; "Daid's nane deaf, I'm tellin' ye!" 
 
 And indeed hardly had the words left the mouth of 
 Lord Pitfairly than the answer was ready upon the sheet 
 of paper. 
 
 "I wish my clerk, young lazy whelp, could do his work 
 one half as quickly," said Kenneth Maitland in an under- 
 tone to Sidney Latimer ; "not that I ever need him except 
 to clean my pipes ! Is this your first case ?" 
 
 Sidney nodded, his eyes on the boy in the witness box. 
 
 "You beat me I never had one !" murmured his friend ; 
 "my first will be a case of justifiable homicide that is, if 
 old Pitfairly continues to bore me with the fulfilment of 
 prophecy and Jacob's ten horns ! Was it Jacob who had 
 the ten horns or the coat of many colours ?" 
 
 "Mushf 
 
 The judge was reading the paper. 
 
 "David McRobb is my name, aged fourteen, but small 
 for my age, born at Lowran, and I ken wha killed Sandy 
 Ewan!" 
 
 This was indeed conclusive evidence of his right to be 
 heard as a witness in the case. The judge looked up and 
 nodded. 
 
 "Ah," he said, his suavity returning to him at the hope 
 of success, "you have information about the murder of 
 Sandy Ewan? Well, be good enough to tell us what you 
 know !" 
 
 "It wasna a murder, it zvas a fecht !" 
 
 "So !" said the judge, pleased that his own preconceived 
 
"BY A MAJORITY!" 309 
 
 opinions were likely to be substantiated; "then I take it 
 that the younger prisoner, Roy McCulloch, had a quarrel 
 with Alexander Ewan, and in the course of the fight, acci- 
 dentally killed him?" 
 
 The twisted crow's-foot hand wrote rapidly. The paper 
 was passed over by an officer of the court. The gold 
 spectacles were found shoved up into the wig, and Lord 
 Pit fairly took a deliberate pinch of snuff as he adjusted 
 them before reading whereby a whispered malediction 
 was made to arise from the eager and expectant auditory. 
 
 "It wasna Roy McCulloch that killed Sandy Ewan." 
 the judge read, slowly. "Roy was never near the Boreland 
 that mcht. Dickie Dick is a LIAR, and the other mem, 
 too." 
 
 The judge looked stern for the first time since the 
 strange witness appeared in the box. 
 
 "Then you must instantly reveal the name of the mur- 
 derer of Sandy Ewan !" he said. And again with no 
 hesitation the pencil flew over the paper. During the 
 months in the garret of Aline's cottage, Daid had had 
 plenty of practice. 
 
 "I will not tell a soul wha killed Sandy Ewan. I will 
 kill the man mysel' !" 
 
 The judge read these words twice over, as if doubtful 
 whether his gold-rimmed glasses were doing their duty. 
 Then he turned his eyes to the misshapen atomy in the 
 box, with honest Adam McQuhirr on guard beside him. 
 
 "What?" he cried ; "what have you to do with the man 
 that you should make such a dreadful threat?" 
 
 For all answer the boy slowly opened his mouth and 
 pointed with his finger at something black within. 
 
 "He did that!" The fingers wrote rapidly and threw 
 the pencil on the floor. 
 
 Daid the Deil's examination was over. 
 
 After a time the advocate depute collected himself suffi- 
 ciently to point out that in the altered circumstances, and 
 
3io STRONG MAC 
 
 owing to the extraordinary course the judicial proceedings 
 had taken, he had a right to return again upon his req- 
 uisitory speech. To this the judge assented, and that 
 impassive man, Mr. Melville Dundas, began by assuring 
 his Lordship that a very few words would serve him. 
 There was, he admitted, no use in proceeding with the 
 first charge, when the man whom the panels were accused 
 of murdering was acting as their junior council. At the 
 same time, he could not help thinking that there was some- 
 thing exceedingly improper, not to say illegitimate, in the 
 way in which justice had been trifled with ! And the pro- 
 ceedings of Mr. Sidney Latimer, both on the night of his 
 disappearance and afterwards, in refusing to communi- 
 cate his whereabouts, seemed to him to call for judicial 
 investigation, if not in a court of law at least by the 
 Society of Advocates. 
 
 As to the second charge, and with regard to the extra- 
 ordinary evidence, if he might call it evidence, which had 
 been given by a boy who declared himself a second victim 
 of the murderer of Alexander Ewan, he would point out 
 to the jury that it left the case against the younger panel 
 much as before. There was only the unsupported asser- 
 tion of the dumb boy that not Roy McCulloch, but another 
 unnamed (against whom, very improperly, he meditated 
 personal vengeance), was the guilty person. He (the 
 advocate depute) need not remind the intelligent jury he 
 saw before him that this was neither evidence, nor any- 
 thing even remotely approaching the nature of evidence. 
 There was, for instance, the affair of the sheepskins, yet 
 unexplained and extremely suspicious " 
 
 At this point of the advocate depute's speech a strange 
 eldricht laugh was heard, the laugh of the maimed boy. 
 Without rising from his friend's knee the Dumbie scat- 
 tered a handful of something resembling white furry wil- 
 low leaves in the direction of the Bar and jury box. Then 
 snatching up a sheet of paper, he again wrote rapidly. 
 Adam McQuirr looked at his protege with modest pride. 
 Daid was beating the lawyers the first duty of every 
 
"BY A MAJORITY!" 311 
 
 country-bred Scot, as often as he approaches the doors of 
 a court. 
 
 "I do not know I put it to your Lordship whether at 
 this stage further interruptions of this sort " Thus Mr. 
 Melville Dundas appealed against fate. 
 
 But the curiosity of Lord Pitf airly was strong, so while 
 the officers of the assizes, together (sad it is to relate) with 
 the members of the junior Bar, were scrambling for the 
 curious leaf-shaped things, the judge read: "There 
 match thae wi f the fleeces ye hae at the fiscal' s. They hae 
 a' the McCullochs' ain mark! What think ye o' that?" 
 
 This was doubtless something of the nature of an anti- 
 climax, but to the men who sat on the seats of the jury 
 box, a little weary of speeches and witnesses, it was also 
 the most telling piece of evidence of the day, and did more 
 for Roy McCulloch than all the rest put together 
 hardly even excepting the dramatic appearance of Sidney 
 Latimer. 
 
 For the furry things, thus informally produced, were 
 the ears of the very sheep which Roy had been accused of 
 stealing, and (as Daid had said) each of them bore not 
 only the McCulloch ear-mark, but remains of the blue Mc- 
 Culloch keel. 
 
 Upon demand of Sidney Latimer certain of the fleeces 
 were brought in and the ears fitted on by the jury them- 
 selves, amid expressions of delight. These honest men did 
 not understand legal technicalities, but they knew that 
 the farmer who was accused of stealing his own sheep 
 must be an innocent and deeply wronged man. The effect 
 was so strong that Sidney Latimer, coached by an old 
 circuit lawyer, waived his right to reply, and (what was 
 of infinitely more service) induced Mr. Apollos Dunn to 
 do the same. Lord Pitfairly summed up in a gush of ad- 
 miration for the wonderful providences of the Almighty, 
 under which the whole house, except the accused persons, 
 sat visibly uneasy. It all seemed to have come about 
 owing to Lord Pitfairly's influence with Things Above. 
 
 "I wonder if I had a shot at him with my snuff-box, 
 
312 STRONG MAC 
 
 what I would get ! But I doubt if even that would make 
 him stop," groaned Kenneth Maitland, nudging Sidney 
 under the latter's borrowed gown. 
 
 The jury retired, and instantly there arose a terrible 
 chatter of talk. The judge withdrew into a certain 
 gloomy cubby-hole which in the old court-house of Drum- 
 fern was called "his Lordship's chamber." One hour, 
 two hours passed slowly away. 
 
 "Are they going to convict after all it's juist no 
 possible !" whispered the crowd. 
 
 "Guid peety them, then," said a strong-handed Drum- 
 fern mason, spitting on his palms to allay his nervousness, 
 "they'll never get past Nith Brig wi' the breath o' life in 
 them, if they do!" 
 
 "Na, I wadna gie a penny-worth o' alicreesh for their 
 twal necks, if they bring it in for that bonny lad to be 
 hanged!" said a sturdy dame of the wash-tub. "Faith, 
 though, yonder's the provost, that's their kind o' head- 
 man. I hae a craw to pick wi' him onyway. He was gye 
 impident to my guidman at the last borough coort ! And 
 only for being fand drunk on the Sands and burstin' the 
 toon drum ower the drummer's ain heid !" 
 
 The jury trooped back, smiles on every face, save one. 
 The provost had done his duty and saved his neck. 
 
 Lord Pitfairly came in, dusting ruddy drops off his 
 ermine, also shaking the crumbs out of the folds of his 
 robe judicial. 
 
 The provost, who had been chosen foreman by general 
 consent, stood forward in answer to his Lordship's formal 
 question. 
 
 "We find unanimously," he spoke slowly, in imitation of 
 the advocate depute (whose style he admired, in spite of 
 having traversed his conclusions), "that the accused are 
 not guilty of causing the death of Mr. Sidney Latimer" (a 
 murmur of laughter, instantly suppressed, here) "and, by 
 a majority, that Roy McCulloch is not guilty of the murder 
 of Alexander Ewan !" 
 
 "By a majority !" 
 
"BY A MAJORITY!" 313 
 
 The court buzzed with excitement at the unexpected 
 qualification of the verdict. His Lordship, after the for- 
 mal liberation of the prisoners, could hardly wait till he 
 was in the decent retirement of his chamber in order to 
 summon Kenneth Maitland to find out what was the ma- 
 jority, and who it could be that, in spite of his charge, still 
 thought the McCullochs guilty. 
 
 Maitland, who could read the signs of the times as well 
 as any man, and who knew that he would have no peace 
 till he had reported everything, waited for the provost's 
 exit. 
 
 "What was the majority?" he said in the hearing of 
 Adam McQuhirr, who held his tongueless burden in his 
 arms. 
 
 "Eleven to one !" said the provost, somewhat reluctantly, 
 it must be said. 
 
 "And who was the one ? It's his Lordship himself 
 who has sent to ask," said Kenneth, hardily. 
 
 "Jonathan Grier the Laird ofLowran's game-keeper!" 
 answered the provost. 
 
 And in the strong arms of the man Adam, the eyes of 
 a little maimed boy glowed like coals of fire. 
 
 "Hush thee !" murmured the good man, soothing 
 Daid the Deil like an infant, "we will soon be hame noo. 
 And, bless me, vender's Adora!" 
 
 But the quick eyes of fire were fixed on something else 
 than the face of Adora Gracie. They saw Jonathan Grier 
 slinking away through the crowd, fearful that he would 
 be recognised. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 TWO MEN AND THE WOMAN. 
 
 WITH a quick gasp of apprehension, Sidney Latimer 
 understood that his time was come. Truly he had 
 laboured for naught. The good he had wrought was 
 turned to evil, even as he knew it would. Apples of 
 Sodom were to be the only fruit of his toil and travail. 
 
 Adora had come with the post-chaise the fourteen miles 
 from Thornhill, and had arrived just in time to meet Roy 
 McCulloch as he stepped into God's blowing airs upon the 
 streets of Drumfern, once more a free man. His bold, 
 strong face showed pale and more sharply cut than of 
 yore. He was indeed "sair shilpit," as Aline put it when 
 she saw him. Yet he looked not the worse for that, at 
 least so thought Adora, as she saw him coming towards 
 her. 
 
 The two silently shook hands, the eyes of Sidney Lati- 
 mer watching them jealously from afar, almost disap- 
 pointed that he could find no fault with their behaviour in 
 presence of each other. 
 
 Sharon it was who overpassed his son with his prompter 
 word, speaking gravely and steadily, as if he had only 
 come to Drumfern upon a short and ordinary journey to a 
 Wednesday's market. 
 
 "Ye will come back wi' us to House o' Muir and set the 
 place in order a wee !" he said. 
 
 Sadly Adora shook her head. It could not be, she saw 
 
THE TWO SILENTLY SHOOK HANDS." 
 
TWO MEN AND THE WOMAN 315 
 
 well not with Sidney Latimer there to think the thought 
 she knew was in his heart. 
 
 "I thank you," she answered gently. "House of Muir 
 was a good home and a pleasant till that befell which be- 
 fell. But since then Aline McQuhirr has given my father 
 shelter, and I cannot be quit of her like an old shoe. She 
 took us in when none else would, the door of House of 
 Muir being shut! I must return and do what I can to 
 repay her." 
 
 Then for the first time Roy spoke. Never till now had 
 he lifted his eyes to the face of Adora Gracie. 
 
 "Do not let any thought of me keep you back," he said. 
 "My father needs that some woman should fend for him. 
 I shall not be there. I swear before you all that I shall not 
 sleep in my own bed nor be sheltered by my own roof-tree 
 till I hunt down the true murderer of Sandy Ewan! 
 Though but one believed me guilty, I count not myself to 
 be cleared of suspicion while the matter is dark !" 
 
 His father turned to him gently. Prison had drawn 
 them more closely together than ever before, they who 
 had spoken but little to each other while the meal-ark was 
 full in the kitchen of House of Muir. But they had be- 
 come friends in the drear dusks and mouldy cells of the 
 "Thieves' Hole" of St. Cuthbertstown. 
 
 "Roy," he said, "take an old man's word for it even 
 your father's ! Let not the thing trouble you ! Come your 
 ways back to House of Muir ! Bravely do ye ken who it 
 was that would not find ye innocent of the thing they laid 
 to your charge. But of that I shall bear my part, and you 
 yours !" 
 
 "No, faither," said the young man, with a certain grave 
 tenderness in the Scottish word, "I will never enter the 
 door of House of Muir till I have made it all plain to the 
 world the crime and the criminal alike !" 
 
 "Little ye ken what ye undertake," said his father; 
 "mony are the cauld, blashy days and wet, cauldrife nichts 
 ye maun bide oot on the hills, to find out a deed done in 
 secret like that. Moreover, it concerns not you. Come 
 
316 STRONG MAC 
 
 hame, lad. Ye are cleared in the sight o' men. Hearken 
 to that ! And as to God, He kens a' thing !" 
 
 The clamours of the cheering had not yet wholly died 
 away. Mixed with it came a wild hoot of execration, a 
 noise as of the howling of dogs on a trail. It was, they 
 said, Jonathan Grier running in fear of his life for the 
 Maxwelltown bridge-end. Had the good wives caught 
 the Lowran gamekeeper that night, it had not gone well 
 with him on the plain-stones of Drumfern. The McCul- 
 lochs had never been so popular in their lives. And had 
 their manners, or rather those of Sharon, been a little more 
 approachable, they would have been chaired round the 
 town like a successful candidate for parliament. But 
 Sharon was too grim and Roy had other things to think 
 about. So the popularity of a moment spent itself vaguely 
 in invitations to drink at the Queen's Head, the King's 
 Arms, and other well-known hostelries. 
 
 First of all, however, there was Sidney Latimer to 
 thank, and to Roy McCulloch the task was no pleasant 
 one. The gulf fixed between what a rich man may do for 
 a poor one, and the return a poor man can make to one 
 richer than himself, yawned before Roy's feet. 
 
 Added to which, Adora had travelled far alone in the 
 company of this man. She had gone, so they said, to a 
 foreign land to find him. They had returned together. 
 There remained therefore nothing for the young man to 
 do save to render his thanks to both, and to betake 
 him into the wilderness till he had accomplished his 
 vow. 
 
 As for Adam McQuhirr, he had long ago disappeared 
 with Daid the Deil, and his heavy "conveyance" was by 
 this time lumbering westwards in the direction of the Four 
 Mile House upon the Springholm road. As the old 
 long-tailed plough-horse jogged slowly along, Adam was 
 already thinking of his welcome home, and of all that he 
 would have to tell. None could possibly forestall him. 
 He would have the whole tale of how he bearded the Red 
 Judge to himself. And none knew better than he how to 
 
TWO MEN AND THE WOMAN 317 
 
 make the best use of his monopoly. He foresaw many a 
 brewing of the undutied "un-ta'en-doon," which he had 
 offered to my Lord Pitfairly, ere the grey hairs of age 
 should show upon his narrative or upon his listeners' ap- 
 preciation of it. 
 
 With her usual determination Adora was resolved that 
 Roy McCulloch should remain in no misapprehension of 
 the relations which existed between herself and Sidney 
 Latimer. She had read novels and romances in her day, 
 especially since Sidney had been accustomed to bring the 
 more recently published books to her father. Accordingly 
 she had noted that "misunderstanding" is the writer's 
 most frequent device for prolonging a tale, and her strong 
 common sense had marked it with growing resentment as 
 by much the most foolish. Whatever the course of her 
 life was to be, there would be no misunderstanding as to 
 her intentions and resolves. Sidney Latimer should 
 understand. Roy McCulloch should understand. If 
 either took offense well, as the proverb says, that would 
 be to Adora "but one stone the less in my garden !" 
 
 Adora knew that Sidney Latimer was watching 
 her jealously, even when his mother was hanging on his 
 arm, urging him to go with her to the King's Arms that 
 he might eat and rest. Nevertheless, she was resolved that 
 Roy should not leave home on her account. So on the 
 High Street of Drumfern she asked him plainly to come 
 to a little hostelry called the Cross Keys, situated in a by- 
 street, away from the throng of the market-place and the 
 hubbub of the great day of the assizes. 
 
 "A friend of mine is waiting for us there, whose ac- 
 quaintance I desire that you should make !" she said. 
 
 It was characteristic of both of them that there should 
 be no thanks expected or proffered between these two. 
 The bonds of ancientest amity held them silent. Of course 
 if Adora had been at the point of death or in any mortal 
 strait Roy would have done his best to save her. It 
 seemed natural to him, therefore, that Adora should try 
 in his case, and equally natural that she should succeed. 
 
318 STRONG MAC 
 
 Adora had always been the cleverer. That Roy would die 
 for Adora was but a little thing to say. As air was made 
 to breathe, water to drink, so he, Roy McCulloch, was for 
 Adora Gracie to use as it might seem good to her. 
 
 Soberly enough, therefore, the McCullochs walked to 
 the inn, and followed Adora upstairs to the parlour she 
 had hired. 
 
 "My friend, Captain Ebenezer Sinclair!" she said, 
 smiling at the three tall men who waited awkwardly 
 enough, so close together that they seemed to fill the 
 whole space of the little room. 
 
 Roy shook hands, somewhat shyly, but Sharon, who fol- 
 lowed, stood with a certain grim humour playing about the 
 corners of his mouth. He did not hold out his hand for 
 several seconds. He only gazed at the bronzed and 
 wrinkled sea-captain in front of him. 
 
 "You have forgotten me, I see, Ebenezer!" he said at 
 last. In his turn the captain gazed uncertain, his arm at 
 first stretched out, then half withdrawn. 
 
 "So it was you who helped this young lass to find the 
 only man that could save my auld neck 1" he said, grimly. 
 "Well, that is maybe tit for tat. Ebenezer Sinclair, do you 
 remember Valencia? A white day of driving stour, every- 
 body as floury as a miller, the long road to the Grao where 
 a certain ship lay and ?" 
 
 "God help us, lad," cried the captain, all at once heaving 
 himself forward, "you are never the smuggler that saved 
 me from yon mob o' yelly-hooin' deevils ? Man, I thocht 
 ye were a Spaniard. I mind will I ever forget? Their 
 knives glittered like fork lightning on the water " 
 
 "Aye, there were a wheen as wild lads amang them as 
 ye could forgather wi' between Tarifa and the Pyrenees ! 
 But yin Sharon McCulloch was a wilder in thae days! 
 Guid f orgie him ! What was your trouble I forget ? Ye 
 were some deal tewed up wi' a lass, were ye no ?" 
 
 But at the word the sea-captain made a sign with his 
 hand, signifying that Adora's presence must not be for- 
 gotten in such speech between men. 
 
TWO MEN AND THE WOMAN 319 
 
 "Abide abide/' said Sharon, laughing, "ye will be 
 telling her the tale yoursel' some day or lang as she sits 
 knitting by the fireside !" 
 
 "And now, captain," said Adora, who among other gifts 
 had that of stopping any conversation of the drift of which 
 she did not approve, "will you tell these two gentlemen 
 all that has happened since Adam McQuhirr put me on 
 board the Fortune's Queen at Port Glasgow ? It was your 
 kindness that saved their lives!" 
 
 "My kindness !" said the captain, with a look of admira- 
 tion at the girl before him, "richt willin' wad I be to tak' 
 the credit, but the solemn fact is I had nae mair 
 to do wi' bringin' the y^ung Laird o' Lowran hame to 
 to" 
 
 "To save our necks !" said Sharon, nodding grimly. 
 
 "Weel, to keep the hangman and you frae being better 
 acquaint," amended the sea-captain; "it's an unkindly 
 death, hangin' and for the sake o' byeganes, Ebenezer 
 Sinclair wad be sair vexed to see ony that belonged to ye 
 gangin' that road ! But it was a' the lass ! Hers is the 
 credit frae first to last !" 
 
 "I did not bring them here only to listen to you telling 
 them that !" said Adora, a little tartly. 
 
 The captain looked up astonished. 
 
 "I hope then," he said, "that ye werena expectin' me to 
 tell them a pack o' lees !" 
 
 Then a flash of understanding of what the captain of 
 the Fortune's Queen took for consummate knowledge of 
 womankind, shot through his mind. 
 
 "Davert !" he said to himself, "but I'll wager the lassie 
 is makin' a fool o' auld Ebie Sinclair. Twa strings to her 
 bow, has she, the besom? Weel, Ebenezer, think on the 
 days o' your vainity and that lass at Valencia, no to men- 
 tion ony mair names ! syne ask yourself if it's for you to 
 pit your hand to the dykeside and up wi' the first stane ! 
 Your job, my lad, is juist to back the lass up! I wadna 
 hae thocht she had it in her, the cunning wee blastie! 
 But, fegs, Ebenezer, lad, it's juist yae lesson the mair to 
 
320 STRONG MAC 
 
 ye, even at your time o' life! Oh, thae weemen, thae 
 weemen !" 
 
 And with this idea firmly rooted in his head, it will be 
 understood that the worthy captain skilfully played his 
 part ! That is, according to his conception of it. 
 
 So, Ebenezer Sinclair being witness, never in the history 
 of the world had there been anything more single-eyed 
 and matter-of-fact than the search for Sidney Latimer. 
 To Adora alone the honour! She had sought for this 
 man as for hid treasure, but it was to save the life of an- 
 other. Roy McCulloch was that other. The waves of 
 Biscay, the landing at Bilbao, the adventures of Hernani, 
 the rescue and the return, lost nothing when the captain 
 of the Fortune's Queen set out "to do the puir lass a guid 
 turn !" Only he took care to say nothing about the 
 moment when she had rested unconscious in Sidney Lati- 
 mer's arms, or the kiss which had been laid upon her lips 
 while her eyes were closed. Consenting or not consent- 
 ing, conscious or unconscious that was no business of 
 faithful Captain Ebenezer's. 
 
 "If it's the ither yin, after a'," he meditated, "she can 
 tell him whatever she likes aboot ony bits o' trifles like 
 that ! Trust a woman for a story !" 
 
 He might have spared his pains. Roy McCulloch had 
 had it fixed in his mind during his second sojourn in 
 prison that Adora Gracie was not for him. So he 
 listened to the captain's recital with dulled ears, only 
 firming his lips a little at the thought of the peril Adora 
 had escaped in the house of Hernani. He loved her 
 yes, more than ever. That needed not to be said. But to 
 his eyes, long deprived of light and air and beauty, there 
 was a new nobility and wonder in Adora's look. The 
 barrier between them had grown noticeably higher. This, 
 then, was Strong Mac's thought. Deep in his slow, faith- 
 ful, delving mind, he made this resolve, that so long as 
 there was the least stain upon his character, he would 
 never be fit to look any good woman in the face. 
 
 He had been liberated by the judge. Eleven out of 
 
TWO MEN AND THE WOMAN 321 
 
 twelve of a jury of his countrymen had found him inno- 
 cent of the foulness of midnight slaughter. Still to his 
 own mind there remained a doubt. The words "by a ma- 
 jority" stuck in his throat. Not until the truth was fully 
 made known would he walk in the ways of ordinary men. 
 
 As to Adora, she must marry the man who was worthy 
 of her, the man without stain, the man who for her sake 
 had done a noble and worthy act, who could give her at 
 once a great position. Yes, there was not a doubt of it. 
 Adora would marry Sidney Latimer. And Roy tried to 
 make believe that he would be glad. 
 
 But in the meantime Roy McCulloch would clear his 
 character, and so be able to stand once more as a man 
 among men, reproach-free and unafraid. 
 
CHAPTER XL. 
 
 THE SHEIL OF THE BLACK WATER. 
 
 IT was to the Sheil of the Upper Airie, above the sullen 
 muirland courses of the Black Water of Dee that Roy Mc- 
 Culloch had withdrawn himself. To others his purpose 
 might have seemed Quixotic and irrational. It was defi- 
 nite and clear to himself. 
 
 Said his father who took, though quietly, the former 
 view, "Lad, the jury of your countrymen and the guid 
 word of a judge o' the land should be enough for you, as it 
 was for me ! But let every man be fully persuaded in his 
 ain mind !" 
 
 It was his favourite scriptural maxim, and further than 
 that he made no attempt to influence his son. He silently 
 accepted Roy's help at critical seasons of lambing or 
 winter- feeding. For to a vigorous moorsman like Roy the 
 distance was not great between Sharon McCulloch's 
 property and the Sheil of the Black Water. So from that 
 time forth Roy was constantly on the great wide-open 
 world of the hills, lying out there so still with its face to 
 the skies. Never had Adam McQuhirr, that excellent 
 farmer, had such a herd as Roy was in these days. And 
 indeed he often stated in company his admiration for the 
 young man. 
 
 But Aline did not at all agree with his praises. She was 
 silent under them. For to her Roy's fault was that he 
 came no more to the cottage by the loaning-end, where he 
 well knew that a welcome was waiting for him. Adora 
 seemed to be fretting, or went about with a face proud or 
 haughtily cold. 
 
 Was it not for the sake of Roy McCulloch? 
 
THE SHEIL OF THE BLACK WATER 323 
 
 At all events, Aline of the Silver Braids did not believe 
 in any young man, who had "made a practise o't," ceasing 
 all at once to make visits of faith and loyalty and perform- 
 ing no more his due feudal service to her beloved. 
 
 But up among the rocks and far yont the sinister gash 
 of the Marches of Barnbarroch, Roy kept to his steadfast 
 purpose. He had not ceased to love Adora Gracie. 
 Having once begun, men like Strong Mac do not cease so 
 long as the chest lifts with the breath-heave. 
 
 Roy McCulloch stood often at his door and looked in 
 one direction. The Sheil was a little wooden house with a 
 ridiculous chimney of granite and clay, weathered and im- 
 perfect, but the only built part of the rude shelter hut. 
 However, Roy had banked the walls up with stones, and 
 led a trench all around to draw off the surface water. 
 There was no window in the Sheil, save a little pane of 
 glass by the side of the fireplace, which at night could be 
 secured in the inside by a stone that the present inmate 
 had brought in from the moors and chipped square. Few 
 were the men who could have lifted that stone into posi- 
 tion every gloaming, as Roy did with one hand before he 
 lit his lamp. 
 
 Not that he spent much time in his bothy, or lay down to 
 rest. When he did it was usually after day had broken 
 chill and grey over the long backs of the hills. 
 
 His two collies and his deerhound had followed him 
 from the House of Muir, and now regularly patrolled the 
 front of the Sheiling during the time their master was 
 asleep. Ailsa, the senior collie, a short-haired beast with 
 quick intelligent eyes, cocked ears and a head turned 
 habitually to the side, could be trusted to take a letter 
 down to Sharon at House of Muir. Roy folded and 
 secured the missive about the dog's leathern collar, and 
 then, pointing in the direction of House of Muir, he gave 
 the talismanic word, "Hame, Ailsa!" 
 
 Whereupon Ailsa, who had followed every movement 
 of her master with her eyes, would trot off across the 
 yard with a sniff of contempt for her companions (useless 
 
324 STRONG MAC 
 
 four-legged things all unfit to be trusted with a letter) ! 
 Then, once over the first dyke with some dignity she made 
 a bee-line for the heights long whale-backed ridges, over 
 which the boulders poked their noses like Polar bears seen 
 among the ice-floes beyond which lay House of Muir 
 and Sharon McCulloch waiting for his son's message. 
 
 Thus in the Sheiling of the Black Water, Roy McCul- 
 loch fronted his problem, as once on a day far down by the 
 lilied waters of Lowran Adora had wrestled with hers. 
 
 Morning after morning Roy McCulloch looked out 
 upon that vast plain face of the moors, which yet for its 
 lovers has as many and as great changes as the most 
 beautiful lowland country. This that he looked upon was 
 scarred with cleuchs,down which the water ran rustily red. 
 It was rifted with black viscous cracks that would swallow 
 a man or a horse as fast as any quicksand, if either had the 
 misfortune to fall within. Farther away Roy could see 
 the moss-hags pitted like the scars of small-pox here and 
 there along the margin. But these were less lonely, for 
 they told where men long dead and gone to dust had cut 
 fuel to warm them and theirs through the frosts of for- 
 gotten winters. All around him, far and near, this world 
 of the uplands was sown with gigantic boulders, grey and 
 waterworn, as if scattered from the pepperpot of some 
 careless Titan. 
 
 Young and lusty, though a trifle less self-confident than 
 he had been, Roy went about among his sheep with no 
 other defence than his strong arms and the fists which no 
 one in his world would dare to encounter. Only some- 
 times at night, he would take with him a stout black- 
 thorn cudgel, with which, once in time of need, he had 
 felled a young bull to the ground with one blow. 
 
 Adam McQuhirr's sheep were his first care. But then 
 he had been brought up among them, and he could do 
 what work there was to do, and yet have most of the day 
 and all the night for his own affairs. His eye, skilled as 
 only that of the shepherd is, saw things naturally in 
 "scores." If you had asked Roy how many peas were in a 
 
THE SHEIL OF THE BLACK WATER 325 
 
 dish, or kirk-folk in a congregation, he would instantly 
 have replied, "Oh, about six score !" So not a sheep could 
 absent itself from his colonies without leave, yet as he 
 went his ways along the marvellous labyrinth of hill 
 tracks, only a few inches wide, worn by the constant 
 trafficking of the little pattering "cloots" of the black- 
 faced people, Roy's mind was on one thing alone. 
 
 And that one, to his shame be it said, was not 
 Adora, but that he might put a name and an end to the 
 dangerous and mysterious Thing which had twice 
 brought terror upon the land, and had changed all his 
 life. Adora was Adora, but she was not for him now, 
 or perhaps ever. At any rate, Roy had fixed in his heart 
 that, while a single doubt remained in any mind as to 
 his guilt in the matter of the death of Alexander Ewan, 
 he would not soil any woman's good name by bringing it 
 into connection with his own. 
 
 "Folly!" said his father. "Guilt!" cried his ene- 
 mies. "Those strange unaccountable sulks that afflict 
 all men I" thought, but did not say, Adora Gracie. 
 But no one of these was even near the truth, least of all 
 she who should have known him best. Less swift than 
 Adora, but far more enduring and patient, Roy set him- 
 self to watch, and, if need should be, to act on his own re- 
 sponsibility. 
 
 There was one spot well out on the ridges, from which, 
 perilously balancing himself on a "logan" or rocking stone, 
 Roy could catch a glimpse beyond the wild Glen of Pluck- 
 amin, of the fair lowland breadths and sleeping waters of 
 Lowran. And also what indeed brought him daily to 
 that spot he could discern a certain speck of white upon a 
 field of green, which was the cottage at the loan-end of 
 Gairie, where Adora dwelt. He liked to come there and 
 look, though there was a barrier between them not of 
 wide air spaces, rifted glens and still waters, white with 
 anchored lilies, but that dread, inexplicable something that 
 had wrecked his life and made him, while yet a young 
 man, an outcast from the world. 
 
326 STRONG MAC 
 
 Somewhere it was lurking there the Thing. Roy was 
 more and more sure of it. It had murdered Alexander 
 Ewan or at least slain him. Beast, was it, or man be- 
 come even as the beasts ? Something, at least, of danger- 
 ous and deadly there was, which had well-nigh also been 
 the death of Sidney Latimer, which had done the deed of 
 horror upon the boy Daid, and left Roy McCulloch with- 
 out self-respect in his own eyes or honour untarnished in 
 the eyes of others. 
 
 It was small wonder, then, that with so much at stake 
 Roy's keen eyes perused that world of bog and bent and 
 heather, under all changes, by sun or moon, and at all 
 hours of the night and day. But for long he did so with- 
 out any result. 
 
 The seasons passed in their order over the uplands. 
 The winter grey and brown were invaded by the keen 
 pale emerald of the water-plants along the "flowes" or 
 dangerous shaking bogs. The heather tipped itself with 
 viridian, and by the edges of the paths and in all sheltered 
 places the hand of Spring set the small sweet grass-blades 
 thick, ready for the ewes to convert into milk for their 
 lambs. 
 
 But upon the face of the upland world, the young man's 
 keen and wary eyes could pick up no speck his brain could 
 not account for. That black streak was where a rush of 
 slaty shale had fallen during the night from the heights 
 of Bennanbrack and scarred the sappy pastures beneath, 
 always apple-green with the drip from the rocks. Yonder 
 touch of fresh orange on the hillside was where a dog-fox, 
 in quest of dead lambs, had begun to dig himself a shelter. 
 Roy had heard him barking in the night, his passage send- 
 ing Ailsa and her peers into a short-lived clamorous mad- 
 ness. 
 
 But one morning, in the time of the shortest nights, 
 when the sun rising by half-past three found oftentimes 
 hoar-frost on the heather and on the croziers of the uncoil- 
 ing ferns (and seared them on the spot with his rays for 
 sprouting untimely), Roy was returning to the Sheil of 
 
THE SHEIL OF THE BLACK WATER 327 
 
 the Black Water after a long night of fruitless watching. 
 He had lain with unshut eye on the lip of the cup which 
 looks upon the Marches of Barnbarroch. All through the 
 hours of darkness he had remained there. It was his 
 favourite watch-tower on the moor. Yet not a hare-bell 
 had moved, till the young grouse began to peep and chun- 
 ner about him in the thick heather, and the peewits 
 awoke to the fact that there was a stranger in the vicinage 
 of their eggs, and forthwith chased him off their policies 
 with clamorous cries and much delusive flapping of 
 broken wings. 
 
 A little sick with hope deferred, Roy was walking 
 homeward somewhat carelessly more so than was his 
 wont, when all at once the sound of voices in anger 
 caused him to drop to the earth with the swift instinct of 
 hiding, which in these days had become second nature to 
 him. 
 
 Who could be in that wild place, at that early hour, 
 speaking loudly and in anger. Roy was still well up on 
 the ridges, but the sound certainly came from above him. 
 The plain side of the fell spread away right and left, bare 
 even of sheep. Only at one particular place a boiling 
 cloud of the same irrepressible peewits, which had ex- 
 pressed their disapproval of his presence, circled and 
 swept over a dip in the long whale-back of the ridges. 
 
 "That is at the Dhu Loch," said Roy to himself, but 
 speaking half aloud, as is the wont of men who hear few 
 voices. And without stopping to think of danger or to 
 argue with himself as to who might possibly be in that 
 place at three in the morning, the young man took his 
 way uphill with all the speed and caution he was master of. 
 
 Now in the southern uplands of Galloway* which still 
 lie bare, desolate, and remote as when Bruce hid in them, 
 and will lie so till the Day of Judgment, there are many 
 "Dhu Lochs." High among the summits and out on the 
 rugged sides of the hills you will come upon them un- 
 expectedly. They are generally oblong in shape, and 
 guard the reputation of being unfathomably deep. The 
 
328 STRONG MAC 
 
 water is a clear peaty brown in the palm of the hand, but 
 looked at from above, it is black as ink. 
 
 It was to one of these that Roy made his way as he 
 climbed. He had mounted the heights of the ridge, so 
 keeping cautiously to the left, he circled about so that 
 the loch would lie beneath him when he came in sight of 
 it. Thus he would "have the hill" of what persons soever 
 were holding altercation in that secluded spot at so un- 
 timeous an hour. 
 
 Cautiously he drew himself up till his chin, and then 
 his breast rested on the verge. The water was still hidden 
 by a screen of heather thick and strong. He continued, 
 however, to hear the angry voices, but they seemed, per- 
 haps owing to the elevation at which he now lay, to be 
 farther away. Roy put aside the heather with his hand, 
 and looked forth. 
 
 Beneath him, near enough, as it seemed, to flip a penny 
 into, gleamed the Dhu Loch, a sheet of ink, motionless 
 under the heavy sky of the morning. Pale grey rocks of 
 coarse-grained granite fended it about, and at the farther 
 end two men stood facing one another with angry threat- 
 ening gestures. One of them, the one with his face turned 
 in Roy's direction, held a gun in his hand, which appar- 
 ently the other had been trying to wrest from him. The 
 man with the face still hidden from Roy was of a strange 
 aspect, more like some beast risen on its hind legs to en- 
 gage in a death-grapple than a man made in the image of 
 God. 
 
 "I will not I tell you I will not !" cried the voice which 
 Roy had heard before ; "you shall not have the gun ! We 
 have had enough of blood !" 
 
 Then ensued a hoarse growling snarl of anger, a quick 
 leap and lo! the man with the gun was pushed down, 
 falling on his back with the misshapen, inhuman creature 
 on the top of him. Instantly Roy McCulloch rose to his 
 feet. 
 
 "Hold there !" he cried. And in a moment he had pre- 
 cipitated himself down the steep towards the farther end 
 
THE SHEIL OF THE BLACK WATER 329 
 
 of the Dhu Loch, where, on a little green V-shaped pad of 
 land the struggle was fast reaching its climax. At the 
 moment when Roy shouted, a shot went off, the white 
 smoke from the muzzle of the piece curling lazily up in the 
 morning air. The creature took one swift, frightened look 
 over its shoulder, showing a mass of tangled hair with 
 scarcely any sign of definite features, and then with in- 
 conceivable rapidity rushed headlong down the slope. 
 Roy hastened to aid the fallen man, and so rapid were the 
 young man's movements, trained as he had been by weeks 
 of exercise on the hills, that the reek of the gunpowder 
 had not died away when he arrived upon the scene. The 
 man's face was a little turned to the side into a bush of 
 heather, but he was apparently uninjured. Indeed, as Roy 
 raised him in his arms, he opened his eyes, and presently 
 staggered to his feet, holding his hand uncertainly to his 
 head. The man was Jonathan Grier, the head-keeper on 
 the Lowran properties. His first question was a curious 
 one. 
 
 "Did you see him?" he asked. 
 
 "See him," said Roy, "the man who attempted to 
 murder you yes, I saw him!" 
 
 "Did you see his face?" 
 
 "Unfortunately not with any clearness it did not look 
 like a face," answered Roy, "but if you are better I may 
 catch him yet !" 
 
 The man gave a sigh mingled of relief and pain, and sat 
 down again. 
 
 "No, stay with me," he said; "it would be useless. He 
 runs like a deer." 
 
 But without waiting his words, Roy had hastened to the 
 top of the little gully down which the gamekeeper's as- 
 sailant had precipitated himself with such incredible vio- 
 lence. There were marks of shod feet on the rocks and 
 gravelly shale. Roy's trained eyes followed the line of 
 flight. Already the man had put an almost unbelievable 
 distance between himself and his pursuers. Roy made 
 him out crossing with painful care the pale green scum of 
 
330 STRONG MAC 
 
 a flowe. Then, apparently on all fours like a beast, or 
 rather squat like a crab or noxious creeping insect, he saw 
 him clambering up the grey rumble of slaty debris which 
 cumbered the mountain side. The fugitive kept a 
 definite direction probably towards some secret hiding- 
 place. 
 
 Roy descended again to the edge of the Dhu Loch. 
 The gamekeeper had to some extent recovered from his 
 rough handling, but with his recovery his natural evil 
 temper had also revived. 
 
 "It is as I told you," he snarled, "next time you will per- 
 haps mind your own business! The man is gone, and 
 there is an end of it." 
 
 "If I had minded my own business a few minutes ago," 
 said Roy, somewhat nettled, "in all likelihood there would 
 have been an end of you, Jonathan Grier! You would 
 have been a dead man, and buried in a moss-hole !" 
 
 "You mean you wish I had been!" sneered the head- 
 keeper. "Well, I am glad it is not so, for that would have 
 prevented me from having the pleasure of being present 
 at your hanging !" 
 
 "You did your best to hang me once," returned Roy, 
 quietly! "it is not likely that you will have another 
 chance!" 
 
 "Oh, as to that, I would not be too sure," retorted the 
 keeper. "You run some remarkable risks, you McCul- 
 lochs. This is your land, I believe, and even now it would 
 be a pretty near thing for you, if I were to report I had 
 been attacked and well-nigh murdered under your very 
 eyes!" 
 
 "Yes," said Roy quickly, "at three o'clock in the 
 morning." 
 
 The keeper looked up with a sudden frown. He under- 
 stood the allusion. 
 
 "I have a right to be upon the moors at any hour," he 
 said, sullenly enough. "I do not need to ask your leave. 
 And more than that, my friend, it has been told to me that 
 you have been manifesting a great interest in our Lowran 
 

 THE SHEIL OF THE BLACK WATER 331 
 
 properties. I will thank you to keep away from the 
 Cleuch of Pluckamin !" 
 
 "And also from the Marches of Barnbarroch, where 
 your master was almost murdered ?" queried Roy, meet- 
 ing him eye to eye. 
 
 The gamekeeper muttered something like an oath, but 
 for a moment found nothing articulate to reply. When he 
 spoke again, it was in a more reasonable tone. 
 
 "It would be as well if we could both agree to say 
 nothing of this/' he said ; "it would only bring up old con- 
 troversies, which you of all men have most cause to wish 
 forgotten." 
 
 "Who was the man?" demanded Roy, suddenly. 
 
 The gamekeeper shrugged his shoulders contemp- 
 tuously. 
 
 "Oh, some gipsy tramp, doubtless, or Irish rascal !" he 
 said ; "there are too many of them about. It is the time of 
 year when they hide away on the muirs in order to plunder 
 the lowlands, and live on the whaups' eggs between 
 whiles ! You know that as well as I !" 
 
 "At least I have seen none of them !" said Roy, calmly, 
 "and I would ask one more question, if you will give me 
 permission." 
 
 "Ask away!" 
 
 "What did you mean when you cried out, 'I will not, I 
 tell you. You shall not have the gun! We have had 
 enough of blood ?" 
 
 Turning a shade paler and setting his mouth, the game- 
 keeper regarded Roy fixedly, as strong men do when they 
 lie. 
 
 "I never said that!" he said. "I never heard any one 
 else say it either !" 
 
 "I heard you and knew your voice !" Roy persisted. 
 
 "It is easy to hear what you want to hear," said the 
 gamekeeper; "we are not all so bloody-minded as you 
 McCullochs, who think of nothing else !" 
 
 And without a "Thank you" for Roy's timely inter- 
 vention or even so much as a "Good day," Jonathan Grier 
 
332 STRONG MAC 
 
 took his gun and strode away to the south, keeping care- 
 fully to the open crown of the moorland, so that none 
 could approach him unseen. He had loaded and primed 
 his gun before he went. 
 
 And Roy McCulloch went back to the Sheil of the 
 Black Water, his mind filled with a new and surprising 
 turmoil of thoughts. What had he learned ? What did it 
 mean? Was the mystery now more or less mysterious 
 after what he had been witness of upon the hills by the 
 Dhu Loch? 
 
CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 THE HEART OF ADORA. 
 
 THINGS had on the whole turned out much as people 
 had expected. In spite of the warning he had received, 
 in spite of the narrow shave he had had of it at the assizes, 
 Roy McCulloch had not taken to reputable courses. He 
 lived (so they said) in a lonely sheiling among the hills, a 
 mere shelter for fodder, that had been run up many years 
 ago on a "led" farm which marched with his father's 
 property. 
 
 A dreadful thing, surely, said the clash of the country 
 thus to leave "an aged parent" alone in that solitary place ! 
 But at House of Muir, needless to say, there was no such 
 thought. 
 
 The McCullochs lived within themselves, self-contained, 
 self-content, asking no man's opinion upon their actions, 
 and sharing theirs with none. And the elder McCulloch, 
 whatever his thoughts may have been as to the wisdom of 
 his son's proceedings, was too old a campaigner to care 
 whether he went or stayed. He granted that full liberty 
 to others which through life he had so consistently claimed 
 for himself. 
 
 The haunting terror, which for months had brooded 
 over the hills and valleys of middle Galloway, little by little 
 died away. Already Sandy Ewan's slaying had become 
 almost like a tale of long ago. Confidence was gradually 
 re-established. Lovers again met in tryst at stiles into 
 cornfields or ran the risk of taking cold under the alder- 
 trees on the meadow edges. It was no longer considered a 
 dangerous thing to go alone to the byre for the cow-milk- 
 
334 STRONG MAC 
 
 ing. The farm lads were not so particular to have com- 
 pany when they entered the stables to "supper the horse/' 
 
 Yet there were some who remained alert Roy McCul- 
 loch being the chief of these, in his lonely Sheil of Loch 
 Dee, where he was left in charge of Adam McQuhirr's 
 sheep on the Upper Airie the farm which, after the death 
 of Sandy Ewan, Aline's brother had taken up. 
 
 Also a certain deformed boy, now recovered from his 
 "accident" and beginning to run about, among the 
 brackeny knowes and round the craggy hummocks at the 
 back of the cot house of Airie, had not forgotten much 
 less forgiven. Few in these days saw Daid McRobb face 
 to face. Since he had been taken to the Circuit Court of 
 Drumfern something seemed to have weakened in his 
 head. Even to Adam and Aline he was never quite the 
 same again as clever certainly, but now shy as a wild 
 wood-thing, ever ready to take to a tree or dart among the 
 bushes, where he would lie, effaced and lost to any human 
 sight just as it pleased him. 
 
 Daid had long ago abandoned the garret chamber at 
 Aline's, where he had lain for months. But, whereas since 
 the assizes he could no more be depended upon at meal- 
 time in Aline's dainty parlour, food was conveyed to him 
 three times a day in the barn of the Gairie farm. At first 
 Adam's wife had been frightened, and had forbidden hi* 
 admittance within the stack-yard at all. But when she 
 observed that this made little difference to Daid, who 
 would just as lief climb in at a wicket, or lie hid among 
 the piled straw or under the machinery of the thrashing 
 mill especially when her son, Roderick, began to play 
 with curious wooden guns and cross-bows which had been 
 made for him by Daid, her opinions changed, and now she 
 would even take out to the Dumbie, with her own hands, 
 his morning platter of porridge or set apart for him in the 
 milkhouse one of the great bowls of curds which he loved. 
 
 It was sometimes eerie work enough, however, to take 
 such things to the barn especially in the gloaming, when 
 the sheaves had turned a deep brownish orange, when 
 
THE HEART OF ADORA 335 
 
 the shadowy beams overhead were purple black, and the 
 door which opened out into the orchard gave upon a sea 
 of blue swimming haze. 
 
 "Daid !" you would cry, with the bowl in one hand and 
 the fresh supply of oat-cakes in the other, warm and crisp 
 from the fire. He to whom you spoke could not answer 
 you in words. 
 
 "Daid come out, good Daid !" 
 
 Then if the maimed boy were in good humour and 
 nothing fretted, soft as a bat's wing fluttering against 
 your cheek in the twilight, a dark form would appear by 
 your side without a sound or a rustle. A hand would 
 press your arm in unspoken thankfulness and, silent as a 
 shadow shifting, the boy would disappear as he had come. 
 
 But it was otherwise if anything had ruffled him during 
 the day, and any work done about his hiding-place tended 
 to drive him crazy. At the sound of your calling, there 
 would ensue, first silence, and then, if you persisted, a 
 rustling as of rats among the straw of the great shadowy 
 mow. If you called a third time, there would arise from 
 you knew not where the strangest, faintest, unearthliest 
 whinny of mingled protest and discontent, which, though 
 you were brave as Wallace and of stature like unto Sam- 
 son, sufficed to make you set down the bowl as quickly as 
 possible upon the earthen floor, and take yourself off to 
 the friendly ingle-side of the farm house, brisk with the 
 hither-and-thither of kitchen traffic, and human with the 
 hum of gossip. 
 
 To this rule, however, there were two exceptions. In 
 his worst moods Daid would run like a dog to Adora's 
 most distant call, and when none could find him about the 
 outhouses of the Gairie, his sturdy protector, Adam Mc- 
 Quhirr, by whose grace he remained where he was, would 
 go out, and with a lusty hail of "Daid, lad, come this 
 meenite to your parritch, or by my faith 111 be aff wi' ye 
 the morn's mornin' to the Red Judge !" 
 
 Whereat, though he had lain safe in cache all day long, 
 Daid would instantly appear, sitting astride on some out- 
 
336 STRONG MAC 
 
 house rigging or coming up through the shadowy orchard 
 trees like a gigantic crab. 
 
 "Daft? Weel, maybe," the farmer of Gairie would say 
 in answer to some protestation against harbouring such 
 "vermin" about his place, "daft but no that verra daft ! 
 There's mony i' this pairish wi' their names on the kirk- 
 roll wha micht learn a lesson f rae puir mishandled Daid ! 
 An* sae lang as the craitur does nae ill, and as lang as the 
 breath o' life bides in Aidam McQuhirr, the hairmless bit 
 thing will no want either bit or sup, an auld coat to cover 
 his nakedness, and twa-three corn sacks to keep him warm 
 amang the strae o' the barn. And as for the farm-lasses 
 bein' feared to gang their gaits for Daid if nane o' the 
 hizzies gang ony waur gate than Daid will lead them, there 
 will be fewer mistrystin' jobs afore the Lowran Kirk Ses- 
 sion, I wot! Hearken ye to that, ye hempies, it's your 
 maister that's speakin' !" 
 
 Thus there was for a time great quietness over the 
 parish. The troubles of the past eighteen months had 
 well-nigh been forgotten, except perhaps when the herds 
 forgathered on the hill, and passed the news smoking their 
 pipes at some dyke-back. 
 
 But as has been said, there were two who knew that this 
 peace was only on the surface. Roy McCulloch continued 
 to dwell in the lone sheiling by the lochside. Every night 
 he took his way across the heather, and always in one di- 
 rection towards the Marches of Barnbarroch. And the 
 reason why Daid slept so much in the barn during the day 
 was that he too kept silent and sleepless watch all night, 
 and every night, about the dwelling of Adam McQuhirr, 
 and especially about the cottage at the end of the Gairie 
 loaning. 
 
 These two knew, what most had forgotten, that the 
 Terror still walked in darkness upon the moors of Lowran 
 and Bennanbrack. They kept watch and ward, apart from 
 each other and unknown to each other. Some might be 
 troubled with a passing suspicion, which was as easily ex- 
 plained. For instance, when Sharon McCulloch lost an 
 

 THE HEART OF ADORA 337 
 
 occasional sheep, he loaded his shot-gun and set it behind 
 the door, or he took a walk with it under his arm up the 
 waterside and among the heathery knolls where his flock 
 was grazing on the short succulent hill grasses, or, lower, 
 with their heads down and only their rumps showing 
 among the pretty waterside meadows. 
 
 But Sharon saw nothing, save on one occasion his son 
 Roy, who came over the dyke like a deer whom the hunters 
 pursue, and whose sharp signal whistle caused his father 
 to throw up his gun just in time to turn away a charge of 
 shot that might have spoilt Roy's dyke- jumping for ever. 
 
 Sometimes, also, Adam McQuhirr grumbled that he had 
 lost a sheep or two, but these were at his lower farm, and 
 not among the flocks which were committed to Roy Mc- 
 Culloch's care. Nevertheless, there were "Egypt folk" 
 about to bear the blame, besides ex-soldiers returning 
 from the wars, and harvesters from Ireland, the strag- 
 gling advance guard of the great August stream of scythe- 
 men going towards the English harvests. 
 
 "There is no saying I" Adam truly remarked, "what is 
 at the bottom o't! Ye see, there's a natural kindness 
 atween a gaun body's hungry belly and an orra sheep aff 
 the hill! We'll be findin' the skin an' ribs o' the puir 
 beasts in some moss-hole, I'se warrant. But bless me, in 
 my day I hae seen a man's neck in danger afore my Lord 
 Justiciary, and it shallna be for the sake o' a bit wether or 
 twa that Aidam McQuhirr will be the means o' bringin' 
 ony mither's son to yon awesome place !" 
 
 Meantime, while these things, covert and overt, drew to 
 a head in different parts of the parish of Lowran, Strong 
 Mac lived alone with the wild birds and the sheep, nour- 
 ishing his soul upon the Bible, the poems of Burns, the 
 works of Shakespeare, and a curious book called "The 
 Life of Samuel Johnson," by an author of whom Roy had 
 never heard, but whom on one page he took for a genius 
 and on the next for an idiot. 
 
 And Adora Gracie abode in the cottage with her father 
 and Aline. The girl was in a strange frame of mind 
 
338 STRONG MAC 
 
 fretful with others, sometimes even with Aline, inclined to 
 snap her father into silence when he began his intermi- 
 nable moralisings. Adora was sick, that was clear, and 
 there was none to diagnose the trouble that was upon her. 
 
 Certainly she could not do it herself. Aline, with all a 
 gentle woman's penetration, lacked experience, and was 
 equally at fault. Adora tried a book several books. But 
 with her clearness of vision and analytical power, she 
 had not Roy's stolid masculine endurance of the dead drift 
 of days, the useless reduplication of hours without object 
 or solace, save the slow boom of the spinning wheel. She 
 had no use for these things now. Her soul took no 
 pleasure in them. 
 
 Even the prospect outside offended her the same dull 
 humps and hillocks to be seen from the door the gleam 
 of silvery water, the lilies white and golden in the 
 little cove into which the Pluckamin Water brought down 
 the granite sand, the blue barrow of Ben Gairn asleep 
 on the horizon. It might be a fair place, yet to the heart 
 of the sick girl, its very beauty was an offence. Surely 
 after all her labour, she had not deserved to be left thus. 
 She had broken prison bands. Roy McCulloch was free. 
 Sidney Latimer had done her will. Her calculations had 
 met to a hairsbreadth. All had gone as she had hoped, and 
 yet she was not content. Had she not argued the matter 
 out ? Had she not seen the end from the beginning ? Did 
 she not resolve that she would keep Sidney Latimer at a 
 distance during the voyage, and set Roy McCulloch in his 
 own place upon her return ? She had set out to prove to 
 these two that there was something better, something 
 higher than what was called love the friendship between 
 men and women which is able to say, "Thus far shalt thou 
 come and no farther, and here shall thy proud swelling 
 waves be stayed!" 
 
 Though she did not know it, Adora was working out 
 an old, old sum, and it was pride that had made her go 
 wrong from the start. For love is humility. It is not 
 heralded by drums or the sound of a trumpet. Seldom, 
 
THE HEART OF ADORA 339 
 
 even, does it come with observation. Love in the heart of 
 man or woman is not magnificent, imperial, all-conquerant. 
 Neither, on the other hand, can it be logically apportioned 
 beforehand, resolved upon with exactitude, fenced about 
 with clipped hedges and formal pales. Least of all (as 
 old Francis Roos, in his "version of the Psalms in metre," 
 hath it), is love to be treated 
 
 "... like the horse or mule 
 
 Which do not understand, 
 Whose mouth, lest they come near to thee, 
 A bridle must command." 
 
 The door of love's palace is low. And those who enter 
 there must go upon their knees. 
 
CHAPTER XLII. 
 "HOLD YOUR TONGUE, WOMAN!" 
 
 ALINE saw the girl's trouble, and her nature, softly 
 persistent and clinging like her native mists, reached out 
 to find a remedy. 
 
 Comfort more than comparative had come to the little 
 house at the loaning-end. Captain Ebenezer's steadfast 
 resolution to receive no farthing of passage money had 
 kept intact the proceeds of the schoolhouse sale. As of 
 yore, Adora's industry as a spinner was the pride of the 
 village. Work flowed in, and it was one of Adam Me- 
 Quhirr's crosses that she would take from him no more 
 than the statutory price. But, in a hundred ways, 
 laboriously kept secret, the good man saw that the differ- 
 ence was more than made up to Aline, and through her 
 to Adora. , 
 
 Nevertheless, Aline's mind, anxiously on the track of her 
 friend's unhappiness, traversed the whole field of (un- 
 wedded) human experience in search of a cause. But how 
 should she succeed when Adora herself had failed ? 
 
 The truth was, that of a long season Adora had at- 
 tempted the impossible. A man, when love is on pro- 
 bation, may for a time remain in a pleasing state of un- 
 certainty as to which of two girls he is in love with. But 
 from the start a woman must make no mistake, or there 
 will be trouble. For her there are no provisional allot- 
 ments, no first offender's act, no essays without prejudice. 
 
"HOLD YOUR TONGUE, WOMAN!" 341 
 
 That is, for a good woman, to whom love is not all self- 
 love, and whose idea of sacrifice is riot that others must 
 be sacrificed to herself. 
 
 But Adora had frankly attempted the impossible. With- 
 out the least coquetry she had tried to treat Roy and 
 Sidney with an absolute equality. Nay, more and worse, 
 she had attempted to keep them equal in her own thought 
 a thing which no woman can do for a day when two 
 men are in the balance-scales of her favour. 
 
 Nevertheless, the girl had a heart, and the time was 
 coming when that heart would take the reins from her 
 head, and carry her whither it would. But, though near, 
 
 the time was not yet. 
 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 It was the centre of many things, that cot by the way- 
 side, white and quiet, Aline' s innate delicacy showing even 
 in the creepers upon the walk* 1 .In the "ben" room an 
 old man was reading in the "but" a" gij^ spinning and 
 spinning on with a far-a-way look in her eye$."'<6he was 
 thinking as she spun. Aline of the Silver Hair went'/o 
 and fro, thinking also. The floors, "but" and "ben," were 
 scoured like a dining-table. The very flat-irons and "gauf- 
 fres" for Aline's sweet box-plaited "mutches" shone like 
 jewellery on the walls. Through the windows came in the 
 peace of valley and the spread of hill. There was calm in 
 the sunshine about the cottage of Gairie, a Sabbath rest 
 in the air. 
 
 Yet the universe of Lowran, its strange histories and 
 tragedies centred and circled about that little home at the 
 end of the Gairie loaning, where, to all outward appearing, 
 Peace thus dwelt as of vested right. 
 
 It was the deepest drowse of the summer afternoon 
 July from verge to verge. The little house sat as sweetly 
 sunning itself among its flower plots and clamberingwhite 
 Ayrshire roses, as if it too were wont to be visited as only 
 a larger honey-bloom by the wandering bee-folk on their 
 quests. Two women came round the turn of the Great 
 House avenue, and so down the brae in the direction of 
 
342 STRONG MAC 
 
 Lowran. But they had not the intention of entering the 
 village. Their path led through the rustling green silences 
 of the policies, and so ultimately in the direction of the 
 Gairie. 
 
 As they came they talked one to the other. 
 
 "It is a hard thing for a lad's mither to do," said the 
 Lady of Lowran to her companion, "hard indeed, Purs- 
 lane. You that have neither kith nor kin neither an- 
 cient name nor " 
 
 Purslane stirred uneasily, sighed vaguely, and laid this 
 away with all the other spurns that patient merit of the 
 unworthy takes. She did not even answer a rare virtue 
 with Purslane. 
 
 "But they tell me I have it from the best authority, 
 that Balgracie is a fine place, and a brave stocking-foot of 
 siller the auld laird had. They say, too, that the young 
 laird made mony a pickle no that he was sae muckle 
 younger than yoursel', Purslane ! But this was the way 
 o't the way that sic a wealth o' siller cam' into the Hoose 
 o' Balgracie, and the way too that the Balgracies are some 
 far off kin to oursel's, the Latimers o' Lowran !" 
 
 Whereat Purslane sighed, a little wearily. She had 
 heard the "way o't" so often during these last days, with 
 all the pros and cons discussed and digressed upon a 
 dozen times over. But her mistress was accustomed to 
 deal faithfully with all the world, except only her son, and 
 now, she noticed at once her companion's unwillingness to 
 listen. 
 
 "Of course," she added with a certain tartness, "it 
 couldna be expectit! It's only a woman o' family that 
 cares to keep mind o' sic things. But ye are paid to listen, 
 and hearken ye shall. In the auld days there was a Bal- 
 gracie o' Balgracie that married wi' a Latimer o' Lowran 
 weel, maybe no exactly the Lowran stock, but the 
 Threep-ma-thrapple branch whilk, ye ken, are nearly as 
 guid. For it was Latimer o' Threep-ma-thrapple that gied 
 the second Chairles a leg up the tree after Worcester Day, 
 and wha has the preevilege o' haudin' the king's stirrup to 
 

 "HOLD YOUR TONGUE, WOMAN!" 343 
 
 this day ilka time his Majesty gangs by Three-ma-thrap- 
 ple liggate. And the last wha gat the leg up was that 
 blessed and high-michty potentate, the present Prince Re- 
 gent. He was gaun by Threep-ma-thrapple on his errands 
 (some o' them gye queer yins), and there was oor cousin 
 Threep at his yett. Sae he asked the prince to come in 
 and taste a drappie. And his Highness, seeing Threep's 
 dochter, a bonny bit thing, juikin' ahint his shoulder, 
 thought that maybe he micht do waur. And when he was 
 ready to gang on again, there was Threep to haud 
 his royal stirrup, according to the auld tenure o' his an- 
 cestors' lands. But when Threep, wha, ye ken, is roond- 
 bellied like aYester pear, an' gye short i' the puff, gied the 
 hoise to put his Majesty his Highness, I mean, i' the 
 saddle, the Prince Regent, wha is nae licht wecht, brak' 
 through and cam' ker-whallop to the grund ! And ere he 
 gat gathered up, a 1 his lords cam' rinnin' to help him, and 
 there was puir Threep standin' wi' his mooth open like a 
 roan pipe in a drought, no kennin' what to do ! And says 
 his Highness to him, says he, 'Laird o' Threep-ma-thrap- 
 ple, if your ancestor had gi'en mine nae better a leg up on 
 the day o' Worcester fecht, it's little likely that I wad hae 
 been here this day ! Fetch me a kitchen chair !' " 
 
 "Though guidness kens what he had to do wi' the 
 maitter ! For there's precious few draps o' Stuart bluid in 
 him, or ony amang the crew o' them !" 
 
 To this interesting family reminiscence Purslane had 
 appeared to listen with her usual attention. It was not 
 more 'than the five hundredth time she had heard it, and 
 she would dearly have liked to ask at what date his Royal 
 Highness, the Prince Regent, was in Scotland, but instead 
 she only interjected a question designed to bring Mrs. 
 Latimer's scattering ideas to a point. 
 
 "And sae ye hae made up your mind that Sidney shall 
 mairry the Dominie's lass?" 
 
 This was said sadly and dispassionately, with the air of 
 one washing his hands of innocent blood in the sight of the 
 people. The old Lady of Lowran tossed her head. 
 
344 STRONG MAC 
 
 "Purslane," she said, irritably, "it's little that ye ken 
 aboot the anxieties o' a mither, wi' a son o' auld descent 
 and landed estate, wide in acres, but sair shrunken in siller 
 an' consequence, though by nae faut o' his !" 
 
 "Then, I tak' it," rasped Purslane, "that Sidney Latimer 
 o' Lowran is to mairry the dochter o' the drucken dominie 
 wha was pitten oot o' his place for bein' incapacitate be- 
 fore the Presbytery. Weel, mistress, I'm but a puir body, 
 I ken, and, as ye say, hae nae landed estate. But I hae 
 my ain proper pride, and I wad raither see my son, if I 
 had yin, bendin' his back in a ditch aye or wi' a musket 
 ower his shooder, mairchin' again' the enemies o' his 
 country, than that ony bairn o' mine should sae sair de- 
 mean himsel' to mate beneath his degree !" 
 
 This fixed in the moment the determination of the Lady 
 of Lowran. 
 
 "Purslane," she cried, "ye are an insolent ill-bred 
 woman, and as soon as ever we enter the door o' Lowran 
 Hoose, ye shall get your fee and your leave ! The maid is 
 a guid maid. Naebody has a word to say again' her. She 
 it was that, o' her ain accord, thinking liersel' to be but 
 what she seemed to be, forbade my son the door, and has 
 keepit him to his word what think ye o' that?" 
 
 "What think I o' that?" cried Purslane, sarcastically, "I 
 think that, in my young days, that was the very way to 
 mak' a man think three times mair o' a woman than he did 
 before! But I'm auld, and I am stupit (or ye gie me the 
 name o't), and maybe lassies that cunningly flout and men 
 that foolishly follow are changed since then. Hech, sirs, 
 it will be a sair change ! But withoot doot ye ken best ! 
 Ye are the mistress, and wha else should ken if ye dinna !" 
 
 "Purslane, the like o' ye for impertinence I never did 
 see," cried the old lady. "I forbid ye to speak o' my 
 dochter-in-law in ony siccan a fashion !" 
 
 "Bide a wee," said Purslane, mildly persistent ; "surely 
 ye will gie the lass the chance of sayin' 'No !' But maybe 
 that is altered, too ! There's heaps o' new fashions since 
 you and me were young !" 
 
"HOLD YOUR TONGUE, WOMAN!" 345 
 
 Mrs. Latimer disdained this, her mind being occupied 
 with higher things. 
 
 "And ye wad venture to suppose that a maid wi' siccan 
 a reputation, and clever, that has ga'en a' the road to Spain 
 to bring a puir lad hame to his mither and his duty and 
 after bidin' wi' him in the same ship for weeks, will no 
 mairry him when he speers her ! Certes, she'll be prood 
 to get the chance !" 
 
 "Aye," said Purslane, drily, "she fetched him hame, 
 truly but it was to save another man's neck !" 
 
 The old lady stamped her foot, and, catching her com- 
 panion by the arm, shook her with a senile outbreak of 
 temper. 
 
 "Hear ye/' she cried, "gang hame wi' ye and bide till 
 I come to pay ye your wage. I'll hae nae mair to do wi' 
 a woman that can think siccan thochts. Back wi' ye !" 
 
 "No a step, mistress !" said the indomitable Purslane. 
 "Mistress Latimer, ye are no fit to bring hame a dozen o' 
 hens' eggs in a basket, let alane a wife to your son! 
 When ye gang hame, I will gang. Neither later nor 
 earlier ! And after that we can talk o' feein', and leavin' !" 
 
 The Lady of Lowran, recognising the futility of pro- 
 longing the discussion on the very threshold of the cottage 
 of Aline McQuhirr, contented herself with saying, "Now, 
 hear ye this, Rebecca Purslane, ye hae had your say. I 
 hae borne your ill-regulated tongue, speaking concerning 
 things that ye ken naething aboot. Noo, either bide here 
 by the dyke-side, or, if ye come ben where I am to speak 
 my mind for my son's honour and happiness, hold your 
 tongue, woman!" 
 
 And as she turned to tap genteelly within Aline's rose- 
 shaded porch, be it recorded that the obedient Purslane 
 took her mistress at her word, and held her tongue with 
 the tips of her finger and thumb, while, under the pretext 
 of adjusting her dress, her feet beneath the widow's weeds 
 danced a little contumelious dance, quite unbecoming her 
 years and general deportment. 
 
CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 BALGRACIE OF BALGRACIE. 
 
 "MADAME, your servant ! Will you be pleased to enter?" 
 Aline's greeting chill, yet full of the simple equality 
 which a consciousness of good family lends to the de- 
 meanour, was mixed with just the right amount of Scot- 
 tish deference to the feudal superior on whose lands she 
 lived. Still there was a ring of defiance in the old lady's 
 voice, which passed unnoticed, save by Adora, who was 
 listening from within to the unwonted sound of visitors at 
 the cottage door. 
 
 The girl was at her work as they entered. The window 
 stood open, and the air came pleasantly off the water. 
 Aline had been about to make the tea, and the lid of the 
 caddy was raised. "The Mortal Sin" was what Adora 
 called it. For upon some consciences, tea bought at a 
 price above the means of their possessors can weigh 
 heavier than all the law and the prophets. Blessed in the 
 last days shall these be. And Aline carried her tea caddy, 
 honestly and simply, "to a Throne of Grace," as some- 
 thing which might affect her eternal future. 
 
 "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God." 
 Donald Gracie was supposed to be reading, but he had 
 dozed over with the easily coming, easily disturbed sleep 
 of old age. The steady whoo-whoo of Adora's spinning 
 wheel was the music that soothed him, and he awoke from 
 dreams of walking hand in hand with one long dead, by 
 the rivers of water. It was beside the Water of Leith that 
 he and she had walked, that landlady's daughter who had 
 
BALGRACIE OF BALGRACIE 347 
 
 cost him so much. But in his dream the frowsy froth of 
 Canonmills again ran crystal-clear over sands of silver, 
 the trout swam red-speckled in the amber pools, while 
 from the green bank they watched them hand in hand, he 
 and the landlady's daughter over whose head the twenty- 
 year-old turf was growing. 
 
 Small wonder that Donald Gracie woke up with a start, 
 or that the book slipped from his knee. He was young 
 Donald Balgracie again, and in the moment his ancient 
 manner returned to him. He rose and, setting chairs for 
 the ladies, stood erect before them till they were seated. 
 Then he remembered that he was in Aline's cottage, and 
 he turned to her apologetically. But the old gentle- 
 woman had vanished. For the request of the visitors had 
 been that they might see Mr. Balgracie and his daughter. 
 
 Aline went out and sat on the knoll behind. But even 
 through the bright haze of the summer afternoon, a vague 
 uneasy feeling of being secretly watched drew her down to 
 the road-side, along which the carts were passing, and 
 where she could hear the men chattering to the girls on 
 the hayricks down in the meadow. But she kept far 
 enough away from the cottage, for Aline was no keyhole 
 listener. 
 
 Within, Adora had simply ceased her toil upon their en- 
 trance, accepting the compliments of the Lady of Lowran 
 with a bow. If her father had forgotten the road from the 
 House of Muir and the words that had been spoken there, 
 she for one had not. The Cleuch of Pluckamin rose be- 
 fore her, and she heard the words : " You you alone have 
 bewitched him ! He left me to seek the Strange Woman. 
 Give him back to me !" 
 
 So Adora bowed, as only a woman on the defensive can 
 bow to another. And she stood still in her place by the 
 window, waiting. Whenever it was a matter of the head, 
 none was more completely armed at all points than Adora 
 Gracie. She was not excited by her unusual visitors. 
 Her pulse went never a beat the faster. She was not even 
 angry, for anger mars the judgment. Behind the smooth 
 
348 STRONG MAC 
 
 young brow Adora's brain lay cool and ready, and her lips 
 never so much as paled, only firming themselves a little to 
 speak with the enemy in the gate. 
 
 It was otherwise with the Lady of Lowran. Her brain 
 was perverse, her will contrary, her judgment nil, but 
 within her she had a woman's heart, with all its strengths 
 and weaknesses. And so in a way she was Adora's match 
 and more. Instinctively, therefore, she took the only line 
 with the girl that would have compelled her to listen to 
 Sidney Latimer's mother with any degree of sympathy 
 or even patience. 
 
 The Lady of Lowran began in that clear, semi-Biblical 
 English which Scots folk of every degree still used on any 
 occasion recognised as important. "I beg you to listen to 
 me for a moment," she said ; "I have spoken things which 
 are beyond pardon. But I was a woman out of myself, 
 seeking a son lost to me, an only son, in whom was my 
 life. I do not ask you to pardon, but only to forget to 
 pass from them. At such times one is apt to speak words 
 that are but as wind. Let them be as wind and forgive 
 an old woman !" 
 
 This was said with considerable dignity, and it was 
 Donald Gracie who answered. 
 
 "I am not aware," said the old Dominie, courteously, 
 "to what madam refers." 
 
 It was the simple truth, but Mrs. Latimer took it for 
 the natural refinement of the born gentleman a quality 
 which, truth to tell, it would have been long before she 
 had noticed in humble Donald Gracie, the village school- 
 master. 
 
 "It is good of you to say so," said the Lady of Lowran, 
 "but only what I would have expected from Mr. Bal- 
 gracie of Balgracie !" 
 
 At the word the Dominie half rose from his chair, while 
 his face flushed up with a strange scared look. 
 
 "Madam," he began, his voice suddenly tremulous, 
 "you have addressed me by a name which a name I do 
 not claim any connection with. My name is Gracie. May 
 
BALGRACIE OF BALGRACIE 349 
 
 I ask who informed you that I that the name you 
 used" 
 
 Rapidly increasing agitation did not permit him to finish 
 his sentence. Adora moved to his side, and made him sit 
 back in his arm-chair. 
 
 "You forget I heard you state the fact yourself, Mr. 
 Balgracie," said the old lady; "but, we were all of us 
 somewhat out of ourselves on that occasion, and maybe 
 more was said than you or I would care to stand 
 by. At least, I speak for myself. Let that go. But pardon 
 me if, in calmer mood, I ask whether you are indeed 
 Donald Balgracie, the son of sometime Archibald Bal- 
 gracie of Balgracie, and the brother of the late William 
 Balgracie of that ilk?" 
 
 The eyes of the old Dominie flashed fire. He rose 
 trembling, holding on to the arms of his chair and 
 steadying himself by the mantelpiece. 
 
 "The late?" He almost screamed the words. "Did you 
 say the late William Balgracie of Balgracie?" 
 
 Mrs. Latimer nodded with the satisfied air of one who is 
 the first to convey an important piece of news. 
 
 "William is dead my brother William!" he said. 
 Then with a spasm of remembrance transported from 
 days very far in the past, he murmured, "He was kind to 
 me sometimes. He cut me switches out of Balgracie 
 wood. They were of willow, and I wanted them to play 
 horses with." 
 
 "But, sir, I do not think that you yet understand fully 
 the position of affairs," said Mrs. Latimer. "I have under 
 my hand a letter from a lawyer in Edinburgh which says 
 that your brother William died without heirs, and that 
 you" 
 
 She in her turn did not get time to finish. The Dominie 
 suddenly shot erect. The bent old shoulders straightened 
 themselves. The head was thrown back, and the nostrils 
 filled out. 
 
 "Then / am Balgracie of Balgracie!" he said. And 
 letting go the arm of his chair, he paced the floor of 
 
350 STRONG MAC 
 
 Aline's little "ben" room, with some of the verve of youth 
 come back to his shrunken form. Then as rapidly recall- 
 ing himself, he asked the ladies' pardon with a pleasant 
 antique grace. 
 
 "When these things arrive late to a man," he said, 
 smiling, "they make him forget his manners. "I hope" 
 (he added the words with his hand upon his breast) 
 "that on a future occasion I may have the pleasure of re- 
 ceiving you elsewhere more fittingly in the home of 
 my ancestors if you will do me that honour !" 
 
 Then it was that Adora interposed, speaking for the first 
 time. 
 
 "You are sure, madam," she said, "that what you say 
 is true? Otherwise it were cruel to play with the weak- 
 nesses of an old man. Neither of us has heard anything 
 of this, but if you will state plainly what you know to me, 
 I shall be deeply grateful to you !" 
 
 The old lady took from her pocket a letter. 
 
 "My glasses, Purslane !" she said, searching in her side 
 pocket. She had to pull up her stiff skirt of flowered silk 
 to do it, and as she groped vainly, Adora felt the first 
 kindly human feeling come into her breast towards the 
 woman who, in her hour of pain, had most deeply insulted 
 her. 
 
 But the glasses were not to be found, and so Mrs. 
 Latimer was compelled to relate generally the purport of 
 the lawyer's letter to whom she had applied for informa- 
 tion. It ran as follows. Mr. William Balgracie was dead. 
 He had lost a great deal of money in his latter days, 
 through unfortunate speculations, and it was believed that 
 he had to some extent impaired the estate which his father 
 had transmitted to him, but as to that nothing definite was 
 yet known. He had lived a very strange, irregular life, 
 and had died intestate. Heirs had been advertised for, 
 but so far none had been forthcoming. However, if Mrs. 
 Latimer knew of any one likely to benefit, they should ap- 
 ply at once to Messrs. McKnight & McMath, Writers to 
 the Signet, at their office in Parliament Close, Edinburgh. 
 
BALGRACIE OF BALGRACIE 351 
 
 Adora heard, as it were, with enchanted ears, that took 
 in the words, but left the meaning knocking vainly with- 
 out. Even then it was to her as a tale that is told <4 Bal- 
 gracie of Balgracie," and her father strutting about as if 
 the world were but an appendage of the family name. 
 Nevertheless, she had a question or two to ask. And first 
 of all, one of her father. 
 
 "Is aught of this true, father?" she said, "and if so, 
 why have you never told me?" 
 
 The Dominie hung his head, suddenly halted in mid- 
 stride. 
 
 "There were reasons you were very young!" he said. 
 "And afterwards you did not believe when I told you. 
 / do not blame you!" 
 
 He sighed as he uttered the last words. 
 
 "Then you are really a rich man's son," she continued, 
 "and may be heir to an estate?" 
 
 "If this be true, as there seems no reason to doubt, I 
 am both !" said the Dominie, not without a certain dignity. 
 He had never expected it, but now when the thing came 
 upon him, in a moment everything seemed as if it could 
 not have happened otherwise. 
 
 Then there flashed through Adora's heart a strange 
 mixed feeling. If it were so, if they were indeed rich 
 and a little would be riches to her, she could repay Aline. 
 She could make it up to Captain Sinclair, to the brave 
 Adam. She could take Daid away from all the trouble, 
 and provide for him in a new ife where he would be 
 cared for, and not let run wild like a beast on the 
 hills. 
 
 There remained Sidney Latimer and Roy McCulloch. 
 
 Ah, what of them ? What difference would her father's 
 position and her heirship (the word was as strange to 
 Adora as the thing) have on these two? First of all, and 
 she thought it as she looked at his mother, it would put 
 her on an equality with Sidney Latimer. The reason she 
 had given for Sidney's not visiting at her father's house 
 would immediately disappear. Difficulties would be re- 
 
352 STRONG MAC 
 
 solved. But did she wish them to be removed ? Ah, there 
 was the question. 
 
 Remained Roy McCulloch what of him ? 
 
 And at that moment something sent a sudden chill 
 shudder through Adora's body. At every step she was 
 being forced nearer the parting of the ways. And one of 
 the roads seemed easy and open that which led directly 
 to the Great House of Lowran. 
 
 But the other ah, that was harder, but there were 
 heartsome blinks upon it, too, sunlight and shadow cun- 
 ningly intermixed, drifts of shower and bursts of glorious 
 light. The wide arch of the sky was lifted above it. The 
 path led over purple moors, on which one could breathe, 
 and a man used to walk by her side along it one whose 
 presence she had never yet lacked, yet never been grateful 
 for all her life. That road, which now seemed to be bar- 
 riered against her, led to the House of Muir. 
 
 And lo ! for the first time the girl's heart threatened to 
 overwhelm her head in a tide of feeling she had never 
 known the like of before. A voice she had never heard 
 began to speak with her, somewhere deep down, and would 
 not be put to silence. 
 
CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 THE NAME! 
 
 THE Lady of Lowran and her far-seeing companion, 
 Purslane, took their way homeward through the warm 
 mid-afternoon silences. About them the broad skirts of 
 the avenue trees spread like crinolines, already losing their 
 first spring freshness of attire, and taking on the dull sage- 
 green which is the livery of fullest midsummer. 
 
 They did not talk much. Purslane inly was pleased 
 with the success of her manoeuvres and now occupied her- 
 self in pretending the necessary sulks. At the first clash 
 of eyes the Lady of Lowran had recognised that with 
 Adora as Sidney's wife, she would have one at Lowran 
 who would meet and possibly master her at her own 
 weapons. But was it equally certain that, even if Sidney 
 asked, Adora would accept him ? Ah, Mrs. Latimer was a 
 fond mother, and the thought that any woman born of 
 woman could long resist her son had not once occurred to 
 her. 
 
 To Purslane and her mistress thus progressing silently 
 homeward there entered a third a woman who rushed 
 distracted through the brushwood and burst upon them 
 with flying footsteps and the crashing of undergrowth. 
 The Lady of Lowran and Purslane started back. The 
 companion screamed. And small wonder. For it was a 
 time when the aftermath of legend concerning undiscov- 
 ered crime still predisposed the more nervous sex to 
 
354 STRONG MAC 
 
 scream a little when a plate dropped or a rabbit scatted 
 quickly across the path in front of them. 
 
 "Quick quick ! Come with me !" cried the woman. 
 She was panting, her hands on her breast. "I was sent to 
 fetch you. Jonathan must speak with you. He is dying !" 
 
 And in her haste and eagerness she clutched Purslane's 
 arm a little above the wrist. 
 
 "Hands off an honest man's wife !" cried the widow. "I 
 have heard of you, woman what has happened to 
 Jonathan Grier ? Answer me !" 
 
 For the moment the woman, a dark gipsy-faced quean, 
 on the borderland between reckless youth and battered 
 womanhood, took no notice of the insult. 
 
 "Aye," she said, looking at the pair before her, "and 
 ye'll be Mistress Latimer o' Lowran. I have been at the 
 House to seek ye. They sent me here. Come wi' me. 
 Jonathan is dying, I tell ye ! He has had a stroke, and he 
 canna die easy till he has spoken with you with you, 
 first, mistress and with your son afterwards! He bade 
 me bring ye baith !" 
 
 "Who are you, woman?" demanded the Lady of Low- 
 ran, "and what have you to do with Jonathan Grier?" 
 
 "What has any woman to do with a dying man ?" cried 
 the woman with some point, "but to bring him that which 
 will let him die happy without the guilt of blood on his 
 soul ! But, if the thing concerns you, my name is Lizbeth 
 Dearborn." 
 
 The face of the Lady of Lowran whitened, but all the 
 same she turned at the word, and the three women took 
 their way hurriedly through the policies toward the cot- 
 tage of the chief gamekeeper. Poor 'Lizzie Dearborn, the 
 bunch of tashed ribbands in her lustreless black hair 
 w r aving this way and that as if in mockery, would run on 
 a little in front, and then, as if bound by a promise not to 
 return without her companions, she would turn back again 
 to hasten their march. 
 
 Jonathan Grier's cottage was placed in a retired part of 
 the Lowran policies. A high wall, all that remained of 
 
THE NAME! 355 
 
 the enclosure of the former deer-park, protected it on one 
 side. Behind, a great sombre clump of spruce firs cast a 
 blue-black barrier of shadow. The river ran in front, and 
 made a pleasant murmuring if the three women had had 
 any ears wherewith to listen to the summer silences. 
 Dragon-flies darted hither and thither, the red and the 
 green together in matrimonial and artistic complement, 
 and also lower down on the water-edge, the blue and the 
 orange. 
 
 Everywhere without was the still indifferent beauty of 
 nature within a man suddenly stricken down in his pride 
 and sufficiency. Aging a little, but still prodigal of 
 strength, Jonathan Grier had in a moment fallen helpless, 
 as if the finger of God had touched him. In the simple, 
 terrible speech of the place and time, he had "had a 
 stroke." 
 
 It was his left side, and there was little hope, the doctor 
 had said. But he must speak to the Lady of Lowran, he 
 himself reiterated, even to weariness, otherwise he could 
 not die at ease. The gamekeeper was lying on a bed, 
 roughly undressed, the coarse day-shirt he had had upon 
 him cut away from the neck. But the sheet that was drawn 
 across his breast was clean and cool, an island of freshness 
 in that chamber of guns and pipes and masculine disarray. 
 Over the mantelpiece, a cheap looking-glass, bought at a 
 fair, and framed in gaudy ribbons, obtruded a strange note 
 of discordant colour. There was also a fiddle with all the 
 strings broken, hanging against the wall, but the case was 
 smashed, as if some one had put his foot through it in a fit 
 of anger or drunkenness. 
 
 "Set the leddies' chairs, Lizzie," said the sick man, in 
 that strange whisper which the dying use, hoarse and yet 
 restrained, as if there was some one waiting in the next 
 room whom they did not wish to summon too quickly. 
 "Noo, gang oot, Lizzie, but bide by the door. Let nane 
 come in." 
 
 "God be thankit! Here's the maister! They hae 
 keepit their word and sent for him!" said Lizzie Dear- 
 
356 STRONG MAC 
 
 born at that moment. And indeed it was Sidney Latimer 
 who passed the window as she spoke. 
 
 "Well," he said to the woman, with a reassuring brisk- 
 ness which his countenance belied, "what is the matter 
 with Jonathan ? I heard he had a bad turn in the woods 
 a touch of the sun, likely. Has the doctor been here ? Is 
 he well enough to see me?" 
 
 The woman did not answer, but only motioned the 
 young laird with her hand to enter. 
 
 "Mother!" he cried, in surprise and some displeasure, 
 seeing Mrs. Latimer sit by the bed, with Purslane 
 somewhat nearer the door on the other side. Mrs. Lati- 
 mer made a gesture requiring silence. Jonathan Grier was 
 struggling for utterance. Sidney Latimer, instantly 
 recognising that the gamekeeper's case was far more 
 serious than he had anticipated, went softly up to the bed. 
 The sick man moved his hand in instinctive salute. It 
 was the habit of a lifetime. 
 
 "I hope this is nothing that you will be about again 
 in a day or two !" said the young man. Jonathan Grier 
 smiled a little bitterly. 
 
 "Better yes, better than the other !" he murmured, 
 still in that same low, hoarse whisper. Then with a sud- 
 den movement he thrust his contorted face forward, 
 "better than to go about kennin' that there may be a knife 
 waitin' for ye ahint every dyke. Better aye, better a 
 heap than that !" 
 
 "What is it, Jonathan?" said his master, gently, "what 
 has been disturbing you ?" 
 
 "Have I been a faithfu' servant to you and yours, ay 
 or no? Answer me that!" said the gamekeeper. 
 
 Sidney nodded. Sometimes, indeed, he thought, 
 Jonathan Grier's fidelity to the family might have been 
 even in overplus. 
 
 "I have striven to serve you according to the thing I 
 could," he continued. "At times maybe wrongeously, but 
 when I'm gane, I hae ae thing to ask o' you, Maister 
 Sidney!" 
 
THE NAME! 357 
 
 "And what is that?" said the young man, in his quietest 
 tones, for he feared what he was about to hear. 
 
 "Ye saw that lass at the door," said the stricken man, 
 "ye hae seen her afore . She has her fauts, Guid kens, 
 and a' folk here away ken them. But dinna ootcast her 
 a' thegither. That helps neither man nor woman, least o' 
 a* woman ! Mony is the time puir Leezie has saved me 
 frae death. Even noo she is watchin' oot yonder amang 
 the black spruces that I may hae time to speak the word in 
 peace to you, and at the last mak' a gentle end !" 
 
 "Ay," he said, repeating himself, as if the words 
 pleased him, "mak' a gentle end." No that I deserve it. I 
 had as guid a mither as ony in the land ye mind her, 
 mistress ? She aye thocht mickle o' you. And at schule I 
 was a brave guid learner, and juist special in the Scrip- 
 tures o' the Auld and New Testaments. I could spell 
 every word in the buik frae ledd to ledd !* Ay, I could 
 spell Maher-shalal-hash-baz, and be never feared! An', 
 Lord, when I think on't, mickle guid it has done me ! And 
 then a' the texts and the chapters I learned, never gied my 
 conscience the skart o' a preen. The ministers preach, that 
 they do, and maybe it's true wi' some folk. A' I can say is, 
 me they never bothered. Na, no even noo. Though gin 
 there were time I could gie ye rare blauds o' Scripture 
 frae 'In the beginning' to yon awesome bit i' the Revela- 
 tions aboot the dogs and the idolaters and the murderers 
 bein' sent withoot !" 
 
 "Open the window, sir, an it please ye. I can see the 
 weil frae here. Thank ye, sir! There was a troot that 
 loupit. Did ye notice ? That's Tailie. I caa'ed him that 
 because he has a split tail like a black-cock. I wadna put 
 him an ounce under a pund and a half a grand troot, 
 Tailie ! But it's no worth buskin' a flee for him the day, 
 sir, the water is ower clear for him to tak' ! But if ye were 
 keen o't and if there was a chance, it wad be wi' the Grey 
 Drake that ye wad nick him !" 
 
 *I.e. t board to board. 
 
358 STRONG MAC 
 
 So the gamekeeper wandered on, passing from one 
 thing to another, no one daring to interrupt him. 
 
 "Ay, it's fell bonny," he whispered, shading his eyes 
 from the light to look out of the window, "and if a' tales 
 be true it'll be ocht but bonny where I am gaun. Speak 
 ivi the minister? Na, I thank ye, sir. A heathen man hae 
 I leevit for fifty odd years on the earth, and what for 
 should I mak' a mock and an insult o' the Almichty to His 
 face, and me to stand afore Him maybe before the sun is 
 set? Na, na, I thank ye, sir. It's kindly thocht, I'm no 
 denyin' and the custom o' the countryside ! Forbye the 
 doctor is a very decent man and a guid curler, though 
 he can fish nane and I quastion whether he kens the way 
 to heeven a whit better than me. Na, na, as the tree faa's, 
 sae maun it lie. The Buik I learned frae as a laddie says 
 sae. And Jonathan Grier haes fa'en ay, fa'en as an 
 auld aik faa's i' the saft land o' the forest that has a 
 brave spread aboon but nae grip beneath. And sae maun 
 he lie sae maun he lie !" 
 
 After this the gamekeeper remained silent for a while, 
 till Sidney Latimer, fearing that he might not have time 
 to speak at all what he had on his mind, ventured to re- 
 mind him that there was something which he had de- 
 sired to tell them. 
 
 The gamekeeper put the hand which was yet untouched 
 of the paralysis to his brow. Then taking it down, he 
 looked at it curiously and long. 
 
 "It is clean," he said, thoughtfully, "thank the Lord 
 clean o' the sheddin' o' bluid. Yet it has been sair en- 
 tangled wi' the blood-shedder. I am no denyin' that. Yet 
 will I not tell you his name lest my curse, the fear I hae 
 carried in my heart every hour and day, pass to you. Yes, 
 I am the man wha, at Drumfern assize, wadna declare Roy 
 McCulloch guiltless of the blood of Muckle Sandy Ewan. 
 Yet I kenned different. There is paper on that shelf. 
 There the powder-flask is lyin' on it! Ink? There's 
 some i' the trance no, in the aumrie. Ye hae a pen? 
 Then write as I bid ye, for ye are a lawyer or should be, 
 
THE NAME! 359 
 
 and I will sign a' but the name I canna tell the name, I 
 maun mak' shift to write the name mysel' on a place apart ! 
 And after I am deid, ye shall gie it to the sherra and he 
 will richt the innocent! For Roy McCulloch is an inno- 
 cent man, and was righteously acquitted, though I wadna 
 gie my voice for him. But I hae paid for it since oh, 
 that wullcat that ettercap, that ill-contrived son o' per- 
 dition ! That ever I had ocht to do wi' him ! I had been a 
 deid man lang syne had it no been for poor Lizbeth there 
 Lizbeth Dearborn, that ilka body can find a stane by 
 every dykeside to throw at !" 
 
 "Write, sir, write!" 
 
 "I, Jonathan Grier, gamekeeper upon Lowran for 
 thirty years, being about to die, and gangin' fast to my ac- 
 count, but wishing no back-castings when I am gane, do 
 hereby declare (that's the lilt o't?) that Roy McCulloch is 
 guiltless of the death of Alexander Ewan, though I held 
 to the contrar' in the jury chamber at Drumfern. And it 
 happened this wise, and no other : 
 
 "Sandy Ewan was angered at Roy McCulloch, and me 
 and anither saw our chance to wile the siller oot o' him. 
 (Eh, but he was the bitter weed, Muckle Sandy!) He 
 wad pay to hae Roy McCulloch charged wi' sheep-stealin', 
 and either hung or transported. Weel, we managed to get 
 Roy pitten i' the jail, and when that was dune we were to 
 gang and claim the first o' the siller frae him. Sae it was 
 me that listened at the room door in Boreland, a loaded 
 gun in my hand wi' Dickie Dick and his mate lyin' 
 tremblin' in the next chaumer till they shook a' the hoose, 
 as weel we kenned, for we had seen them gang in. A guid 
 job it was for them that they werena called upon. Then 
 Muckle Sandy put us aff wi' fair promises. He hadna the 
 siller anither time the job wasna finished yet! So 
 seem' that nocht was to be made o' him there wi' his 
 cotmen hearkenin' wi' their lugs at the keyhole, we cam' 
 oot as yin o' us had gaed in, by the lang window into 
 the garden. By and bye Sandy followed to look roond 
 the place, he said. And there, lookin' ower the yett into 
 
360 STRONG MAC 
 
 the Glebe Road, he saw the twa o' us speakin' thegither, 
 me an' him that I'll no name ! And wi' that the great black 
 anger cam' sudden upon him, and he up an' ordered us to 
 gang aff his farm. Then being sair disappointed and in 
 want o' siller, there were some sharp answers. When a* 
 on a sudden Sandy puts up his hand to strike. It wasna 
 me he struck ! Weel for him had it been, but I saw the 
 bricht steel flash and the next I kenned was Muckle 
 Sandy Ewan lyin' at my feet wi' a knife hafted sax inch 
 in his throat !" 
 
 "That's a' ! I'll sign it and write the name o' the man, 
 if ye fold it, sir, and sair obleeged to you I'll be ! And 
 maybe ye will mind that, sinner as I am, it wasna 
 a'thegither for the siller that I was led into this o't, but 
 because I had a notion that, that if Roy McCulloch was 
 out of the road ye micht maybe get mair o' your ain way 
 wi' a lass that ye thocht mickle o' ! Ay, sir, I thank ye. 
 There ye hae it, all and hale, the confession o' Jonathan 
 Grier, a dyin' man and yin that asks only to be let gang 
 in peace to bear the reward o' the iniquity he has 
 wrocht ! 
 
 "And thank ye again, sir, and you, madam. Ye will 
 find a' the accoonts richt, and the week's wage the siller 
 to pay the foresters is in the far drawer to the left hand. 
 And I meant ye nae ill, Maister Latimer, whatever I in- 
 tended to ither folk. I was first day an' last your faithfu' 
 servant ! Sae maybe, oot o' your kind heart, ye willna let 
 puir Lizzie starve! Thank ye, sir spoken like yoursel', 
 sirT 
 
 Then in the completest silence of the afternoon there fell 
 three taps, light, distinct and clear, on the green glass of 
 the little leaden-paned window above the sick man's head. 
 
 Jonathan Grier started up, balancing himself on his still 
 untouched arm and thigh. 
 
 "No, no," he cried shouted rather, "mercy mercy 
 I never mentioned ony name. I swear it. Maister Lati- 
 mer, ye will will bear me oot ye will swear to that! 
 Dinna dinna blame it on a dying man !" 
 
THE NAME! 361 
 
 His face contorted itself. A thread of foam showed 
 grey for a moment at the lips. 
 
 With a loud sudden clang that jangled all nerves, the 
 ribbon-wreathed mirror fell on the flagged floor and 
 smashed into atoms. Something rattled like a wheel on 
 gravel, and Jonathan Grier, murderer's accomplice and 
 faithful servant, fell back dead! 
 
CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 LOVER OR FRIEND. 
 
 SIDNEY LATIMER conveyed his mother home. The old 
 lady had been inexpressibly shocked at the terrible death 
 of one whom she had known all her life, who had indeed 
 come with her from her native place when she married 
 Sidney's father. Her son left her, therefore, to the care of 
 Purslane, while he himself went into the library to face the 
 new problem which presented itself to him in consequence 
 of his interview with the dead gamekeeper. 
 
 He looked at the confession. The signature was plain 
 and distinct, but at the moment when the three taps came 
 upon the window glass, the already half-paralysed hand 
 had just begun to form the first letter of the murderer's 
 name. The result was only the indistinguishable scribble 
 which the pen had made, as Jonathan Grier had started up 
 for the last time. Probably the knowledge that he was in 
 act to betray the secret he had guarded so long made that 
 light tap on the green swirls of the leaden panes above 
 his head sound loud in his dying ear as the trump of doom. 
 The which, indeed, it was ! 
 
 So now, reviewing all the circumstances, Sidney knew 
 that, though the evidence was strong enough to convince 
 almost any doubter, without the name of the actual mur- 
 derer Roy could not be more publicly cleared than he had 
 been. Still, what Sidney Latimer had heard made a great 
 difference to his own mind. And for a particular reason 
 this weighed with him. He must do that which he felt to 
 be his duty. For though he had refrained from publicly 
 declaring his doubts, he had not concealed his belief 
 
LOVER OR FRIEND 363 
 
 from Adora that Roy McCulloch was far from having 
 cleared himself of suspicion. Indeed, on more than one 
 occasion he had treated him as certainly guilty of the death 
 of Sandy Ewan. Now Sidney Latimer had a violent 
 temper, but he was a just man and a gentleman. Having 
 done wrong and spoken hastily, he would not shrink from 
 putting matters right. He would go to Adora and tell her 
 what had come to his knowledge. He would take no un- 
 fair advantage over any man. 
 
 At this moment a low tap came to his door. It was 
 Purslane with a message that his mother wished to see 
 him before he went out. 
 
 With somewhat of an ill grace, for he had been momen- 
 tarily baulked in a purpose hard to resolve and harder to 
 perform, Sidney Latimer went upstairs to his mother's 
 room. If the evil day must come, the sooner it was over 
 the better. Sidney, like most men, liked the bad-quarter- 
 of-an-hour to be the next one. So he took the oak stairs 
 three at a time, and opened the door of her room to find the 
 old lady resting on a chair with her eyes closed. As he 
 entered, she motioned Purslane away with a weary air. 
 
 "I wish to speak to Sidney alone by himself!" said 
 Mrs. Latimer. Purslane gathered up her scattered prop- 
 erties, the black satin bag, the bone knitting-needles, the 
 patchwork, and went out mumbling defiantly to herself, 
 "Ye needna be that particular, mistress as if it hadna 
 been me that pit the first notion o't into the head o' ye! 
 I ken ye are gaun to bid him gang and speer the lass he 
 has been granein' for this while the verra lass that yince 
 on a day (and no that lang syne either) ye miscaa'ed like 
 a tinkler's messan on the road up the Cleuch o' Plucka- 
 
 " Sidney," said his mother, "sit ye down by me, there 
 nearer ! This has been a shock to me ! I am an old 
 woman, Sidney, and, as is natural, I would like to see you 
 married before before ." 
 
 "Mother," said her son, with a man's awkwardness in 
 presence of a woman's tears. 
 
364 STRONG MAC 
 
 The old lady dabbed at her eyes and continued in a more 
 assured tone. 
 
 "And I have to-day seen Mr. Balgracie of Balgracie - 
 whom you have known under the name of Gracie. Mr. 
 Greg, of Frederick Street, sent me word of his succession. 
 I have been to-day over at the Gairie Cottage to give them 
 the news. There is no room for mistake. The estate of 
 Balgracie is in the hands of Messrs. McKnight & Mc- 
 Math, of Parliament Close, the Writers to the Signet. 
 There is no doubt about the heirship at all. Owing to 
 some family quarrel, into which I did not think it wise to 
 enter, Mr. Donald Balgracie has thought fit up to the 
 present to conceal his whereabouts from his relatives, and 
 now he is without a doubt left heir to all the family prop- 
 erty and estates." 
 
 Sidney Latimer stood still and collected, a little cold, as 
 is apt to be a young man's way with a too fond mother. 
 Mrs. Latimer had accustomed herself to be the suppliant, 
 whether it was a question of whom he should marry or 
 whether he should put on his heavier great-coat. 
 
 "And is it because you would like me to marry an 
 heiress, that you tell me this ?" he asked of his mother. 
 
 "Ay, Sidney, and what for no?" said Mrs. Latimer, 
 suddenly reviving and relaxing her attempt at semi-legal 
 phrase. "I have never seen folk less fond the one of the 
 other because there was a cow or two i' the byre, a horse 
 in the stall, and a snod pickle siller in the bank ! That's an 
 auld woman's way o't, laddie. And I'm telling ye, I hae 
 seen the lass, and she will make ye a wife ye need never be 
 ashamed o' though ye should hae to gang afore the King, 
 like your cousin Threep-ma-thrapple !" 
 
 "You did not always think so, mother," said the young 
 laird, "nor would you now but for the property !" 
 
 The words were hard, but Sidney Latimer smiled as 
 he said them, and at the smile his mother was glad, as 
 always. She rose and threw her arms about his neck, be- 
 lieving that she had carried her point. 
 
 "Well, mother, I will go and see Miss Miss Bal- 
 
LOVER OR FRIEND 365 
 
 grade," said Sidney. The new name came not a little 
 awkwardly. 
 
 "Oh, my Sidney/' cried the old lady, kissing him fer- 
 vently, "you have aye been a comfort to your mother. 
 You are the best of sons. And oh, if ye bide late, be sure 
 to take a pistol, for the country is no canny. And mind 
 and turn up the collar o' your coat. There's a mist that 
 lies alang the river-edge that is no kindly for young folks' 
 throats. And ye ken ye hae aye had a weakness there, 
 Sidney- ever since that daft auld Purslane let ye get your 
 
 feet wat in the Lowran Burn at the age of six !" 
 
 * * * # * * * 
 
 As Sidney Latimer walked along the path by the water- 
 side, and crossed the little bridge, he thought upon the 
 wonderful changes which these months had brought to 
 Lowran. He could not yet conceive of Adora except as 
 the mistress of the little school, the dainty spinner at the 
 wheel, the light-footed girl who went and came on the 
 floor of the little flagged kitchen where he had spent his 
 happiest hours. He wished rather that she had been there 
 still, and that instead of going through his own policies, 
 he had been on his way to that schoolhouse which now 
 turned so cold and reproachful a shoulder upon him every 
 time he passed it. For the sight of Baillie of Hardhill's 
 nominee sitting smoking his pipe in Donald Grade's seat 
 was enough to send the young man home fast as his mare 
 could gallop. 
 
 When Sidney entered the cottage of Aline, he was as- 
 tonished at the change that had taken place in the Dominie. 
 Instead of an old worn man sitting drowsily over a book in 
 the arm-chair, he found a man apparently younger by ten 
 or fifteen years, who bowed to the Laird of Lowran with 
 a courtly air, and offered his hand as to an equal. 
 
 "It is good of you to call upon us so promptly," he said. 
 "We are remaining her for a few days in the meantime, 
 my daughter and I. We think it is best, and the good 
 woman, our hostess, has been exceedingly kind. But, of 
 course, after so long time I am anxious to be at work. I 
 
366 STRONG MAC 
 
 have not even seen the old place for years. And as my late 
 brother has also passed most of his life away from home, 
 I fear I may find it sadly neglected." 
 
 At this point Sidney made a polite inquiry. 
 
 "Oh, yes, my daughter is in the next room," said the 
 Dominie ; "there is so much to be attended to so many 
 things that need to be done in making ready for so impor- 
 tant a change in our circumstances. I have had some 
 vague thoughts of taking up again my work in the church. 
 I hear that one of the parishes of which I am patron is 
 likely to be vacant shortly. You are aware I was bred to 
 the church, sir. But I fear that my duties in connection 
 with my estates may prevent so desirable an arrangement 
 and one so agreeable to my studious habits ." 
 
 He turned and looked towards the inner room. 
 
 "Adoraf 
 
 The girl came in at that moment from her spinning, over 
 her arm a long "rowan" of wool, in her hand a pirn filled 
 with yarn. At sight of this last, her father cried out in 
 reprobation of her conduct. 
 
 "Pray think what you owe to your position," he said, 
 "and who has come to visit you ! If you have no pride for 
 yourself, consider your father !" 
 
 Adora smiled her old smile, firm, yet gentle, in which, 
 however, lingered a trace of that self-confidence which 
 still withheld from her the full heritage of womanhood. 
 
 "Father," she answered, smiling not at the Dominie but 
 at the young man, "Mr. Latimer has seen me spinning be- 
 fore. He is in good health. He can bear it just once 
 more!" 
 
 "But," argued her father, irritably, "circumstances 
 have changed. We will repay this good woman in some 
 more practical fashion. It is not beseeming ." 
 
 Adora, who held the fifth commandment in so much 
 honour in the spirit that she could afford to treat the letter 
 of it a little loosely, interrupted by laying the filled "pirn" 
 down on her father's knees. 
 
 "There!" she said, "be good and hold that till I have 
 
LOVER OR FRIEND 367 
 
 time to shake hands with Mr. Latimer ! There are, I war- 
 rant, few coats of arms as old as the distaff !" 
 And she hummed the old Jack Cade distich : 
 
 "When Adam delved and Eve span, 
 Who was then the gentleman?" 
 
 "Ah, young folk young folk," said her father, sud- 
 denly tempering his dignity, as if a pleasanter thought had 
 crossed his mind, "it is indeed not fitting that the old 
 should meddle overmuch with your matters. I see I see ! 
 I will e'en take a walk up the loaning and call upon mine 
 host Adam a good worthy man, and one whom I shall 
 willingly recognise for his past kindnesses an honest 
 fellow, Adam yes, a most deserving man !" 
 
 The Dominie went out with a certain swagger of gait 
 to which he had long been a stranger, and Adora and 
 Sidney Latimer remained alone together. 
 
 But there was no embarrassment on either side. For 
 the conscience of Sidney Latimer was clear. He had come 
 there for a purpose which he meant to carry out. And as 
 for Adora, she was able (or thought she was) to let her 
 intellect direct her affairs of the heart. 
 
 "I have something to say to you, Miss Bal " 
 
 "Better say 'Adora/ said the girl, smiling; "it did no 
 harm before and it will not now !" 
 
 "No/' said Sidney, a little bitterly, "it did no harm! 
 But now I have come to undo a wrong. Up till to-day I 
 had believed Roy McCulloch guilty, at least in part, of 
 causing the death of Alexander Ewan. It has now been 
 proved that my suspicions were absolutely groundless." 
 
 "You believed that, when you came back from Spain to 
 save him from the gallows?" Adora's voice was a little 
 tremulous with surprise. 
 
 Sidney nodded, colouring slightly. He thought she 
 was angry. But Adora went over to him and laid her 
 hand on his sleeve. 
 
 "You are a better man than I knew of," she said, "and 
 I thought you a very good man !" 
 
368 STRONG MAC 
 
 "I did not want to come back," said Sidney, awkwardly; 
 "you made me !" 
 
 "Better and better!" said Adora; "if you will not give 
 yourself credit for it, I will ! I declare if it were not that 
 men misunderstand these things, I would kiss you !" 
 
 "Ah, Adora," said Latimer, "this time you are indeed 
 cruel !" 
 
 "Am I ?" said the girl, "I am sorry. I meant to be kind. 
 I did not know." 
 
 "You say you would kiss me," continued Sidney Lati- 
 mer, "but it would be no more to you than if you 
 patted Roy McCulloch's collie and called him 'Good 
 dog'!" 
 
 Adora laughed. 
 
 "I thought men cared for these things," she said, 
 "but it seems that they never know when they are well 
 off!" 
 
 "How can I care when you mean to give all the sub- 
 stance to somebody else," said Latimer, fiercely. "I was 
 never one to care for last year's roses pressed in card- 
 board !" 
 
 "There again," said Adora ; "we have come to our old 
 gate with the five bars. You are always expecting some- 
 thing of me which I cannot give you " 
 
 "Perhaps it is not yours to give ?" interrupted the young 
 man, jealously and bitterly. 
 
 "Perhaps !" said Adora, speaking with the utmost quiet- 
 ness. 
 
 "I ask your pardon !" said Sidney, instantly, "I had not 
 meant to hurt you only to be fair to to everyone ! I had 
 supposed that this might make some difference in your 
 feelings, I mean !" 
 
 "Explain your meaning!" said Adora, calmly biting a 
 thread. 
 
 "Well," said Latimer, hesitating for words, "if you are 
 heiress to a property, you cannot very well shut me out of 
 your house and company on the old excuse, can you ? Or 
 forbid me the door as you did at the schoolhouse !" 
 
LOVER OR FRIEND 369 
 
 "No," said Adora ; "for one thing, your temper is better 
 than it was. You are more master of yourself !" 
 
 Sidney Latimer sighed, and looked out of the window. 
 
 "The comfort is a little wintry," he said, ruefully ; "my 
 mother's also has altered, to this extent, that she sent me 
 here to ask you a question ! May I ?" 
 
 A faint flush of rose flickered up into the girl's face. 
 She looked quickly at the door, as if she expected an in- 
 terruption or perhaps hoped for one that did not come. 
 
 "I think I would not ask that question, if I were you !" 
 she said, very softly. 
 
 At which, without another word, Sidney Latimer got 
 up, and went quickly out without saying good-bye, or even 
 looking at her. 
 
 The girl stood at the little window watching him go 
 down the road, her eyes very deep and full of sadness. 
 
 "I wonder why they all want that why nothing less 
 will satisfy a man than that you should marry him," she 
 complained ; "we could have been such good friends, 
 Sidney Latimer and I. But then only the wisest men, they 
 say, care for a woman's friendship, and I have not met 
 with any very wise man yet!" 
 
 Adora did not know that a woman must have trespassed 
 some considerable way into her fifth decade before she 
 can venture upon choosing a man to make a friend of. 
 
CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 QUESTIONS TO ASK. 
 
 YET another summer twilight settled down upon Low- 
 ran and the moorland places we know so well. It looked 
 upon the plain Scots towers of Lowran Great House, rude 
 and staunch, crow-stepped and overarched by immemorial 
 beeches, among which the rooks were drifting black and 
 "crawing" hoarsely in the face of the sunset. Then a little 
 farther, and lo ! the same groups, to all appearance as of 
 yore, were at gossip about the bridge-end. While within 
 the smithy "Cling-a-clang! Cling-a-clang!" The sweet 
 far-off sound of the twin hammers came to your ears. 
 That was Ebie Cargen and his prentice at it not too 
 hardly, for it was the deadest summer season and work 
 not plentiful. Opposite, there was the new house which 
 Captain Sinclair had been building to the unmeasured 
 astonishment of Lowran a flag-staff, white-pebbled 
 paths, rustic seats and the figure-head of Fortune's Queen, 
 retired from service when that good ship was refitted. The 
 latter was considered indecent by the villagers, because 
 scarcity of wood, more than any feeling for realism, had 
 prevented the artist from doing more than merely indicat- 
 ing the queenly drapery. 
 
 Over the hill frowned the gloomy brows of the moor, 
 looking somewhat savagely down upon the bien and com- 
 fortable dwellings of Gairie farm-town, together with the 
 little flower-fringed, rose-bowered cottage, where dwelt 
 Aline of the Silver Braids, at its gate. 
 
 As Adora looked out of the open window she could see 
 the Cleuch of Pluckamin, a deep blue gorge trenched 
 
QUESTIONS TO ASK 371 
 
 through the foot-hills right into the brown scarp of the 
 moorlands. 
 
 The sunlight was still omnipresent up there, yellow on 
 the last year's bent, rose red on the first gorgeous burst of 
 the ling. A certain far-off purple-black, cut across by a 
 grey line of stone dyke, indicated the situation of the 
 Marches of Barnbarroch. Away to the right, and only to 
 be seen by leaning your head close to that part of the 
 window-sill at which Adora was sitting, stretched the wild 
 braes of the Upper Airie, where in a certain sheiling one 
 Roy McCulloch was abiding. 
 
 A peculiar sadness had descended upon the girl's heart. 
 The much-desired letter had come from Messrs. Mc- 
 Knight & McMath, and the Dominie had hastened to 
 forward the necessary proofs of his identity Dr. Meikle- 
 wham cordially assisting him with extracts from the 
 archives of the Kirk Session and from the introductions 
 which had been supplied to him when Donald Balgracie 
 came first to Lowran. 
 
 But still the girl could not feel that her world was else- 
 where then here. These hills and valleys meant the every- 
 thing to her. In ill repute and in good repute, she had 
 clung to them. Balgracie itself was to her no more than a 
 name. Could she be transplanted? Her heart shrank 
 affrayed from the thought. 
 
 Yet, for the moment, at least, residence was by no means 
 to be desired in the parish of Lowran. The mystery of 
 the death of Alexander Ewan,the strange unknown Thing 
 which she had glimpsed once by the Marches of Lowran 
 yes, up yonder, between her and the lonely sheiling of 
 Roy McCulloch. Her heart gave a curious throb at the 
 identification. 
 
 "Ah, but" she reassured herself, "he is strong enough 
 to overcome any dozen men !" 
 
 But was this indeed a man, this Thing which fled like a 
 hunted shadow, that stabbed from underneath at the 
 wholly innocent, that laid the fear of midnight assassina- 
 tion upon an entire parish? 
 
372 STRONG MAC 
 
 As Adora sat at the window, she could hear her father 
 restlessly pacing up and down the "ben" room, going over 
 and over in his mind the wonderful things he would do 
 when he returned in triumph to the estates of his ancestors. 
 For in his own mind he was once more the young and 
 handsome Donald Balgracie, home for the college vaca- 
 tions, and not too disdainful of the common orders to 
 allow himself to be spoilt by the pretty dairy-maids of the 
 neighbourhood. 
 
 With the darkening of the night, the moon began to 
 show through the rippled clouds. From a dull lead the 
 colour of ashes, she became like molten silver. But the 
 clouds lay across her in great slow-moving waves, and it 
 was not often that the moonlight shone clear. In the 
 west, since the sun went down, a storm had been 
 brewing. 
 
 Adora, sitting thus and gazing out of the window, was 
 vaguely reassured by the sight of the dumb boy motionless 
 on a little knoll behind the house, which overlooked the 
 loch. Daid's ways had grown more than ever strange and 
 uncertain. Sometimes he would disappear for an entire 
 week, not even coming to the farm for his morning por- 
 ridge, and leaving the curds-and-whey from good Adam's 
 dairy to be found untouched in the morning, on the flat 
 stone at the gable-end where Mistress McQuhirr had set 
 them the night before. 
 
 As Adora looked, the quick eye of the Dumbie de- 
 tected her. He waved a beckoning hand, which meant that 
 she was to come and meet him. She went promptly, her 
 first thought being that perhaps the lad was hungry. But 
 when she put the question to him, Daid shook his head 
 in emphatic negation and made signs for a pencil and 
 paper. 
 
 This was the message he wrote. 
 
 "He's coming to see ye the nichtl" 
 
 And he pointed upwards in the direction of the sheil 
 of the Upper Airie. Across the loch from where they 
 stood, and in the direct line between them and Roy's 
 
QUESTIONS TO ASK 373 
 
 dwelling-place, appeared, darkly ominous, the purple hol- 
 low of the Marches of Barnbarroch. 
 
 Daid caught the girl's anxious look, and swiftly added 
 a few words to the message. 
 
 "Dinna be feared. D aid's watching!" 
 
 And again he waved his hand in the direction of the 
 
 sheil. 
 
 # * ***** 
 
 Almost as mysterious as the movements of Daid the 
 Deil must have seemed to any outsider those of Strong 
 Mac since the day of his liberation. As he looked out at 
 eve and morn from the open door of the little sheil of 
 the Upper Airie, he somehow knew that at last the end 
 was not far off. True, he could not tell how. For with 
 all the strong, slow persistence of a nature compounded of 
 love, generosity, and the capacity of suffering, Roy Mc- 
 Culloch lacked Adora's quick and flashing analysis. She 
 dashed at truth, and grasped it, where he only plodded 
 along, looking for it. He would get there just the same, 
 doubtless, but not so fast. When they used to be together 
 in school, Adora was a perpetual wonder to him, finding 
 the answer to an arithmetical or mathematical problem by 
 some half-intuitive process of her own, often before he 
 had even set down on his slate the elements of the question 
 for solution. 
 
 But one day Roy met his father, and the ex-smuggler 
 had news for his son which would take him down to the 
 white cot by the side of the lilied waters of Lowran Loch. 
 
 "I bid you not to believe it," Sharon said, speaking as 
 slowly but far less grimly than had been his wont, "but the 
 talk of the farm-towns is and I'll wager of the village 
 also that Donald Gracie is left heir to a great property, 
 greater than Lowran, or Barnbarroch, or Glenkells than 
 all three put together, indeed. So, at least, runs the tale." 
 
 "And what has the death of Jonathan Grier to do with 
 that?" Roy asked his father. 
 
 "Ah, that is more than I can tell you," responded 
 Sharon ; "those who ken least say most. Some would have 
 
374 STRONG MAC 
 
 it that as long as Jonathan lived the Lady of Lowran was 
 sworn not to reveal the secret some that Jonathan was 
 paid to remain in Lowran, to watch the Dominie, and keep 
 him from going back to his own place and his own people 
 on account of his failing, they say." 
 
 Roy cared nothing for the inversimilitude of the tale. 
 But the suggestion in the last words somehow stung him 
 to the heart. He did not answer for a moment, nor did 
 he ask any more questions. Father and son stood on the 
 rose-purple plain, both of them waist-high in ling, and 
 looked different ways. Each was deep in his own 
 thoughts ! 
 
 "Then do you think Donald Gracie will go away from 
 Lowran now to his own place and his own people?" the 
 younger asked at last of the elder. 
 
 "You mean his daughter?" said his father, softly and 
 stilly. 
 
 "I mean his daughter !" Roy answered as quietly. 
 
 "That you had better go and see for yoursel' !" His 
 father's retort came like a whip-lash. 
 
 "I will ! Good day !" answered the young man. 
 
 "Good day to you !" 
 
CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 THE DOMINIE ASSERTS HIMSELF. 
 
 AND it was this brief interview with his father which 
 brought Roy over the moors in the still time of the late 
 afternoon, when the shadows were already lengthening, 
 when all that the sun shone upon through the level bars 
 of the cloud grid shone warm like yellow ochre, and all 
 on which he did not shine was almost as deep blue as the 
 sea under a north wind. This flat upland country, cross- 
 barred alternately blue and yellow, lay before Mac as 
 he started out. From horizon to horizon all was mystic 
 and solemn. Turning at the gate, he ordered his dogs 
 back, and they went with their tails between their legs 
 but without surprise, because they knew well that Roy 
 never took them with him on his night travels. 
 
 With the caution which had become an instinct with 
 him of late, he looked this way and that. His eye sur- 
 veyed Adam's flocks feeding peacefully on the Airie hill 
 behind him. These were his care, and he had been among 
 them that morning. For the first time since he had been 
 there, one was missing, and he had failed to find it, in spite 
 of his strictest search. But now as he went striding down 
 towards the Marches of Barnbarroch, a buzzard rose from 
 a little rift in the moorland, where the runnel of a dry 
 winter burn cut sharply underground and made a trap for 
 unwary ankles. The bird vented a scream of anger at 
 being disturbed, and Strong Mac, pushing away the earth 
 and dried grass with his foot and turning back the 
 heather, found the fleece and part of the carcase of a 
 freshly killed sheep indeed, the very ewe he had missed 
 off the hill that morning. For on the fell of the neck, in 
 
376 STRONG MAC 
 
 the place where Roy knew to look, was the keel- 
 mark plain to be seen and on the ear Adam McQuhirr's 
 own sign manual, known all the way from Cairn Edward 
 to Drumfern. 
 
 When Roy had examined the throat of the animal more 
 carefully, he saw that the animal, instead of being killed in 
 the ordinary way, had been struck at from beneath, just 
 as Sidney Latimer's horse had been, near this very spot 
 on which he stood. With a horse it was easy, but what 
 sort of being could strike a sheep from underneath ? 
 
 With a sudden angry indrawing of breath Roy raised 
 himself to his full height and looked abroad. The peace- 
 ful face of this moorland still concealed that deadly and 
 treacherous creeping Thing which he had seen by the Dhu 
 Loch. While it lived no man nor beast was safe. Lurk- 
 ing in some covered moss-hag, which a sheep must cross 
 with its short, bounding leap, clicking its black trotters to- 
 gether, which a horse must take in following the bridle 
 path, and a man must step over, striding across the waste, 
 death lay waiting. 
 
 Sandy Ewan's murderer, Jonathan Grier's assailant, 
 the fierce torturer of children, the stabber of horses, the 
 sheep-slayer, the evil Thing for whose misdeeds he him- 
 self had twice gone to jail, and even now underlay a cer- 
 tain amount of suspicion ah, let but the hand of the 
 strong man descend on the lurking devil, there would be 
 no mercy assuredly none! 
 
 Curiously enough (and the circumstance is diagnostic), 
 Roy McCulloch felt more anger at the sight of his slain 
 ewe lying there under the heather tangles, its innocent 
 blood staining the dank black peat, than for his own two 
 imprisonments and the risks he himself had run, even that 
 of the hangman's cord. His life was his own. The ewe 
 belonged to another and he was the man responsible. 
 
 So there on that spot Strong Mac swore anew his oath, 
 and that with a fresh fervour. And all the while there was 
 in his body the uneasy sensation of being watched the 
 feeling that comes from sympathy with the hunted crea- 
 
THE DOMINIE ASSERTS HIMSELF 377 
 
 tures, that carry their little innocent Jives, as it were, at 
 the knife's point all their days. On the moorland that day 
 there were no birds, no curlews or snipes whimpering 
 and bleating no peewits turning clamorous somersaults 
 over the heather. Only very far off the buzzard hung, at 
 intervals uttering his shrill cry, a speck against the blue, 
 waiting for Roy's departure. One of the ewe's eyes, 
 gouged out, but still unconsumed, told what it was he was 
 waiting to descend upon with the noiseless flight of his 
 kind. 
 
 So with that habit of gentle pity which had grown up in 
 his great true soul, Roy covered the little piteous orb deep 
 in the moss-hag. The bird of prey should not have that, 
 at least, even though the unknown beast of prey had all 
 the rest. And at the thought Roy swore again. 
 
 The Marches of Barnbarroch also were quiet. There 
 was nothing moving anywhere about as Roy passed 
 through. Only the embers of a fire which had slightly 
 blackened the dyke, told of a past human presence. 
 Roy wondered if by chance his dead ewe had been cooked 
 there. No, he decided, immediately ; those who made that 
 fire were most likely tinkers, and tinkers, too, from a dis- 
 tance. For there was not one belonging to the country- 
 side that would dare to camp near the evil-reputed 
 Marches of Barnbarroch. 
 
 * ****** 
 
 "I expected you," said Adora, smiling with a satisfied 
 air, as Roy came near. "I knew you were coming! I have 
 been waiting for you !" 
 
 The girl was outwardly calm, but, all unknown to her- 
 self, she had a little red spot on each cheek, high up where 
 the national cheek-bones might have showed but did not. 
 She was sitting on the little knoll commanding the loch, 
 the same that earlier in the afternoon had been Daid's 
 look-out tower. 
 
 Roy looked surprised at Adora's greeting, but he knew 
 enough not to feel flattered or to extract the comfort out 
 of her confession which another man would assuredly 
 
378 STRONG MAC 
 
 have done. Both he and Sidney Latimer began to under- 
 stand Adora by this time. Or at least they comprehended 
 as much as Adora had permitted them to know, which was 
 altogether another thing. 
 
 "You saw me come down the cleuch-side ?" he said, 
 simply. "I had lost a ewe on the hill and I came that way 
 to look for her." 
 
 "I had hoped that you were coming to see me, Roy," 
 said the girl; "surely it is time. Are you and I to be 
 friends no longer?" 
 
 "No," said Roy McCulloch ; "that is, not if that which 
 I have heard is true." 
 
 The girl drew a little sharp breath. She thought he 
 meant that he had heard of Sidney Larimer's visit, and 
 guessed at his proposal. She did not want to quarrel with 
 Roy a second time on account of Sidney Latimer. She 
 had not the self-sufficiency she used to have, somehow. 
 Formerly she cared nothing for a quarrel with any on the 
 earth. She gave sharp words in plenty, and in spite of 
 them, lost no friends. It was only Adora's way. When 
 she meant to quarrel, she always dressed as prettily as she 
 could and looked her best. For she knew that this is truth 
 as revealed to the wise man, the man of the many experi- 
 ences, "Always put on your wedding garment when you 
 are going to quarrel with any one. Sit in your chair of 
 state, and summon the culprit before you. It is good to 
 take every advantage you can." 
 
 But circumstances had compelled Adora to test her 
 friends. She had proved them in the furnace, and some 
 had gone up with the hay and the stubble in fire and 
 smoke, while a few, a very few, had come forth like gold ! 
 And of these the chief were Roy, and Sidney, and Aline. 
 So, mindful of this, the girl was far from being so off- 
 hand in her speech as formerly. 
 
 Roy sat down beside Adora without being asked. The 
 moors spread away beh.nd them by the thousand acres. 
 There were miles on miles of grey granite boulder, 
 rounded and weather-worn, with razor-edged outcrops of 
 
THE DOMINIE ASSERTS HIMSELF 379 
 
 slaty Silurian showing here and there like sharks* fins 
 above the moor. Heather, too, and yellow couch grass 
 room a-plenty to sit down. So beside Adora Roy sat 
 and characteristically said nothing for a while. At any 
 time Roy's words were few and well ordered. But for all 
 that he did not abandon the subject. 
 
 "No," he said, at last, very deliberately, "I cannot be 
 your friend, if that which I hear is true that you are to 
 be a great and rich woman that your father is leaving 
 Galloway to take possession of his estate ! I love you, 
 Adora. Better than I myself, better than any in the world, 
 you know how much. You have always known. (He 
 went on more steadily now.) Perhaps that is why you 
 have cared so little. Because it has always been so will 
 always be so !" 
 
 "Have I cared little?" 
 
 The question took Roy by surprise, nevertheless he 
 proceeded. 
 
 "Yes, you have cared little. I have never expected you 
 to care much. I knew better than that. But you will see 
 why I cannot be a rich woman's friend. It is not that I 
 am poor, or that I think that the wealth of a princess 
 would change you. Again, I say, I know you better, Adora. 
 But ever since you could walk, and you used to run about 
 with your hand in mine, one thought has been in my heart. 
 When we were together at school, I said as often as I 
 looked at you "I will call that girl mine before I die!" 
 Now I know that to be impossible. Of late I have hardly 
 hoped at all, but I have loved you more than ever as 
 as a man loves. But now there are others worthier than 
 I others who will be in your own position who will not 
 make you ashamed of a plain country-bred man whose 
 only merit is that he loves you, and that he has never 
 thought of any other woman all the days of his life nor 
 will until he dies !" 
 
 Strong Mac ceased. He had shown his strength. He 
 had hardly ever made so long a speech in his life, and 
 as he was speaking Adora was astonished to feel her heart 
 
380 STRONG MAC 
 
 beating violently. She tried to answer in the ancient 
 manner of Adora of the spinning wheel, the maiden of the 
 schoolhouse, but ere a word was uttered, something took 
 her suddenly and violently by the throat. 
 
 "I thank you," she managed to get the words out at last, 
 "you are good to care about me. It is true all true you 
 do love me I know it ! And I am glad but !" 
 
 Roy rose promptly at the word. 
 
 "In love like mine there are no 'buts'!" he said. 
 
 "Roy, do not go " said the girl, "wait let me think. 
 I want to keep you as my friend. I do not want you to 
 go. Money will make no difference nor position ." 
 
 "No, Adora," said Roy, "go I must. I had better not 
 see you again, if you cannot be more than a friend, if you 
 cannot be a poor man's wife. You know what the House 
 of Muir is. If you cannot be the wife of a man with a 
 stain on his name then I, Roy McCulloch, can do with- 
 out friends ! Do not fear for me. I am not afraid for my- 
 self I will win through !" 
 
 "Wife wife? Who talks of 'wives' to my daughter?" 
 said a voice which made them both turn round. 
 
 It was the Dominie, clothed in his clerical suit the 
 straight wrinkles still in his black coat of ancient cut, and 
 a ministerial cravat of ancient form twisted about his 
 neck. He held a silver-headed cane in his hand, which he 
 had picked off the little stand beside Aline's doorway. 
 
 "Sir," he said, addressing himself to Roy, "you are the 
 son of a respectable man. I had a respect for your father, 
 and for a time, also for yourself. I have not forgotten our 
 time of sojourn in your domicile. It was healthy, I grant, 
 and so far comfortable. You shall be rewarded, sir both 
 you and your father, Mr. Sharon McCulloch. Do not be 
 afraid. But I would beg you to recall to yourself some 
 things which may assist you to remember our relative posi- 
 tions some things which you seem to be in danger of 
 forgetting. First, that the circumstances of our leaving 
 House of Muir were exceedingly unpleasant and for 
 that, much against my will, I must hold you responsible ! 
 
THE DOMINIE ASSERTS HIMSELF 381 
 
 And secondly, it is not for the son of a smuggler, and 
 especially for a man who has been frequently in prison 
 justly or unjustly, I do not take it upon me to say 
 upon serious and even capital charges, to aspire to the 
 hand of Miss Adora Balgracie of Balgracie, sole heiress 
 of one of the oldest houses and best properties in the three 
 Lothians !" 
 
 To say that Adora was astonished at this harangue is 
 to convey but a small portion of the girl's surprise and in- 
 dignation. The Dominie had always been a particular 
 friend of Roy's, but the sudden change in his circum- 
 stances had sufficed to turn a head seriously weakened by 
 his own past habits, and for the time being he could think 
 or speak about nothing but the greatness of his position. 
 
 "If it werena for the bonny lass, and indeed she's asguid 
 as she is bonny, I wad e'en throw the haverin' auld idiot 
 into the loch!" was how Adam looked at the matter 
 "him to come hectorin' and orderin' aboot the hoose as if 
 he were the Prince Regent himsel' ! Faith ye wad think 
 the craitur expected a' the kye in the byre to get doon on 
 their knees and do him reverence !" 
 
 When she had a little recovered from her surprise, 
 Adora rose from the grey rock on which she had 
 been sitting, and went up to her father, who stood a little 
 above them. The old man was still trembling with rage 
 and weakness, his staff shaking from side to side as he 
 leaned upon it. 
 
 "Father," she said, "have you forgotten? This is 
 Roy, Roy McCulloch, who took us in when nobody else 
 would. Do you not remember that we lived for months 
 at his house?" 
 
 "He shall be amply repaid," quavered the old man, 
 waving her away. "Did I not say it? Did I not repeat it ? 
 He shall not suffer. If the place of grieve at Balgracie 
 be vacant shortly, as I have reason to believe, it shall be 
 put at his disposal. Or, if he will perfect himself in men- 
 suration, and apply himself a little more than (as I re- 
 member) he used to do at school, perhaps we could find 
 
382 STRONG MAC 
 
 him a place as factor if not on Balgracie itself, at least 
 upon one of the neighbouring smaller estates. I shall, 
 naturally, have a great deal of influence, politically and 
 otherwise. And it shall never be said of Donald Bal- 
 gracie that all that he can do is not at the service of the 
 humblest of his friends." 
 
 "I am obliged to you, Mr. Balgracie," began Roy, re- 
 strainedly. 
 
 Adora turned upon him in an instant, prettily furious. 
 
 "Hold your tongue," she said, under her breath. "Let 
 me speak to my father !" 
 
 But the Dominie only elevated his voice the higher, 
 over-passing Adora's protest in order to continue his 
 harangue unchecked. 
 
 "But pray remember, sir," he said, "I, on my part, 
 must first have a promise from you. You must promise 
 me never to breathe a word of love or marriage to my 
 daughter. You have in the past, I admit, shown your- 
 self not without good feeling, and you must surely see 
 how inappropriate, how impossible, how criminal, indeed, 
 it is to presume to approach a young lady so far above 
 your rank. I ask, sir nay, I demand as a father's right, 
 a promise that you will never again address my daughter 
 on the subject of love never, by word or implication, re- 
 quest her to marry you. Sir, I await your answer !" 
 
 "I give you that promise, sir !" said Roy, instantly and 
 firmly, looking over Adora's head as he spoke, straight at 
 the old man, who stood quavering, his body bent over his 
 staff, on which his hands rested. "I will never again ask 
 your daughter to marry me. I have the honour of bidding 
 you both a good evening !" 
 
 And lifting his hat with a quiet sufficient dignity, and 
 without once looking at the astonished girl, Roy turned on 
 his heel and strode up the hill towards the entrance of the 
 
 Cleuch of Pluckamin. 
 
 ******* 
 
 It will hardly be believed, but Adora was weeping. Her 
 sobs choked her. Her head refused to reason any more. 
 
THE DOMINIE ASSERTS HIMSELF 383 
 
 There was nothing logical about her feelings as she took 
 hold of her father's arm. He was gone. Roy was gone 
 from her in anger, and she would never see him more. 
 
 But she had to go back with the Dominie to the cottage. 
 His fit of anger had exhausted him. He needed attention, 
 such rapid attention as his daughter could afford to give 
 him. She laid him on the bed, unloosed his neckcloth, 
 mixed a sip of brandy and water, saw his colour come 
 back, and then crying, "Aline, Aline I want you," she 
 committed her father to her friend's care. 
 
 "Adora Adora what is it? Ye are greetin'?" cried 
 her gentle hostess of the Silver Braids. But Adora had 
 no time to answer. She had flown into the gloaming 
 through the open door. 
 
CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 DAID'S CROWNING MERCY. 
 
 THOUGH the night was near, the very oncoming gloam- 
 ing was the dawn of a new day for Adora. Roy had gone 
 from her in anger gone for ever. He had passed his 
 word to her father, and ever since she had known any- 
 thing, she had known that Roy McCulloch would keep his 
 word. Her very life now seemed to have been based on 
 that. She would see him no more no more! Small 
 wonder that she wept ! 
 
 Sidney Latimer oh, yes, yes she was sorry for Sidney 
 Latimer but she could not help that. How could she? 
 Any woman will be able to answer this question. 
 
 She sped on. The bridge was passed, and so intent was 
 Adora on overtaking Roy that she never noticed how 
 hollow her feet sounded on the little wooden structure, 
 roughly put together of split pine trunks and covered with 
 planks. Presently she was in the long green aisles of 
 Pluckamin Cleuch, the sunset dying high above her in a 
 flurry of aerial seas, multitudinous and incarnadine, 
 flecked with willow leaves of floating gold. 
 
 "Roy Roy! Stop, Roy!" 
 
 The girl's wild cry went up, startling the rooks in the 
 tall elms and beeches on either side, raising the blackbirds 
 squabbling with intrusive thrushes in the thickets, and 
 bringing out once more the inquisitive jackdaws from the 
 ruins of the ancient hamlet of Pluckamin. This was the 
 cry of a heart at last "Roy Roy!" 
 
 But the young man had gone fast, as men do when they 
 carry away a great grief with them. Roy McCulloch 
 walked in great strides, taking no heed to his going, caring 
 
DAID'S CROWNING MERCY 385 
 
 neither for made road nor sheep track. Naturally, then, 
 Adora's stern chase was a long one. 
 
 Breathlessly up the tangled path she took her way, tow- 
 ards the great conflagration of gold and crimson that 
 hid the setting sun. The road in the shadowy parts was 
 already becoming a grey purplish mystery beneath her 
 feet. The little Pluckamin Water had limpid lights and 
 deep violet shadows under the long fringes of the gall- 
 bushes, like a woman's eyes. 
 
 But high above there was the light and Roy ! Adora 
 went on as fast as she could. 
 
 At last, the moorland, open and desolate! And, far 
 across the waste now burning in cardinal and golden 
 brown with the last pigments of the after-glow, a tall 
 black figure was just dipping into a hollow of the path. 
 
 "Roy Roy. Stop! I want you, Roy!" 
 
 But he went on his eyes on the ground, the misery 
 quick in his heart. 
 
 Ah, sometimes the gladdest things and the sweetest 
 things lie behind a man if he would but look, as he presses 
 too eagerly or too bitterly, onward. 
 
 There there he was at last, on the rise of the great 
 cup-like swell above the Marches of Barnbarroch. 
 
 "Roy Roy! Stop, Roy. I can go no farther!" 
 
 He heard. He stayed, uncertainly at first. Now it was 
 time for shame and uncertainty as to the Tightness of her 
 act to leap up in the maiden's mind. But by this time 
 Adora's heart was speaking, and it spoke as determinately 
 as ever her head or her intellect had done. It saw as 
 clearly, resolved as surely. 
 
 She went straight to him, her arms outstretched, with- 
 out haste, but also without hesitation. 
 
 "Roy," she said, "I cannot bear it. You promised my 
 father you would not speak of love or marriage to me. 
 You will keep your word, I know. You went from me in 
 anger. But if you will not speak, you will listen to me 
 when I speak. / love you, Roy. Will you come back? 
 Will you marry me? If you will, I will. I always meant 
 
386 STRONG MAC 
 
 to, I think, always ! At the last, I mean. And oh, when 
 you went away like that, when you never looked at me 
 but over my head, it was cruel. Oh, cruel ! I could not 
 bear it. And you make me say these things now. It is 
 your fault your fault!" 
 
 A sweet fault! She was sobbing comfortably now. 
 Roy did not answer. He did better. He gathered the girl 
 up in his arms and then and there let her cry her cry out. 
 
 Then when the sobs grew rarer, mere little catchings of 
 the breath, he lifted up her face and kissed her wet cheeks. 
 
 "I am always yours " he said, "in life and in death 
 always ! You know that !" 
 
 From her fortress Adora sighed, "Yes, I know!" 
 Then she added, "But all the same it is good good to be 
 
 told!" 
 
 ******** 
 
 The clouds had lifted a little. The true darkness had 
 not arrived only the twilight had grown deep and mys- 
 terious when Adora and Roy turned homewards. They 
 had much to talk about much also to be silent about, in 
 these sweet half silences of perfect understanding. 
 
 Adora asked Roy of his quest. He had sworn that he 
 would not give up that. He would not return to the 
 House of Muir till that was accomplished. 
 
 "Already I know something," he said; "soon I shall 
 know more! I shall keep my word, Adora. You shall 
 wed a man without the stain of suspicion on his name !" 
 
 Then there came to Adora what she had heard from 
 Sidney Latimer. She had meant to tell Roy as they sat 
 on the knoll above Aline's cottage, overlooking the 
 meadows and the lily-beds. But the sudden interruption 
 of her father had put that and many other things out of 
 her head. Besides, in comparison with the great fear that 
 had driven her across the waste and through the Cleuch of 
 Pluckamin, the news had seemed to the girl as nothing. 
 
 "You will go back at once," she said ; "the way is open 
 even now Jonathan Grier is dead. And he has confessed 
 all" 
 
DAID'S CROWNING MERCY 387 
 
 Some little while before, out of the darkness that filled 
 the sinister hollow of the Marches of Barnbarroch, there 
 had risen a figure the figure of a man, bent almost 
 double. At first he was on the far side of the dyke from 
 the lovers as they walked on entranced, blotted out of all 
 knowledge of time and place in their intentness upon each 
 other. 
 
 But when the hollow began to feather downwards with 
 high bracken and bending birch, the dark figure drew 
 nearer, gliding from black crag to grey boulder like some 
 cruel misshapen gnome, or wild beast tracking down a 
 victim. Once when the west cleared a little, a gleam as of 
 bare steel could be seen. 
 
 Roy's arm went about his love as they passed the splin- 
 tered gates at the bottom of the hollow. It was the very 
 place of death. Roy thought of the dead sheep in the 
 moss-hag not far away. But his heart was high and proud 
 within him. 
 
 "You are not afraid now even to be here ?" he said, for 
 Adora had told him of her terror when she went to seek 
 Daid. 
 
 She looked up, and he saw the light in her eyes. They 
 shone like stars reflected in deep still water, but there was 
 no fear in them. It had been cast out. 
 
 "No," she said, "I am not afraid ! How should I be?" 
 
 "I will soon finish the business," he said fondly ; "this 
 terror shall no longer oppress our lives. Whether Jona- 
 than Grier has confessed or no I have marked down to a 
 certainty the murderer of Sandy Ewan !" 
 
 "Ah, have you?" cried a hoarse voice near them; "then 
 for that you shall die !" 
 
 There was a short couching growl of unutterable anger, 
 the rush as of a wild beast through the underbrake, the 
 gleam of a knife, almost before they could turn round 
 before Roy had time to take his right arm from about 
 Adora. The surprise was so complete that if nothing had 
 happened, both of them might have gone Sandy Ewan's 
 way. 
 
388 STRONG MAC 
 
 But swifter, fiercer, more deadly came the irruption of 
 another assailant, charging as it were cross- ways upon the 
 first, while in the middle of the path Roy and Adora stood 
 as if turned to stone. They had not moved. The sur- 
 prise was too great. Roy was ashamed that he had ven- 
 tured there unarmed, without a weapon, knowing what 
 he did. He had even left his black-thorn cudgel upon the 
 knoll on which he had found Adora sitting. He could 
 only clench his fists and put the girl behind him in some 
 hope of disarming his foes by strength or trick. Happily 
 it was not yet very dark. The clouds were visibly 
 lightening. 
 
 But the struggle was of no long duration. The first 
 and larger shape bore up for a moment against the on- 
 slaught, swayed a while, and fell headlong. Something 
 there was that leaped instantly upon the breast, striking 
 with murderous fierceness. Adora and Roy could hear it 
 panting with the breathless fury of the repeated blows. 
 
 Then after a moment of horrified amazement, high in 
 the air arose the strangest of human sounds, the laughter 
 of the speechless. It thrilled to the marrow of the two 
 listeners. Hastily, yet with caution, Roy went forward. 
 Momentarily the west opened up, ere the last red bands 
 faded into grey uncoloured night. And this was what he 
 saw. 
 
 Crob McRobb lying dead, the knife with which he had 
 meant to add two others to the tale of his victims still in 
 his hand, while kneeling upon his breast, striking, and 
 labouring in the striking, was his son, Daid the Deil. And 
 as he struck he laughed, a laugh that chilled his hearers 
 ay, and far out over the waste garred watchers in dis- 
 tant farms and women in lonely cottages swarf with fear 
 in their comfortable beds. 
 
 Roy put his hand on the boy's shoulder, and pulled him 
 away by force. Daid turned fiercely upon the interrupter. 
 But recognising Roy, he laughed again. Then standing 
 on his feet he pointed first to the dead man and then to the 
 black cavity of his mouth from which the tongue had been 
 
DAID'S CROWNING MERCY 389 
 
 torn away. After which he laughed again, nodding his 
 head to say that all was now settled and finished. 
 
 He went over the hill laughing, in the direction of Low- 
 ran Loch, still laughing. 
 
 But there is yet a word to say for the wild beast slain, 
 that had once been a man. In the struggle on the Glebe 
 Road, it was Sandy Ewan who had been the aggressor 
 Sandy Ewan who, first in his insensate fury, had trampled 
 all likeness of humanity out of his poacher accomplice. 
 Then swift and sure came the counter-stroke which made 
 Crob McRobb a murderer and a hider in dens and caves 
 of the earth. Here like a true wild beast he had lain and 
 licked his sores, so far curing himself that he was able 
 once more to crawl abroad. But after Sandy Ewan's heel 
 had crushed him out of all semblance of manhood, he car- 
 ried no more within him the heart of a man. So it was 
 like a very devil that he had resented the interference of 
 his son, the espionage of Roy McCulloch, and the refusal 
 of his request by his sometime partner in evil, Jonathan 
 Grier. 
 
 For by this time Crob was gaining in strength and 
 agility, and the old poacher doubtless began to feel the 
 want of another weapon than his knife, both for the pur- 
 poses of the chase and for those of revenge against 
 human enemies. To his failure at the Dhu Loch, Roy Mc- 
 Culloch and many others doubtless owed their lives. To 
 that and to the ceaseless watchfulness of the maimed 
 boy. 
 
 It was small wonder, therefore, considering what he 
 had suffered, that Daid McRobb went over the hill and out 
 of this history, laughing that strange, weird, triumphant 
 laugh. He had kept his word to the Red Judge. 
 
 He had "killed the man who had done That !" 
 
CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 A FEW OPINIONS. 
 
 THAT is the whole story, but, as is always the case, 
 certain people had a word to say about it. And first, 
 by right of trover, let us hear Aline of the Silver Braids. 
 
 "Ye see, my dears," she said to Roy and Adora, "I ex- 
 pected it from the first. Ay, I made it a maitter o' prayer. 
 Richt or wrang, I made it a maitter o' prayer. I ay 
 kenned that in your heart ye cared aboot him !" 
 
 "Then you knew more than I did myself !" said Adora 
 smilingly. 
 
 "I kenned oh, ay brawly I kenned!" Aline con- 
 tinued. "And how, says you ? Juist by this ye had never 
 a guid word to say aboot him, yet the moment I began to 
 agree wi' ye and abuse him too fegs, ye were a' on fire 
 like a wisp o' tow ! Oh, lassie, I'm feared you twa are in 
 my heart whiles abune the things that are eternal and i' 
 the heevens ! And if ye had mairried the Laird, I wad 
 never ." 
 
 "Sidney Latimer is a good man and a true !" said Adora. 
 And then perhaps conscious of the commonplace of her 
 phrase, she added, "And if I had loved him, I am not sure 
 that you, Roy, would have come so far to save him from 
 the gallows !" 
 
 Roy smiled but refused to be drawn. He knew Adora. 
 
 "And that puir dumb laddie/' interrupted Aline, who 
 disliked personalities ; "have they never fand him ? What 
 can hae come o' him, think ye?" 
 
 
A FEW OPINIONS 391 
 
 Roy, who was still, as ever, a man of few words, pointed 
 with his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the 
 Loch of Lowran. 
 
 " 'Deed and if that be sae I blame him little," she said, 
 as if answering an unspoken objection. "It maun hae 
 been an awfu' thing to see and a mair awfu' thing to do ! 
 For though Crob had been a murderer and far waur, he 
 was the laddie's ain faither, after a' ! Gin puir Daid be 
 lying at the bottom o' the loch, he's maybe the better aff . 
 I mind o' him askin' me yae nicht in the winter time, 
 writing on the slate, if I thocht that it wad tak' lang to 
 droon, and if the water wad be awesome cauld. So he 
 had it in his head even then, the puir, mishandled, ill- 
 used craitur! And it comes to me whiles that the Lord 
 up yonder willna be that verra hard on peetifu', mis- 
 guided bairns like Daid, that never had a chance to do 
 richt since the day they were brocht into the warl' ! What 
 think ye?" 
 
 And upon this point Adora and Roy, who were far 
 from setting up as theologists, made bold to agree with 
 
 Aline McQuhirr. 
 
 ******* 
 
 At this point we are honoured by the receipt of a valu- 
 able document. It is headed, "The opinions of the Rev- 
 erend Dr. Cyrus Meiklewham, Minister of the parish of 
 Lowran, written down by himself, for the purposes of this 
 chronicle : 
 
 "It is my matured and definite opinion (says Dr. 
 Meiklewham), after sixty years of experience in my 
 present position as minister of the parish of Lowran and 
 during forty-one of these (come next Michaelmas) as 
 Clerk to the Presbytery of St. Cuthbertstown that no 
 events at all compare *1e in interest to those connected 
 with the death of the I'ifcc Mr. Alexander Ewan, Esquire, 
 of Boreland, and the arrest and trial of my esteemed 
 friends, the McCullochs, elder and younger, of House of 
 Muir, have occurred within the oldest memory in our part 
 of the country. It was indeed a sore and heavy blow to 
 
392 STRONG MAC 
 
 me when my esteemed session-clerk and ruling elder, Mr. 
 Gracie, was for a time removed from our little fellowship 
 by the somewhat hasty act of the Presbytery. I had a high 
 regard for Mr. Grade's person, and a yet higher for his 
 amiable daughter. So that none rejoiced more than I 
 when the news spread abroad through the country that, 
 by a surprising turn of the wheel of fortune, Mr. Bal- 
 gracie (of Balgracie), to give my old friend his own 
 proper name and style, had become the heir to a landed 
 property and to a considerable sum in the funds. True, 
 the amount has been greatly overstated, as I have just 
 heard direct from my own sister's son, William, who is, 
 as most people know, apprenticed to the law in the office 
 of Messrs. McKnight & McMath in Parliament Close, 
 Edinburgh. But, after all, and with all deductions, there 
 is enough left to be a very heartsome downstitting for the 
 young lass and the lad McCulloch a worthy son of a 
 worthy father though I should have thought she might 
 have done better for herself than marry the son of a 
 bonnet laird. Howsomever, as I well know, young folk 
 are apt to be headstrong and foolish. There is my 
 daughter Hope, to look no further afield, who has no more 
 reverence in her nature than a last year's black-faced tup. 
 But yet for all that is a good lass and a bonny, though I 
 have to say so myself. She tells me that there never was 
 any truth in the rumour, industriously spread abroad in 
 the parish, that the late Dominie's daughter, Adora Gracie 
 (afterwards Miss Balgracie, of Balgracie, not to forget 
 her due honours), had for a time engaged the affections of 
 Mr. Sidney Latimer. It certainly was a thing no little 
 astonishing that she went all the long road to Spain to 
 bring him back from the wars. But it is now made 
 abundantly manifest what her reason was for this unusual 
 act. And a brave lass she was I am not denying, thus to 
 risk her life and more her reputation to do service to 
 the man she loved, presently in grave danger of his life. 
 "But as to the patron of the parish, Mr. Sidney Latimer 
 of Lowran, ever having been seriously in love with the 
 
A FEW OPINIONS 393 
 
 daughter of the village schoolmaster- the idea is pre- 
 posterous. And indeed I have my daughter's direct 
 authority for contradicting it. Moreover, she is in the 
 direct way of knowing, as I observe many letters coming 
 to her address (with heavy charges to pay, which it falls 
 to me to liquidate) in the hand and under seal of Mr. 
 Sidney himself (who remains abroad, doing his duty at 
 the wars with my Lord Wellington), I consider that I do 
 no more than my duty in thus contradicting such reports 
 
 with all the authority of my office." 
 
 # * * * * * # 
 
 To which is appended the ricochet of Purslane's opin- 
 ions, as expressed by Mrs. Latimer, as followeth : 
 
 "And a great blessing it is, Purslane, that I took my 
 own opinion and not yours in the matter of this young 
 woman. Balgracie of Balgracie is doubtless an auld name, 
 but it has been sore trashed with trade this while back. 
 So that, truth to tell, they are little better than Glasgow 
 draper bodies, after a' ! And the auld f ule, the Dominie 
 that was they tell me is juist oot o' his head wi' pride. 
 And no that muckle to be heir to after a' maistly bonded, 
 I'se warrant, to far abune its value ! And the siller in the 
 bank nae mair than will buy the bairn a gown, as the 
 sayin' is wheen a' is said and dune ! Ay, a great blessing 
 that I held to my ain advice ! 
 
 "Furthermore it will be a lesson to ye, Purslane, to 
 hearken to your mistress anither time. A bonny-like 
 thing if my son Sidney had disgraced himsel' wi' marryin' 
 into a family like that ! Noo, there's the minister's lass. 
 She'll no hae ony great tocher, but he's a bien snug man 
 the doctor, and has been a saver and never a spender a' 
 his life. Forbye the lass is bonny, and douce, ana biddable 
 no like a certain prood madam, that when ye speak to 
 her for her guid, looks at ye as if she could bite brandy- 
 snaps oot o' ye! If it's to be, and I maun open the door 
 to anither mistress at the Hoose o' Lowran I ken never 
 a better than juist denty, faceable Hope Meiklewham, 
 that has been at my beck and call ever since she was born !" 
 
394 STRONG MAC 
 
 "It's a Guid's blessing ye are pleased, Mistress," said 
 Purslane, adding under her breath, "the noo!" 
 
 ******* 
 
 Next in order is the report in that excellent local paper, 
 the Drum fern Observer (with which is incorporated the 
 St. Cuthbertstown Gazette). 
 
 'The recent trial at the spring assizes of two respect- 
 able Galloway householders for murder, and their sub- 
 sequent triumphant acquittal, must be fresh in the memory 
 of all our readers. But as the real murderer or murderers 
 of the late Mr. Ewan of Boreland had not been discovered, 
 considerable mystery continued for some time to envelop 
 the case. 
 
 "This has at last been cleared away in a highly satisfac- 
 tory manner, thanks to the unremitting efforts of our able 
 and highly respected fiscal, Mr. Richard Henderson, sec- 
 onded by the acumen and tact of our admirable sheriff- 
 substitute, Mr. Martin Milroy. 
 
 "The culprits turn out to have been a pair of local 
 poachers of the worst repute, father and son, of the names 
 of 'Crob' or Crobin McRobb and David McRobb. They 
 have been long suspected, and indeed were on the very 
 point of being captured and brought to justice by the 
 active and intelligent officers of the law, when they both 
 perished in a murderous fracas, in which one was 
 wounded to the death and the other anticipated justice by 
 drowning himself. The Reverend Mr. Baillie, of Hard- 
 hills, has sent us a very powerful sermon, suggested by the 
 tragic occurrence. It is upon the text from Psalm Iv. 23 : 
 'Bloody cond deceitful men shall not live out half their 
 days.' The sermon is at once 'a powerful and touching ap- 
 peal to the consciences of offenders and most comfortable 
 to them that believe/ as the author himself obligingly 
 states on his first page. But owing to an unfortunate pres- 
 sure on our outer advertising columns (and what we would 
 draw special attention to, the remarkable notice of the 
 opening of the new premises erected by Messrs. Sharp & 
 Scrape, near the Tron, in the finest situation our town 
 
A FEW OPINIONS 395 
 
 affords) we are prevented from availing ourselves of the 
 reverend gentleman's most obliging offer." 
 
 From which it will be seen that, as occasionally happens, 
 the journalistic account is defective on some points, and 
 more than a little redundant on others. 
 
CHAPTER L. 
 
 THREADS DRAWN TOGETHER. 
 
 MR. DONALD BALGRACIE'S princely expectations were, 
 happily for himself, not verified. Messrs. McKnight & 
 McMath, of Parliament Close, after a careful actuarial 
 investigation of the affairs of the late Mr. William Bal- 
 gracie, died intestate, found that instead of that gentle- 
 man's speculations having conducted him to enormous for- 
 tune, there remained of the whole estate which had been 
 left by his father, Archibald Balgracie, of Balgracie, only 
 a paltry 12,000. Paltry, that is, in comparison with the 
 great sums with which, as contractor for the troops on 
 foreign service, and especially during the late unfortunate 
 war with the United States of North America, he had 
 juggled in a sort of game of cup and ball. 
 
 But at that date of which we speak twelve thousand 
 pounds was not accounted a paltry sum in Galloway. It 
 is not so accounted even now. It chanced very oppor- 
 tunely that Mr. Chesney, of Barwhinnock, having also 
 had losses, through speculation and, the unkind whis- 
 pered, wasterful living, wished to dispose of part of his 
 property. It was in this way that Mr. Donald Balgracie 
 (nominally) and Roy and Adora McCulloch really be- 
 came owners of the ground on both sides of the House of 
 Muir. Their first work was to construct a new avenue 
 which would lead directly down to the village, avoiding 
 both the gloomy Cleuch of Pluckamin and the yet more 
 tragic memories of the Marches of Barnbarroch. 
 
 After long discussion, and at the urgent request of 
 
THREADS DRAWN TOGETHER 397 
 
 Sharon himself, the young couple consented to make their 
 home, as in the days of the first outcasting, at House of 
 Muir. But first of all they had a new wing built, and in a 
 room to the right as you enter the Dominie still has his 
 books and his afternoon nap. His brief assumption of 
 dignity had been but a flash in the pan, and long ere now 
 he has quite forgotten that he was ever served heir to the 
 estates of Balgracie. He has become quite incompetent 
 for business, and Messrs. McKnight & McMath have 
 engineered an amicable family arrangement, in virtue of 
 which the purchase of the properties of Barwhinnock has 
 been carried through and the building of the new part of 
 the house proceeded with. 
 
 It was towards the end of their first year's occupancy 
 of the House of Muir that is, of the new house built by 
 the unexhausted moneys of William the Speculator, that, 
 in the stillness of an evening in mid-August Roy and 
 Adora went out for their usual ramble in the twilight. 
 The heather had been late that year, and was now coming 
 on in a wine-hearted rush of colour. 
 
 They left the Dominie drowsing over his book. He 
 awaked, however, momentarily, to the fact that there was 
 a certain stir of departure in the air. 
 
 "Ah, good-night, Roy/ 7 he said, looking up, and hold- 
 ing out his hand, "come and see us again soon ! We will 
 have a page together you and I a page together 
 though to-night you made many a' 'maxie' that you should 
 have been soundly whipped for ! See and do better next 
 time or who knows perhaps you will find that the old 
 arm has not quite lost its cunning. Methinks the Dominie 
 could handle an ash-plant yet. Where are you going, 
 Adora, lass ?" 
 
 "Only with Roy to the gate!" said the girl, smiling; 
 'I will be back in time to put you to bed !" 
 
 "Ah, do so," he said ; "I heard there were ill characters 
 about ! See that the school gate is carefully locked. But 
 do not be late. Nothing is more unfitting in a young girl 
 than late hours !" 
 
398 STRONG MAC 
 
 "No, father!" said the girl quietly. The fact of his 
 daughter's marriage had been too recent to remain long at 
 a time in the Dominie's mind. 
 
 "Good-night, Roy, you have a long tramp before you !" 
 the old man called after his son-in-law, "but keep a stout 
 heart for a stey brae, as the saying is !" 
 
 As they passed out Sharon was sitting by his own door 
 reading. His stern face relaxed as Adora came in sight. 
 He had rooms and a door of his own, but Adora man- 
 aged the two united houses. The stern old man always 
 rose courteously when he saw her. He walked with his 
 son and daughter across the yard to the gate. Silently 
 Adora laid her hand upon his arm, and the old smuggler, 
 at the light touch of her fingers on his sleeve, gripped him- 
 self with a little swift shiver. 
 
 "Will you come with us, father?" she said ; "we are go- 
 ing down the road towards Ailie's. The Dominie will be 
 all right with Captain Ebenezer. He is staying all night." 
 
 "No, no; by and bye I will join them," said Sharon; 
 "my day for walks in the gloaming is past. But I had it, 
 and it was a good day. Go your ways, bairns, go your 
 ways !" 
 
 They went down the new avenue close together, the raw 
 edges of the slate not yet overgrown with the ivy which 
 Adora had been planting. The twilight deepened as they 
 proceeded, gently and soothingly, a sweet close to a per- 
 fect day. The wide sweep of the moorland shut in about 
 them, isolating them. They were solitary, with that feel- 
 ing of indefinable pensive wistfulness which only a Scot- 
 tish moor at twilight calls out. 
 
 "You shiver, dear!" said Roy, suddenly, "let me draw 
 your shawl closer about you !" 
 
 "No," Adora made answer, "it was not cold only a 
 thought which came to me !" 
 
 "Ah, I know," he said, tenderly, "dark things terrible 
 things happened down there. But you know our agree- 
 ment. You were not to think of them or speak of them if 
 we walked this way !" 
 
THREADS DRAWN TOGETHER 399 
 
 "It is not as you think," she answered him, laughing 
 bravely rather than heartily, "the past is past! I never 
 think of it. / have you!" 
 
 "What then?" he whispered, bending a little so that his 
 ear might be near her lips. 
 
 "I was thinking what would have happened if you had 
 not made me ask you to marry me that night by the 
 Marches of Barnbarroch !" 
 
 "Suppose I had said no?" said Roy, smiling happily 
 down at her. 
 
 "Suppose suppose!" she mimicked him petulantly, 
 "ah, it is too late for that now ! Besides " she clutched 
 his arm in the swift, impulsive manner which had come to 
 Adora with the rest of the new things. 
 
 "Besides," she continued, "two can play at that game. 
 I also have a word to say to you." 
 
 His eyes looked the question he refrained from asking. 
 She reached up her lips to his ear, at the same time putting 
 her platted fingers across his eyes. 
 
 "Suppose!" she said. 
 
 [THE END.] 
 

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