Huntingtower

by John Buchan

  CHAPTER XV

  THE GORBALS DIE-HARDS GO INTO ACTION

  We left Mr. McCunn, full of aches but desperately resolute in spirit,hobbling by the Auchenlochan road into the village of Dalquharter. Hisgoal was Mrs. Morran's hen-house, which was Thomas Yownie's _poste decommandement_. The rain had come on again, and, though in other weatherthere would have been a slow twilight, already the shadow of night hadthe world in its grip. The sea even from the high ground was invisible,and all to westward and windward was a ragged screen of dark cloud. Itwas foul weather for foul deeds.

  Thomas Yownie was not in the hen-house, but in Mrs. Morran's kitchen,and with him were the pug-faced boy known as Old Bill, and the sturdyfigure of Peter Paterson. But the floor was held by the hostess. Shestill wore her big boots, her petticoats were still kilted, and roundher venerable head in lieu of a bonnet was drawn a tartan shawl.

  "Eh, Dickson, but I'm blithe to see ye. And, puir man, ye've been sairmishandled. This is the awfu'est Sabbath day that ever you and me pitin. I hope it'll be forgiven us.... Whaur's the young leddy?"

  "Dougal was saying she was in the House with Sir Archibald and the menfrom the Mains."

  "Wae's me!" Mrs. Morran keened. "And what kind o' place is yon for her?Thae laddies tell me there's boatfu's o' scoondrels landit at theGarplefit. They'll try the auld Tower, but they'll no' wait there whenthey find it toom, and they'll be inside the Hoose in a jiffy and awa'wi' the puir lassie. Sirs, it maunna be. Ye're lippenin' to the polis,but in a' my days I never kenned the polis in time. We maun be up anddaein' oorsels. Oh, if I could get a haud o' that red-heided Dougal...."

  As she spoke, there came on the wind the dull reverberation of anexplosion.

  "Keep us, what's that?" she cried.

  "It's dinnymite," said Peter Paterson.

  "That's the end o' the auld Tower," observed Thomas Yownie in his quieteven voice. "And it's likely the end o' the man Heritage."

  "Lord peety us!" the old woman wailed. "And us standin' here likestookies and no' liftin' a hand. Awa' wi' ye, laddies, and daesomething. Awa' you too, Dickson, or I'll tak' the road mysel'."

  "I've got orders," said the Chief of Staff, "no' to move till thesityation's clear. Napoleon's up at the Tower and Jaikie in thepolicies. I maun wait on their reports."

  For a moment Mrs. Morran's attention was distracted by Dickson, whosuddenly felt very faint and sat down heavily on a kitchen chair. "Man,ye're as white as a dish-clout," she exclaimed with compunction. "Ye'refair wore out, and ye'll have had nae meat sin' your breakfast. See, andI'll get ye a cup o' tea."

  She proved to be in the right, for as soon as Dickson had swallowed somemouthfuls of her strong scalding brew the colour came back to hischeeks, and he announced that he felt better. "Ye'll fortify it wi' adram," she told him, and produced a black bottle from her cupboard. "Myfather aye said that guid whiskey and het tea keepit the doctor's gigoot o' the close."

  The back door opened and Napoleon entered, his thin shanks blue withcold. He saluted and made his report in a voice shrill with excitement.

  "The Tower has fallen. They've blown in the big door, and the feck o'them's inside."

  "And Mr. Heritage?" was Dickson's anxious inquiry.

  "When I last saw him he was up at a windy, shootin'. I think he's gottenon to the roof. I wouldna wonder but the place is on fire."

  "Here, this is awful," Dickson groaned. "We can't let Mr. Heritage bekilled that way. What strength is the enemy?"

  "I counted twenty-seven, and there's stragglers comin' up from theboats."

  "And there's me and you five laddies here, and Dougal and the othersshut up in the House." He stopped in sheer despair. It was a fix fromwhich the most enlightened business mind showed no escape. Prudence,inventiveness were no longer in question; only some desperate course ofviolence.

  "We must create a diversion," he said. "I'm for the Tower, and youladdies must come with me. We'll maybe see a chance. Oh, but I wish Ihad my wee pistol."

  "If ye're gaun there, Dickson, I'm comin' wi' ye," Mrs. Morranannounced.

  Her words revealed to Dickson the preposterousness of the wholesituation, and for all his anxiety he laughed. "Five laddies, amiddle-aged man and an auld wife," he cried. "Dod, it's pretty hopeless.It's like the thing in the Bible about the weak things of the worldtrying to confound the strong."

  "The Bible's whiles richt," Mrs. Morran answered drily. "Come on, forthere's no time to lose."

  The door opened again to admit the figure of Wee Jaikie. There were notears in his eyes, and his face was very white.

  "They're a' round the Hoose," he croaked. "I was up a tree forenent theverandy and seen them. The lassie ran oot and cried on them from the topo' the brae, and they a' turned and hunted her back. Gosh, but it was anear thing. I seen the Captain sklimmin' the wall, and a muckle man tookthe lassie and flung her up the ladder. They got inside just in time andsteekit the door, and now the whole pack is roarin' round the Hooseseekin' a road in. They'll no' be long over the job, neither."

  "What about Mr. Heritage?"

  "They're no' heedin' about him any more. The auld Tower's bleezin'."

  "Worse and worse," said Dickson. "If the police don't come in the nextten minutes, they'll be away with the Princess. They've beaten allDougal's plans, and it's a straight fight with odds of six to one. It'snot possible."

  Mrs. Morran for the first time seemed to lose hope. "Eh, the puirlassie!" she wailed, and sinking on a chair covered her face with hershawl.

  "Laddies, can you no' think of a plan?" asked Dickson, his voice flatwith despair.

  Then Thomas Yownie spoke. So far he had been silent, but under histangled thatch of hair, his mind had been busy. Jaikie's report seemedto bring him to a decision.

  "It's gey dark," he said, "and it's gettin' darker."

  There was that in his voice which promised something, and Dicksonlistened.

  "The enemy's mostly foreigners, but Dobson's there and I think he's akind of guide to them. Dobson's feared of the polis, and if we canterrify Dobson he'll terrify the rest."

  "Ay, but where are the police?"

  "They're no' here yet, but they're comin'. The fear o' them is aye inDobson's mind. If he thinks the polis has arrived, he'll put the wind upthe lot.... _We_ maun be the polis."

  Dickson could only stare while the Chief of Staff unfolded his scheme. Ido not know to whom the Muse of History will give the credit of thetactics of "infiltration"--whether to Ludendorff or von Hutier or someother proud captain of Germany, or to Foch, who revised and perfectedthem. But I know that the same notion was at this moment of crisisconceived by Thomas Yownie, whom no parents acknowledged, who sleptusually in a coal cellar, and who had picked up his education amongGorbals closes and along the wharves of Clyde.

  "It's gettin' dark," he said, "and the enemy are that busy tryin' tobreak into the Hoose that they'll no' be thinkin' o' their rear. Thefive o' us Die-Hards is grand at dodgin' and keepin' out of sight, andwhat hinders us to get in among them, so that they'll hear us but neversee us? We're used to the ways o' the polis, and can imitate them fine.Forbye we've all got our whistles, which are the same as a bobbie'sbirl, and Old Bill and Peter are grand at copyin' a man's voice. Sincethe Captain is shut up in the Hoose, the command falls to me, and that'smy plan."

  With a piece of chalk he drew on the kitchen floor a rough sketch of theenvirons of Huntingtower. Peter Paterson was to move from theshrubberies beyond the verandah, Napoleon from the stables, Old Billfrom the Tower, while Wee Jaikie and Thomas himself were to advance asif from the Garplefoot, so that the enemy might fear for hiscommunications. "As soon as one o' ye gets into position he's to gie thepatrol cry, and when each o' ye has heard five cries, he's to advance.Begin birlin' and roarin' afore ye get among them, and keep it up tillye're at the Hoose wall. If they've gotten inside, in ye go after them.I trust each Die-Hard to use his judgment, and above all to keep out o'sight and no let himsel' be grippit."

  The plan, like all great tactics, was
simple, and no sooner was itexpounded than it was put into action. The Die-Hards faded out of thekitchen like fog-wreaths, and Dickson and Mrs. Morran were left lookingat each other. They did not look long. The bare feet of Wee Jaikie hadnot crossed the threshold fifty seconds, before they were followed byMrs. Morran's out-of-doors boots and Dickson's tackets. Arm in arm thetwo hobbled down the back path behind the village which led to the SouthLodge. The gate was unlocked, for the warder was busy elsewhere, andthey hastened up the avenue. Far off Dickson thought he saw shapesfleeting across the park, which he took to be the shock-troops of hisown side, and he seemed to hear snatches of song. Jaikie was givingtongue, and this was what he sang:

  "Proley Tarians, arise! Wave the Red Flag to the skies, Heed nae mair the Fat Man's lees, Stap them doun his throat! Nocht to loss except our chains, We maun drain oor dearest veins-- A' the worrld shall be our gains----"

  But he tripped over a rabbit wire and thereafter conserved his breath.

  The wind was so loud that no sound reached them from the House, whichblank and immense now loomed before them. Dickson's ears were alert forthe noise of shots or the dull crash of bombs; hearing nothing, hefeared the worst, and hurried Mrs. Morran at a pace which endangeredher life. He had no fear for himself, arguing that his foes were seekinghigher game, and judging, too, that the main battle must be round theverandah at the other end. The two passed the shrubbery where the roadforked, one path running to the back door and one to the stables. Theytook the latter and presently came out on the downs, with the ravine ofthe Garple on their left, the stables in front, and on the right thehollow of a formal garden running along the west side of the House.

  The gale was so fierce, now that they had no wind-break between them andthe ocean, that Mrs. Morran could wrestle with it no longer, and foundshelter in the lee of a clump of rhododendrons. Darkness had all butfallen, and the house was a black shadow against the dusky sky, while aconfused greyness marked the sea. The old Tower showed a tooth ofmasonry; there was no glow from it, so the fire, which Jaikie hadreported, must have died down. A whaup cried loudly, and very eerily:then another.

  The birds stirred up Mrs. Morran. "That's the laddies' patrol," shegasped. "Count the cries, Dickson."

  Another bird wailed, this time very near. Then there was perhaps threeminutes' silence, till a fainter wheeple came from the direction of theTower. "Four," said Dickson, but he waited in vain on the fifth. He hadnot the acute hearing of the boys, and could not catch the faint echo ofPeter Paterson's signal beyond the verandah. The next he heard was ashrill whistle cutting into the wind, and then others in rapidsuccession from different quarters, and something which might have beenthe hoarse shouting of angry men.

  The Gorbals Die-Hards had gone into action.

  Dull prose is no medium to tell of that wild adventure. The sobersequence of the military historian is out of place in recording deedsthat knew not sequence or sobriety. Were I a bard, I would cast thistale in excited verse, with a lilt which would catch the speed of thereality. I would sing of Napoleon, not unworthy of his great namesake,who penetrated to the very window of the ladies' bedroom, where theframework had been driven in and men were pouring through; of how therehe made such pandemonium with his whistle that men tumbled back and ranabout blindly seeking for guidance; of how in the long run his pugnacitymastered him, so that he engaged in combat with an unknown figure andthe two rolled into what had once been a fountain. I would hymn PeterPaterson, who across tracts of darkness engaged Old Bill in aconversation which would have done no discredit to a Gallogatepoliceman. He pretended to be making reports and seeking orders. "We'vegotten three o' the deevils, sir. What'll we dae wi' them?" he shouted;and back would come the reply in a slightly more genteel voice: "Fallthem to the rear. Tamson has charge of the prisoners." Or it would be:"They've gotten pistols, sir. What's the orders?" and the answer wouldbe: "Stick to your batons. The guns are posted on the knowe, so weneedn't hurry." And over all the din there would be a perpetualwhistling and a yelling of "Hands up!"

  I would sing, too, of Wee Jaikie, who was having the red-letter hour ofhis life. His fragile form moved like a lizard in places where no mortalcould be expected, and he varied his duties with impish assaults uponthe persons of such as came in his way. His whistle blew in a man's earone second and the next yards away. Sometimes he was moved to song, andunearthly fragments of "Class-conscious we are" or "Proley Tarians,arise!" mingled with the din, like the cry of seagulls in a storm. Hesaw a bright light flare up within the house which warned him not toenter, but he got as far as the garden-room, in whose dark corners hemade havoc. Indeed he was almost too successful, for he created panicwhere he went, and one or two fired blindly at the quarter where he hadlast been heard. These shots were followed by frenzied prohibitions fromSpidel and were not repeated. Presently he felt that aimless surge ofmen that is the prelude to flight, and heard Dobson's great voiceroaring in the hall. Convinced that the crisis had come, he made his wayoutside, prepared to harass the rear of any retirement. Tears now floweddown his face, and he could not have spoken for sobs, but he had neverbeen so happy.

  But chiefly would I celebrate Thomas Yownie, for it was he who broughtfear into the heart of Dobson. He had a voice of singular compass, andfrom the verandah he made it echo round the House. The efforts of OldBill and Peter Paterson had been skilful indeed, but those of ThomasYownie were deadly. To some leader beyond he shouted news: "Robison'sjust about finished wi' his lot, and then he'll get the boats." Afurious charge upset him, and for a moment he thought he had beendiscovered. But it was only Dobson rushing to Leon, who was leading themen in the doorway. Thomas fled to the far end of the verandah, andagain lifted up his voice. "All foreigners," he shouted, "except the manDobson. Ay. Ay. Ye've got Loudon? Well done!"

  It must have been this last performance which broke Dobson's nerve andconvinced him that the one hope lay in a rapid retreat to theGarplefoot. There was a tumbling of men in the doorway, a muttering ofstrange tongues, and the vision of the innkeeper shouting to Leon andSpidel. For a second he was seen in the faint reflection that the lightin the hall cast as far as the verandah, a wild figure urging theretreat with a pistol clapped to the head of those who were too confusedby the hurricane of events to grasp the situation. Some of them droppedover the wall, but most huddled like sheep through the door on the westside, a jumble of struggling, panic-stricken mortality. Thomas Yownie,staggered at the success of his tactics, yet kept his head and did hisutmost to confuse the retreat, and the triumphant shouts and whistles ofthe other Die-Hards showed that they were not unmindful of this finalduty....

  The verandah was empty, and he was just about to enter the House, whenthrough the west door came a figure, breathing hard and bent apparentlyon the same errand. Thomas prepared for battle, determined that nostraggler of the enemy should now wrest from him victory, but, as thefigure came into the faint glow at the doorway, he recognised it asHeritage. And at the same moment he heard something which made his tensenerves relax. Away on the right came sounds, a thud of galloping horseson grass and the jingle of bridle reins and the voices of men. It wasthe real thing at last. It is a sad commentary on his career, but nowfor the first time in his brief existence Thomas Yownie felt charitablydisposed towards the police.

  * * * * *

  The Poet, since we left him blaspheming on the roof of the Tower, hadbeen having a crowded hour of most inglorious life. He had started todescend at a furious pace, and his first misadventure was that hestumbled and dropped Dickson's pistol over the parapet. He tried to markwhere it might have fallen in the gloom below, and this lost himprecious minutes. When he slithered through the trap into the atticroom, where he had tried to hold up the attack, he discovered that itwas full of smoke which sought in vain to escape by the narrow window.Volumes of it were pouring up the stairs, and when he attempted todescend he found himself choked and blinded. He rushed gasping to thewindow, filled his lungs with fresh air, and
tried again, but he got nofurther than the first turn, from which he could see through the cloudred tongues of flame in the ground room. This was solemn indeed, so hesought another way out. He got on the roof, for he remembered achimney-stack, cloaked with ivy, which was built straight from theground, and he thought he might climb down it.

  He found the chimney and began the descent, confidently, for he had onceborne a good reputation at the Montanvert and Cortina. At first all wentwell, for stones stuck out at decent intervals like the rungs of aladder, and roots of ivy supplemented their deficiencies. But presentlyhe came to a place where the masonry had crumbled into a cave, and lefta gap some twenty feet high. Below it he could dimly see a thick mass ofivy which would enable him to cover the further forty feet to theground, but at that cave he stuck most finally. All round the lime andstone had lapsed into debris, and he could find no safe foothold. Worsestill, the block on which he relied proved loose, and only by adangerous traverse did he avert disaster.

  There he hung for a minute or two, with a cold void in his stomach. Hehad always distrusted the handiwork of man as a place to scramble on,and now he was planted in the dark on a decomposing wall, with anexcellent chance of breaking his neck, and with the most urgent need forhaste. He could see the windows of the House and, since he was shelteredfrom the gale, he could hear the faint sound of blows on woodwork. Therewas clearly the devil to pay there, and yet here he was helplesslystuck.... Setting his teeth, he started to ascend again. Better the firethan this cold breakneck emptiness.

  It took him the better part of half an hour to get back, and he passedthrough many moments of acute fear. Footholds which had seemed secureenough in the descent now proved impossible, and more than once he hadhis heart in his mouth when a rotten ivy stump or a wedge of stone gavein his hands, and dropped dully into the pit of night, leaving himcrazily spread-eagled. When at last he reached the top he rolled on hisback and felt very sick. Then, as he realised his safety, his impatiencerevived. At all costs he would force his way out though he should begrilled like a herring.

  The smoke was less thick in the attic, and with his handkerchief wetwith the rain and bound across his mouth he made a dash for the groundroom. It was as hot as a furnace, for everything inflammable in itseemed to have caught fire, and the lumber glowed in piles of hot ashes.But the floor and walls were stone, and only the blazing jambs of thedoor stood between him and the outer air. He had burned himselfconsiderably as he stumbled downwards, and the pain drove him to a wildleap through the broken arch, where he miscalculated the distance,charred his shins, and brought down a red-hot fragment of the lintel onhis head. But the thing was done, and a minute later he was rolling likea dog in the wet bracken to cool his burns and put out varioussmouldering patches on his raiment.

  Then he started running for the House, but, confused by the darkness, hebore too much to the north, and came out in the side avenue from whichhe and Dickson had reconnoitred on the first evening. He saw on theright a glow in the verandah which, as we know, was the reflection ofthe flare in the hall, and he heard a babble of voices. But he heardsomething more, for away on his left was the sound which Thomas Yowniewas soon to hear--the trampling of horses. It was the police at last,and his task was to guide them at once to the critical point ofaction.... Three minutes later a figure like a scarecrow was admonishinga bewildered sergeant, while his hands plucked feverishly at a horse'sbridle.

  * * * * *

  It is time to return to Dickson in his clump of rhododendrons.Tragically aware of his impotence he listened to the tumult of theDie-Hards, hopeful when it was loud, despairing when there came amoment's lull, while Mrs. Morran like a Greek chorus drew loudly uponher store of proverbial philosophy and her memory of Scripture texts.Twice he tried to reconnoitre towards the scene of battle, but onlyblundered into sunken plots and pits in the Dutch garden. Finally hesquatted beside Mrs. Morran, lit his pipe, and took a firm hold on hispatience.

  It was not tested for long. Presently he was aware that a change hadcome over the scene--that the Die-Hards' whistles and shouts were beingdrowned in another sound, the cries of panicky men. Dobson's bellow waswafted to him. "Auntie Phemie," he shouted, "the innkeeper's gettingrattled. Dod, I believe they're running." For at that moment twentypaces on his left the van of the retreat crashed through the creepers onthe garden's edge and leaped the wall that separated it from the cliffsof the Garplefoot.

  The old woman was on her feet.

  "God be thankit, is't the polis?"

  "Maybe. Maybe no'. But they're running."

  Another bunch of men raced past, and he heard Dobson's voice.

  "I tell you, they're broke. Listen, it's horses. Ay, it's the police,but it was the Die-Hards that did the job.... Here! They mustn't escape.Have the police had the sense to send men to the Garplefoot?"

  Mrs. Morran, a figure like an ancient prophetess, with her tartan shawllashing in the gale, clutched him by the shoulder.

  "Doun to the waterside and stop them. Ye'll no' be beat by wee laddies!On wi' ye and I'll follow! There's gaun to be a juidgment on evil-doersthis nicht."

  Dickson needed no urging. His heart was hot within him, and theweariness and stiffness had gone from his limbs. He, too, tumbled overthe wall, and made for what he thought was the route by which he hadoriginally ascended from the stream. As he ran he made ridiculousefforts to cry like a whaup in the hope of summoning the Die-Hards. One,indeed, he found--Napoleon, who had suffered a grievous pounding in thefountain and had only escaped by an eel-like agility which had aforetimeserved him in good stead with the law of his native city. Lucky forDickson was the meeting, for he had forgotten the road and wouldcertainly have broken his neck. Led by the Die-Hard he slid forty feetover screes and boiler-plates, with the gale plucking at him, found apath, lost it, and then tumbled down a raw bank of earth to the flatground beside the harbour. During all this performance, he has told me,he had no thought of fear, nor any clear notion what he meant to do. Hejust wanted to be in at the finish of the job.

  Through the narrow entrance the gale blew as through a funnel, and theusually placid waters of the harbour were a mass of angry waves. Twoboats had been launched and were plunging furiously, and on one of thema lantern dipped and fell. By its light he could see men holding afurther boat by the shore. There was no sign of the police; he reflectedthat probably they had become tangled in the Garple Dean. The third boatwas waiting for some one.

  Dickson--a new Ajax by the ships--divined who this some one must be andrealised his duty. It was the leader, the arch-enemy, the man whoseescape must at all costs be stopped. Perhaps he had the Princess withhim, thus snatching victory from apparent defeat. In any case he must betackled, and a fierce anxiety gripped his heart. "Aye finish a job," hetold himself, and peered up into the darkness of the cliffs, wonderingjust how he should set about it, for except in the last few days he hadnever engaged in combat with a fellow-creature.

  "When he comes, you grip his legs," he told Napoleon, "and get himdown. He'll have a pistol, and we're done if he's on his feet."

  There was a cry from the boats, a shout of guidance, and the light onthe water was waved madly. "They must have good eyesight," thoughtDickson, for he could see nothing. And then suddenly he was aware ofsteps in front of him, and a shape like a man rising out of the void athis left hand.

  In the darkness Napoleon missed his tackle, and the full shock came onDickson. He aimed at what he thought was the enemy's throat, found onlyan arm and was shaken off as a mastiff might shake off a toy terrier. Hemade another clutch, fell, and in falling caught his opponent's leg sothat he brought him down. The man was immensely agile, for he was up ina second and something hot and bright blew into Dickson's face. Thepistol bullet had passed through the collar of his faithful waterproof,slightly singeing his neck. But it served its purpose, for Dicksonpaused, gasping, to consider where he had been hit, and before he couldresume the chase the last boat had pushed off into deep water.

 
To be shot at from close quarters is always irritating, and the noveltyof the experience increased Dickson's natural wrath. He fumed on theshore like a deerhound when the stag has taken to the sea. So hot washis blood that he would have cheerfully assaulted the whole crew hadthey been within his reach. Napoleon, who had been incapacitated forspeed by having his stomach and bare shanks savagely trampled upon,joined him, and together they watched the bobbing black specks as theycrawled out of the estuary into the grey spindrift which marked theharbour mouth.

  But as he looked the wrath died out of Dickson's soul. For he saw thatthe boats had indeed sailed on a desperate venture, and that a pursuerwas on their track more potent than his breathless middle-age. The tidewas on the ebb, and the gale was driving the Atlantic breakersshoreward, and in the jaws of the entrance the two waters met in anunearthly turmoil. Above the noise of the wind came the roar of theflooded Garple and the fret of the harbour, and far beyond all thecrashing thunder of the conflict at the harbour mouth. Even in thedarkness, against the still faintly grey western sky, the spume could beseen rising like waterspouts. But it was the ear rather than the eyewhich made certain presage of disaster. No boat could face the challengeof that loud portal.

  As Dickson struggled against the wind and stared, his heart melted and agreat awe fell upon him. He may have wept; it is certain that he prayed."Poor souls, poor souls!" he repeated. "I doubt the last hour or two hasbeen a poor preparation for eternity."

  * * * * *

  The tide next day brought the dead ashore. Among them was a young man,different in dress and appearance from the rest--a young man with anoble head and a finely-cut classic face, which was not marred like theothers from pounding among the Garple rocks. His dark hair was washedback from his brow, and the mouth, which had been hard in life, was nowrelaxed in the strange innocence of death.

  Dickson gazed at the body and observed that there was a slightdeformation between the shoulders.

  "Poor fellow," he said. "That explains a lot.... As my father used tosay, cripples have a right to be cankered."

  CHAPTER XVI

  IN WHICH A PRINCESS LEAVES A DARK TOWER AND A PROVISION MERCHANT RETURNSTO HIS FAMILY

  The three days of storm ended in the night, and with the wild weatherthere departed from the Cruives something which had weighed on Dickson'sspirits since he first saw the place. Monday--only a week from themorning when he had conceived his plan of holiday--saw the return of thesun and the bland airs of spring. Beyond the blue of the yet restlesswaters rose dim mountains tipped with snow, like some Mediterraneanseascape. Nesting birds were busy on the Laver banks and in theHuntingtower thickets; the village smoked peacefully to the clear skies;even the House looked cheerful if dishevelled. The Garple Dean was agarden of swaying larches, linnets, and wild anemones. Assuredly,thought Dickson, there had come a mighty change in the countryside, andhe meditated a future discourse to the Literary Society of the GuthrieMemorial Kirk on "Natural Beauty in Relation to the Mind of Man."

  It remains for the chronicler to gather up the loose ends of his tale.There was no newspaper story with bold headlines of this the most recentassault on the shores of Britain. Alexis Nicolaevitch, once a Prince ofMuscovy and now Mr. Alexander Nicholson of the rising firm of Sprot andNicholson of Melbourne, had interest enough to prevent it. For it wasclear that if Saskia was to be saved from persecution, her enemies mustdisappear without trace from the world, and no story be told of the wildventure which was their undoing. The constabulary of Carrick andScotland Yard were indisposed to ask questions, under a hint from theirsuperiors, the more so as no serious damage had been done to the personsof His Majesty's lieges, and no lives had been lost except by theviolence of Nature. The Procurator-Fiscal investigated the case of thedrowned men, and reported that so many foreign sailors, names andorigins unknown, had perished in attempting to return to their ship atthe Garplefoot. The Danish brig had vanished into the mist of thenorthern seas. But one signal calamity the Procurator-Fiscal had torecord. The body of Loudon the factor was found on the Monday morningbelow the cliffs, his neck broken by a fall. In the darkness andconfusion he must have tried to escape in that direction, and he hadchosen an impracticable road or had slipped on the edge. It was returnedas "death by misadventure" and the _Carrick Herald_ and the_Auchenlochan Advertiser_ excelled themselves in eulogy. Mr. Loudon,they said, had been widely known in the south-west of Scotland as anable and trusted lawyer, an assiduous public servant, and not least as agood sportsman. It was the last trait which had led to his death, for,in his enthusiasm for wild nature, he had been studying bird life on thecliffs of the Cruives during the storm, and had made that fatal slipwhich had deprived the shire of a wise counsellor and the best of goodfellows.

  The tinklers of the Garplefoot took themselves off, and where they maynow be pursuing their devious courses is unknown to the chronicler.Dobson, too, disappeared, for he was not among the dead from the boats.He knew the neighbourhood and probably made his way to some port fromwhich he took passage to one or other of those foreign lands which hadformerly been honoured by his patronage. Nor did all the Russiansperish. Three were found skulking next morning in the woods, starvingand ignorant of any tongue but their own, and five more came ashore muchbattered but alive. Alexis took charge of the eight survivors, andarranged to pay their passage to one of the British Dominions and togive them a start in a new life. They were broken creatures, with thedazed look of lost animals, and four of them had been peasants onSaskia's estates. Alexis spoke to them in their own language. "In mygrandfather's time," he said, "you were serfs. Then there came a change,and for some time you were free men. Now you have slipped back intobeing slaves again--the worst of slaveries, for you have been the serfsof fools and scoundrels and the black passion of your own hearts. I giveyou a chance of becoming free men once more. You have the task beforeyou of working out your own salvation. Go, and God be with you."

  * * * * *

  Before we take leave of these companions of a single week I wouldpresent them to you again as they appeared on a certain sunny afternoonwhen the episode of Huntingtower was on the eve of closing. First we seeSaskia and Alexis walking on the thymy sward of the cliff-top, lookingout to the fretted blue of the sea. It is a fitting place for lovers,above all for lovers who have turned the page on a dark preface, andhave before them still the long bright volume of life. The girl has herarm linked with the man's, but as they walk she breaks often away fromhim, to dart into copses, to gather flowers, or to peer over the brinkwhere the gulls wheel and oyster-catchers pipe among the shingle. She isno more the tragic muse of the past week, but a laughing child again,full of snatches of song, her eyes bright with expectation. They talk ofthe new world which lies before them, and her voice is happy. Then herbrows contract, and, as she flings herself down on a patch of youngheather, her air is thoughtful.

  "I have been back among fairy tales," she says. "I do not quiteunderstand, Alesha. Those gallant little boys! They are youth, and youthis always full of strangeness. Mr. Heritage! He is youth, too, andpoetry, perhaps, and a soldier's tradition. I think I know him.... Butwhat about Dickson? He is the _petit bourgeois_, the _epicier_, theclass which the world ridicules. He is unbelievable. The others withgood fortune I might find elsewhere--in Russia perhaps. But notDickson."

  "No," is the answer. "You will not find him in Russia. He is what wecall the middle-class, which we who were foolish used to laugh at. Buthe is the stuff which above all others makes a great people. He willendure when aristocracies crack and proletariats crumble. In our ownland we have never known him, but till we create him our land will notbe a nation."

  * * * * *

  Half a mile away on the edge of the Laver glen Dickson and Heritage aretogether, Dickson placidly smoking on a tree-stump and Heritage walkingexcitedly about and cutting with his stick at the bracken. Sundrybandages and strips of sticking plaster still adorn the Poet, but hisclothes have be
en tidied up by Mrs. Morran, and he has recoveredsomething of his old precision of garb. The eyes of both are fixed onthe two figures on the cliff-top. Dickson feels acutely uneasy. It isthe first time that he has been alone with Heritage since the arrival ofAlexis shivered the Poet's dream. He looks to see a tragic grief; to hisamazement he beholds something very like exultation.

  "The trouble about you, Dogson," says Heritage, "is that you're a bit ofan anarchist. All you false romantics are. You don't see theextraordinary beauty of the conventions which time has consecrated. Youalways want novelty, you know, and the novel is usually the ugly andrarely the true. I am for romance, but upon the old, noble classiclines."

  Dickson is scarcely listening. His eyes are on the distant lovers and helongs to say something which will gently and graciously express hissympathy with his friend.

  "I'm afraid," he begins hesitatingly, "I'm afraid you've had a bad blow,Mr. Heritage. You're taking it awful well, and I honour you for it."

  The Poet flings back his head. "I am reconciled," he says. "After all''tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.'It has been a great experience and has shown me my own heart. I loveher, I shall always love her, but I realise that she was never meant forme. Thank God I've been able to serve her--that is all a moth can ask ofa star. I'm a better man for it, Dogson. She will be a glorious memory,and Lord! what poetry I shall write! I give her up joyfully, for she hasfound her true mate. 'Let us not to the marriage of true minds admitimpediments!' The thing's too perfect to grieve about.... Look! There isromance incarnate."

  He points to the figures now silhouetted against the further sea. "Howdoes it go, Dogson?" he cries. "'And on her lover's arm she leant'--whatnext? You know the thing."

  Dickson assists and Heritage declaims:

  "And on her lover's arm she leant, And round her waist she felt it fold, And far across the hills they went In that new world which is the old: Across the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, And deep into the dying day The happy princess followed him."

  He repeats the last two lines twice and draws a deep breath. "Howright!" he cries. "How absolutely right! Lord! It's astonishing how thatold bird Tennyson got the goods!"

  * * * * *

  After that Dickson leaves him and wanders among the thickets on the edgeof the Huntingtower policies above the Laver glen. He feels childishlyhappy, wonderfully young, and at the same time supernaturally wise.Sometimes he thinks the past week has been a dream, till he touches thesticking-plaster on his brow, and finds that his left thigh is still amass of bruises and that his right leg is wofully stiff. With that thepast becomes very real again, and he sees the Garple Dean in that stormyafternoon, he wrestles again at midnight in the dark House, he standswith quaking heart by the boats to cut off the retreat. He sees it all,but without terror in the recollection, rather with gusto and a modestpride. "I've surely had a remarkable time," he tells himself, and thenRomance, the goddess whom he has worshipped so long, marries thatfurious week with the idyllic. He is supremely content, for he knowsthat in his humble way he has not been found wanting. Once more for himthe Chavender or Chub, and long dreams among summer hills. His mindflies to the days ahead of him, when he will go wandering with his packin many green places. Happy days they will be, the prospect with whichhe has always charmed his mind. Yes, but they will be different fromwhat he had fancied, for he is another man than the complacent littlefellow who set out a week ago on his travels. He has now assurance ofhimself, assurance of his faith. Romance, he sees, is one andindivisible....

  Below him by the edge of the stream he sees the encampment of theGorbals Die-Hards. He calls and waves a hand, and his signal isanswered. It seems to be washing day, for some scanty and tatteredraiment is drying on the sward. The band is evidently in session, for itis sitting in a circle, deep in talk.

  As he looks at the ancient tents, the humble equipment, the ring ofsmall shockheads, a great tenderness comes over him. The Die-Hards areso tiny, so poor, so pitifully handicapped, and yet so bold in theirmeagreness. Not one of them has had anything that might be called achance. Their few years have been spent in kennels and closes, alwayshungry and hunted, with none to care for them; their childish ears havebeen habituated to every coarseness, their small minds filled with thedesperate shifts of living.... And yet, what a heavenly spark was inthem! He had always thought nobly of the soul; now he wants to get onhis knees before the queer greatness of humanity.

  A figure disengages itself from the group, and Dougal makes his way upthe hill towards him. The Chieftain is not more reputable in garb thanwhen we first saw him, nor is he more cheerful of countenance. He hasone arm in a sling made out of his neckerchief, and his scraggy littlethroat rises bare from his voluminous shirt. All that can be said forhim is that he is appreciably cleaner. He comes to a standstill andsalutes with a special formality.

  "Dougal," says Dickson, "I've been thinking. You're the grandest lot ofwee laddies I ever heard tell of, and, forbye, you've saved my life.Now, I'm getting on in years, though you'll admit that I'm not that deadold, and I'm not a poor man, and I haven't chick or child to look after.None of you has ever had a proper chance or been right fed or educatedor taken care of. I've just the one thing to say to you. From now onyou're _my_ bairns, every one of you. You're fine laddies, and I'm goingto see that you turn into fine men. There's the stuff in you to makeGenerals and Provosts--ay, and Prime Ministers, and Dod! it'll not be myblame if it doesn't get out."

  Dougal listens gravely and again salutes.

  "I've brought ye a message," he says. "We've just had a meetin' and I'veto report that ye've been unanimously eleckit Chief Die-Hard. We're a'hopin' ye'll accept."

  "I accept," Dickson replies. "Proudly and gratefully I accept."

  * * * * *

  The last scene is some days later, in a certain southern suburb ofGlasgow. Ulysses has come back to Ithaca, and is sitting by hisfireside, waiting on the return of Penelope from the Neuk Hydropathic.There is a chill in the air, so a fire is burning in the grate, but theladen tea-table is bright with the first blooms of lilac. Dickson, in anew suit with a flower in his buttonhole, looks none the worse for histravels, save that there is still sticking-plaster on his deeplysunburnt brow. He waits impatiently with his eye on the black marbletimepiece, and he fingers something in his pocket.

  Presently the sound of wheels is heard, and the peahen voice of Tibbyannounces the arrival of Penelope. Dickson rushes to the door and at thethreshold welcomes his wife with a resounding kiss. He leads her intothe parlour and settles her in her own chair.

  "My! but it's nice to be home again!" she says. "And everything thatcomfortable. I've had a fine time, but there's no place like your ownfireside. You're looking awful well, Dickson. But losh! What have youbeen doing to your head?"

  "Just a small tumble. It's very near mended already. Ay, I've had agrand walking tour, but the weather was a wee bit thrawn. It's nice tosee you back again, Mamma. Now that I'm an idle man you and me must takea lot of jaunts together."

  She beams on him as she stays herself with Tibby's scones, and when themeal is ended, Dickson draws from his pocket a slim case. The jewelshave been restored to Saskia, but this is one of her own which she hasbestowed upon Dickson as a parting memento. He opens the case andreveals a necklet of emeralds, any one of which is worth half thestreet.

  "This is a present for you," he says bashfully.

  Mrs. McCunn's eyes open wide. "You're far too kind," she gasps. "Itmust have cost an awful lot of money."

  "It didn't cost me that much," is the truthful answer.

  She fingers the trinket and then clasps it round her neck, where thegreen depths of the stones glow against the black satin of her bodice.Her eyes are moist as she looks at him. "You've been a kind man to me,"she says, and she kisses him as she has not done since Janet's death.

  She stands up and admires the neck
let in the mirror. Romance once more,thinks Dickson. That which has graced the slim throats of princesses infar-away Courts now adorns an elderly matron in a semi-detached villa;the jewels of the wild Nausicaa have fallen to the housewife Penelope.

  Mrs. McCunn preens herself before the glass. "I call it very genteel,"she says. "Real stylish. It might be worn by a queen."

  "I wouldn't say but it has," says Dickson.

  THE END