* * * * * * *

 Books by

 Mary Johnston

 Foes Sir Mortimer

 Harper & Brothers, New York [Established 1817]

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FOES

A Novel

by

MARY JOHNSTON

Author of"To Have and to Hold" "Audrey" "Lewis Rand""Sir Mortimer" "The Long Roll"

Harper & Brothers PublishersNew York and London

1918

[Illustration]

CHAPTER I

Said Mother Binning: "Whiles I spin and whiles I dream. A bonny daylike this I look. "

English Strickland, tutor at Glenfernie House, looked, too, at thefeathery glen, vivid in June sunshine. The ash-tree before MotherBinning's cot overhung a pool of the little river. Below, the waterbrawled and leaped from ledge to ledge, but here at the head of theglen it ran smooth and still. A rose-bush grew by the door and a henand her chicks crossed in the sun. English Strickland, who had beenfishing, sat on the door-stone and talked to Mother Binning, sittingwithin with her wheel beside her. 

"What is it, Mother, to have the second sight?"

"It's to see behind the here and now. Why're ye asking?"

"I wish I could buy it or slave for it!" said Strickland. "Over andover again I really need to see behind the here and now!"

"Aye. It's needed mair really than folk think. It's no' to be had bybuying nor slaving. How are the laird and the leddy?"

"Why, well. Tell me, " said Strickland, "some of the things you'veseen with second sight. "

"It taks inner ears for inner things. "

"How do you know I haven't them?"

"Maybe 'tis so. Ye're liked well enough. "

Mother Binning looked at the dappling water and the June trees and thebright blue sky. It was a day to loosen tongue. 

"I'll tell you ane thing I saw. It's mair than twenty years sinceJames Stewart, that was son of him who fled, wad get Scotland andEngland again intil his hand. So the laddie came frae overseas, andmade stir and trouble enough, I tell ye!. . . Now I'll show you what Isaw, I that was a young woman then, and washing my wean's claes in thewater there. The month was September, and the year seventeen fifteen. Mind you, nane hereabouts knew yet of thae goings-on!. . . I sat back onmy heels, with Jock's sark in my hand, and a lav'rock was singing, andwhiles I listened the pool grew still. And first it was blue glassunder blue sky, and I sat caught. And then it was curled cloud ormilk, and then it was nae color at all. And then I _saw_, and 'twas asthough what I saw was around me. There was a town nane likeGlenfernie, and a country of mountains, and a water no' like this one. There pressed a thrang of folk, and they were Hieland men and Lowlandmen, but mair Hieland than Lowland, and there were chiefs andchieftains and Lowland lords, and there were pipers. I heard naught, but it was as though bright shadows were around me. There was a heightlike a Good People's mount, and a braw fine-clad lord speaking andreading frae a paper, and by him a surpliced man to gie a prayer, andthere was a banner pole, and it went up high, and it had a gowd ballatop. The braw lord stopped speaking, and all the Hielandmen andLowlandmen drew and held up and brandished their claymores and swords. The flash ran around like the levin. I kenned that they shouted, allthae gay shadows! I saw the pipers' cheeks fill with wind, and thebags of the pipes fill. Then ane drew on a fine silken rope, and upthe pole there went a braw silken banner, and it sailed out in thewind. And there was mair shouting and brandishing. But what think yemight next befall? That gowden ball, gowden like the sun before itdrops, that topped the pole, it fell! I marked it fall, and the headsdodge, and it rolled upon the ground. . . . And then all went out like acandle that you blaw upon. I was kneeling by the water, and Jock'ssark in my hand, and the lav'rock singing, and that was all. "

"I have heard tell of that, " said Strickland. "It was near Braemar. "

"And that's mony a lang league frae here! Sax days, and we had news ofthe rising, with the gathering at Braemar. And said he wha told us, 'The gilt ball fell frae the standard pole, and there's nane to thinkthat a good omen!' But I _saw_ it, " said Mother Binning. She turnedher wheel, a woman not yet old and with a large, tranquil comeliness. "What I see makes fine company!"

Strickland plucked a rose and smelled it. "This country is fuller ofsuch things than is England that I come from. "

"Aye. It's a grand country. " She continued to spin. The tutor lookedat the sun. It was time to be going if he wished another hour with thestream. He took up his rod and book and rose from the door-step. Mother Binning glanced aside from her wheel. 

"How gaes things with the lad at the House?"

"Alexander or James?"

"The one ye call Alexander. "

"That is his name. "

"I think that he's had ithers. That's a lad of mony lives!"

Strickland, halting by the rose-bush, looked at Mother Binning. "Isuppose we call it 'wisdom' when two feel alike. Now that's just whatI feel about Alexander Jardine! It's just feeling withoutrationality. "

"Eh?"

"There isn't any reason in it. "

"I dinna know about 'reason. ' There's _being_ in it. "

The tutor made as if to speak further, then, with a shake of his head, thought better of it. Thirty-five years old, he had been a tutor sincehe was twenty, dwelling, in all, in four or five more or lessconsiderable houses and families. Experience, adding itself to innategood sense, had made him slow to discuss idiosyncrasies of patrons orpupils. Strong perplexity or strong feeling might sometimes drive him, but ordinarily he kept a rein on speech. Now he looked around him. 

"What high summer, lovely weather!"

"Oh aye! It's bonny. Will ye be gaeing, since ye have na mair to say?"

English Strickland laughed and said good-by to Mother Binning andwent. The ash-tree, the hazels that fringed the water, a point ofmossy rock, hid the cot. The drone of the wheel no longer reached hisears. It was as though all that had sunk into the earth. Here was onlythe deep, the green, and lonely glen. He found a pool that invited, cast, and awaited the speckled victim. In the morning he had had fairluck, but now nothing. . . . The water showed no more diamonds, the lowerslopes of the converging hills grew a deep and slumbrous green. Abovewas the gold, shoulder and crest powdered with it, unearthly, uplifted. Strickland ceased his fishing. The light moved slowlyupward; the trees, the crag-heads, melted into heaven; while the lowerglen lay in lengths of shadow, in jade and amethyst. A whisperingbreeze sprang up, cool as the water sliding by. Strickland put up hisfisherman's gear and moved homeward, down the stream. 

He had a very considerable way to go. The glen path, narrow and rough, went up and down, still following the water. Hazel and birch, oak andpine, overhung and darkened it. Bosses of rock thrust themselvesforward, patched with lichen and moss, seamed and fringed with fernand heath. Roots of trees, huge and twisted, spread and clutched likeguardian serpents. In places where rock had fallen the earth seemed togape. In the shadow it looked a gnome world--a gnome or a dragonworld. Then upon ledge or bank showed bells or disks or petaled sunsof June flowers, rose and golden, white and azure, while overhead washeard the evening song of birds alike calm and merry, and through acleft in the hills poured the ruddy, comfortable sun. 

The walls declined in height, sloped farther back. The path grewbroader; the water no longer fell roaring, but ran sedately betweenpebbled beaches. The scene grew wider, the mouth of the glen wasreached. He came out into a sunset world of dale and moor andmountain-heads afar. There were fields of grain, and blue wavingfeathers from chimneys of cottage and farm-house. In the distanceshowed a village, one street climbing a hill, and atop a church with aspire piercing the clear east. The stream widened, flowing thin over apebbly bed. The sun was not yet down. It painted a glory in the westand set lanes and streets of gold over the hills and made the littleriver like Pactolus. Strickland approached a farm-house, prosperousand venerable, mended and neat. Thatched, long, white, and low, behindit barns and outbuildings, it stood tree-guarded, amid fields of youngcorn. Beyond it swelled a long moorside; in front slipped the stillstream. 

There were stepping-stones across the stream. Two young girls, comingtoward the house, had set foot upon these. Strickland, halting in theshadow of hazels and young aspens, watched them as they crossed. Theirstep was free and light; they came with a kind of hardy grace, elastic, poised, and very young, homeward from some visit on thisholiday. The tutor knew them to be Elspeth and Gilian Barrow, granddaughters of Jarvis Barrow of White Farm. The elder might havebeen fifteen, the younger thirteen years. They wore their holidaydresses. Elspeth had a green silken snood, and Gilian a blue. Elspethsang as she stepped from stone to stone:

 "But I will get a bonny boat, And I will sail the sea, For I maun gang to Love Gregor, Since he canna come hame to me--"

They did not see Strickland where he stood by the hazels. He let themgo by, watching them with a quiet pleasure. They took theupward-running lane. Hawthorns in bloom hid them; they were gone likeyoung deer. Strickland, crossing the stream, went his own way. 

The country became more open, with, at this hour, a dreamlike depthand hush. Down went the sun, but a glow held and wrapped the earth inhues of faery. When he had walked a mile and more he saw before himGlenfernie House. In the modern and used moiety seventy years old, inthe ancient keep and ruin of a tower three hundred, it crowned--theancient and the latter-day--a craggy hill set with dark woods, andbehind it came up like a wonder lantern, like a bubble of pearl, thefull moon. 

CHAPTER II

The tutor, in his own room, put down his fisherman's rod and bag. Thechamber was a small one, set high up, with two deep windows tying theinterior to the yet rosy west and the clearer, paler south. Stricklandstood a moment, then went out at door and down three steps and along apassageway to two doors, one closed, the other open. He tapped uponthe latter. 

"James!"

A boy of fourteen, tall and fair, with a flushed, merry face, crossedthe room and opened the door more widely. "Oh, aye, Mr. Strickland, I'm in!"

"Is Alexander?"

"Not yet. I haven't seen him. I was at the village with DandieSaunderson. "

"Do you know what he did with himself?"

"Not precisely. "

"I see. Well, it's nearly supper-time. "

Back in his own quarters, the tutor made such changes as were needed, and finally stood forth in a comely suit of brown, with silver-buckledshoes, stock and cravat of fine cambric, and a tie-wig. Midway in histoilet he stopped to light two candles. These showed, in the smallestof mirrors, set of wig and cravat, and between the two a thoughtful, cheerful, rather handsome countenance. 

He had left the door ajar so that he might hear, if he presentlyreturned, his eldest pupil. But he heard only James go clattering downthe passage and the stair. Strickland, blowing out his candles, lefthis room to the prolonged June twilight and the climbing moon. 

The stairway down, from landing to landing, lay in shadow, but as heapproached the hall he caught the firelight. The laird had a Londonguest who might find a chill in June nights so near the north. Theblazing wood showed forth the chief Glenfernie gathering-place, wideand deep, with a great chimneypiece and walls of black oak, and hungthereon some old pieces of armor and old weapons. There was a tablespread for supper, and a servant went about with a longcandle-lighter, lighting candles. A collie and a hound lay upon thehearth. Between them stood Mrs. Jardine, a tall, fair woman of fortyand more, with gray eyes, strong nose, and humorous mouth. 

"Light them all, Davie! It'll be dark then by London houses. "

Davie showed an old servant's familiarity. "He wasna sae grand when heleft auld Scotland thirty years since! I'm thinking he might rememberwhen he had nae candles ava in his auld hoose. "

"Well, he'll have candles enough in his new hall. "

Davie lit the last candle. "They say that he is sinfu' rich!"

"Rich enough to buy Black Hill, " said Mrs. Jardine, and turned to thefire. The tutor joined her there. He had for her liking andadmiration, and she for him almost a motherly affection. Now shesmiled as he came up. 

"Did you have good fishing?"

"Only fair. "

"Mr. Jardine and Mr. Touris have just returned. They rode to BlackHill. Have you seen Alexander?"

"No. I asked Jamie--"

"So did I. But he could not tell. "

"He may have gone over the moor and been belated. Bran is with him. "

"Yes. . . . He's a solitary one, with a thousand in himself!"

"You're the second woman, " remarked Strickland, "who's said thatto-day, " and told her of Mother Binning. 

Mrs. Jardine pushed back a fallen ember with the toe of her shoe. "Idon't know whether she sees or only thinks she sees. Some do the taneand some do the tither. Here's the laird. "

Two men entered together--a large man and a small man. The first, great of height and girth, was plainly dressed; the last, seemingslighter by contrast than he actually was, wore fine cloth, silkenhose, gold buckles to his shoes, and a full wig. The first had amassive, somewhat saturnine countenance, the last a shrewd, narrowone. The first had a long stride and a wide reach from thumb to littlefinger, the last a short step and a cupped hand. William Jardine, laird of Glenfernie, led the way to the fire. 

"The ford was swollen. Mr. Touris got a little wet and chilled. "

"Ah, the fire is good!" said Mr. Touris. "They do not burn wood likethis in London!"

"You will burn it at Black Hill. I hope that you like it better andbetter?"

"It has possibilities, ma'am. Undoubtedly, " said Mr. Touris, the Scotsadventurer for fortune, set up as merchant-trader in London, makinghis fortune by "interloping" voyages to India, but now shareholder andpart and lot of the East India Company--"undoubtedly the place haspossibilities. " He warmed his hands. "Well, it would taste good tocome back to Scotland--!" His words might have been finished out, "andlaird it, rich and influential, where once I went forth, cadet of agood family, but poorer than a church mouse!"

Mrs. Jardine made a murmur of hope that he _would_ come back toScotland. But the laird looked with a kind of large gloom at thereflection of fire and candle in battered breastplate and morion andcrossed pikes. 

Supper was brought in by two maids, Eppie and Phemie, and with themcame old Lauchlinson, the butler. Mrs. Jardine placed herself behindthe silver urn, and Mr. Touris was given the seat nearest the fire. The boy James appeared, and with him the daughter of the house, Alice, a girl of twelve, bonny and merry. 

"Where is Alexander?" asked the laird. 

Strickland answered. "He is not in yet, sir. I fancy that he walked tothe far moor. Bran is with him. "

"He's a wanderer!" said the laird. "But he ought to keep hours. "

"That's a fine youth!" quoth Mr. Touris, drinking tea. "I marked himyesterday, casting the bar. Very strong--a powerful frame like yours, Glenfernie! When is he going to college?"

"This coming year. I have kept him by me late, " said the laird, broodingly. "I like my bairns at home. "

"Aye, but the young will not stay as they used to! They will bevoyaging, " said the guest. "They build outlandish craft and forthfare, no matter what you cry to them!" His voice had a mordant note. "Iknow. I've got one myself--a nephew, not a son. But I am his guardianand he's in my house, and it is the same. If I buy Black Hill, Glenfernie, I hope that your son and my nephew may be friends. They'reabout of an age. "

The listening Jamie spoke from beyond Strickland. "What's yournephew's name, sir?"

"Ian. Ian Rullock. His father's mother was a Highland lady, nearkinswoman to Gordon of Huntley. " Mr. Touris was again speaking to hishost. "As a laddie, before his father's death (his mother, my sister, died at his birth), he was much with those troublous northern kin. Hisfather took him, too, in England, here and there among the Tory crowd. But I've had him since he was twelve and am carrying him on in thestraight Whig path. "

"And in the true Presbyterian religion?"

"Why, as to that, " said Mr. Touris, "his father was of the ChurchEpiscopal in Scotland. I trust that we are all Christians, Glenfernie!"

The laird made a dissenting sound. "I kenned, " he said, and his voiceheld a grating gibe, "that you had left the Kirk. "

Mr. Archibald Touris sipped his tea. "I did not leave it so far, Glenfernie, that I cannot return! In England, for business reasons, Ifound it wiser to live as lived the most that I served. Naaman waspermitted to bow himself in the house of Rimmon. "

"You are not Naaman, " answered the laird. "Moreover, I hold thatNaaman sinned!"

Mrs. Jardine would make a diversion. "Mr. Jardine, will you have sugarto your tea? Mr. Strickland says the great pine is blown down, thisside the glen. The _Mercury_ brings us news of the great world, Mr. Touris, but I dare say you can give us more?"

"The chief news, ma'am, is that we want war with Spain and Walpolewon't give it to us. But we'll have it--British trade must have it orlower her colors to the Dons! France, too--"

Supper went on, with abundant and good food and drink. The laird satsilent. Strickland gave Mrs. Jardine yeoman aid. Jamie and Alice nowlistened to the elders, now in an undertone discoursed their ownaffairs. Mr. Touris talked, large trader talk, sprinkled with terms ofcommerce and Indian policy. Supper over, all rose. The table wascleared, wine and glasses brought and set upon it, between thecandles. The young folk vanished. Bright as was the night, the aircarried an edge. Mr. Touris, standing by the fire, warmed himself andtook snuff. Strickland, who had left the hall, returned and placed herembroidery frame for Mrs. Jardine. 

"Is Alexander in yet?"

"Not yet. "

She began to work in cross-stitch upon a wreath of tulips and roses. The tutor took his book and withdrew to the table and the candlesthereon. The laird came and dropped his great form upon the settle. Heheld silence a few moments, then began to speak. 

"I am fifty years old. I was a bairn just talking and toddling aboutthe year the Stewart fled and King William came to England. My fatherhad Campbell blood in him and was a friend of Argyle's. The estate ofGlenfernie was not to him then, but his uncle held it and had an heirof his body. My father was poor save in stanchness to the liberties ofKirk and kingdom. My mother was a minister's daughter, and she and herfather and mother were among the persecuted for the sake of the trueReformed and Covenanted Church of Scotland. My mother had a burn inher cheek. It was put there, when she was a young lass, by order ofGrierson of Lagg. She was set among those to be sold into theplantations in America. A kinsman who had power lifted her from thatbog, but much she suffered before she was freed. . . . When I was littleand sat upon her knee I would put my forefinger in that mark. 'It's aseal, laddie, ' she would say. 'Sealed to Christ and His true Kirk!'But when I was bigger I only wanted to meet Grierson of Lagg, andgrieved that he was dead and gone and that Satan, not I, had thehandling of him. My grandfather and mother. . . . My grandfather wasamong the outed ministers in Galloway. Thrust from his church and hisparish, he preached upon the moors--yea, to juniper and whin-bush andthe whaups that flew and nested! Then the persecuted men, women andbairns, gathered there, and he preached to them. Aye, and he was atBothwell Bridge. Claverhouse's men took him, and he lay for somemonths in the Edinburgh tolbooth, and then by Council and justiciarywas condemned to be hanged. And so he was hanged at the cross ofEdinburgh. And what he said before he died was '_With what measure yemete, it shall be measured to you_' . . . My grandmother, for hearingpreaching in the fields and for sheltering the distressed for theCovenant's sake, was sent with other godly women to the Bass Rock. There in cold and heat, in hunger and sickness, she bided for twoyears. When at last they let her body forth her mind was found to bebroken. . . . My father and mother married and lived, until Glenferniecame to him, at Windygarth. I was born at Windygarth. My grandmotherlived with us. I was twelve years old before she went from earth. Itwas all her pleasure to be forth from the house--any house, for shecalled them all prisons. So I was sent to ramble with her. Out ofdoors, with the harmless things of earth, she was wise enough--andgood company. The old of this countryside remember us, going here andthere. . . . I used to think, 'If I had been living then, I would nothave let those things happen!' And I dreamed of taking coin, and ofdropping the same coin into the hands that gave. . . . And so, the otherhaving served your turn, Touris, you will change back to the trueKirk?"

Mr. Touris handled his snuff-box, considered the chasing upon thegold lid. "Those were sore happenings, Glenfernie, but they're past! Imake no wonder that, being you, you feel as you do. But the world's ina mood, if I may say it, not to take so hardly religious differences. I trust that I am as religious as another--but my family was alwaysmoderate there. In matters political the world's as hot as ever--butthere, too, it is my instinct to ca' canny. But if you talk oftrade"--he tapped his snuff-box--"I will match you, Glenfernie! Ifthere's wrong, pay it back! Hold to your principles! But do itcannily. Smile when there's smart, and get your own again by beingsupple. In the end you'll demand--and get--a higher interest. Prosperat your enemy's cost, and take repayment for your hurt sugared andspiced!"

"I'll not do it so!" said Glenfernie. "But I would take my stand atthe crag's edge and cry to Grierson of Lagg, 'You or I go down!'"

Mr. Touris brushed the snuff from his ruffles. "It's a great century!We're growing enlightened. "

With a movement of her fingers Mrs. Jardine helped to roll from herlap a ball of rosy wool. "Mr. Jardine, will you give me that? Had youheard that Abercrombie's cows were lifted?"

"Aye, I heard. What is it, Holdfast?"

Both dogs had raised their heads. 

"Bran is outside, " said Strickland. 

As he spoke the door opened and there came in a youth of seventeen, tall and well-built, with clothing that testified to an encounteralike with brier and bog. The hound Bran followed him. He blinked atthe lights and the fire, then with a gesture of deprecation crossedthe hall to the stairway. His mother spoke after him. 

"Davie will set you something to eat. "

He answered, "I do not want anything, " then, five steps up, paused andturned his head. "I stopped at White Farm, and they gave me supper. "He was gone, running up the stairs, and Bran with him. 

The laird of Glenfernie shaded his eyes and looked at the fire. Mrs. Jardine, working upon the gold streak in a tulip, held her needlesuspended and sat for a moment with unseeing gaze, then resumed thebright wreath. The tutor began to think again of Mother Binning, and, following this, of the stepping-stones at White Farm, and Elspeth andGilian Barrow balanced above the stream of gold. Mr. Touris put up hissnuff-box. 

"That's a fine youth! I should say that he took after you, Glenfernie. But it's hard to tell whom the young take after!"

CHAPTER III

The school-room at Glenfernie gave upon the hill's steepest, mostcraglike face. A door opened on a hand's-breadth of level turf acrossfrom which rose the broken and ruined wall that once had surroundedthe keep. Ivy overgrew this; below a wide and ragged breach a pine hadset its roots in the hillside. Its top rose bushy above the stones. Beyond the opening, one saw from the school-room, as through a window, field and stream and moor, hill and dale. The school-room had beensome old storehouse or office. It was stone walled and floored, withthree small windows and a fireplace. Now it contained a long tablewith a bench and three or four chairs, a desk and shelves for books. One door opened upon the little green and the wall; a second gaveaccess to a courtyard and the rear of the new house. 

Here on a sunny, still August forenoon Strickland and the threeJardines went through the educational routine. The ages of the pupilswere not sufficiently near together to allow of a massed instruction. The three made three classes. Jamie and Alice worked in theschool-room, under Strickland's eye. But Alexander had or took a widerfreedom. It was his wont to prepare his task much where he pleased, coming to the room for recitation or for colloquy upon this or thataspect of knowledge and the attainment thereof. The irregularitymattered the less as the eldest Jardine combined with a passion forpersonal liberty and out of doors a passion for knowledge. Moreover, he liked and trusted Strickland. He would go far, but not far enoughto strain the tutor's patience. His father and mother and all aboutGlenfernie knew his way and in a measure acquiesced. He had managed toobtain for himself range. Young as he was, his indrawing, outpushingforce was considerable, and was on the way, Strickland thought, toincrease in power. The tutor had for this pupil a mixed feeling. Theone constant in it was interest. He was to him like a deep lake, clearenough to see that there was something at the bottom that castconflicting lights and hints of shape. It might be a lump of gold, ora coil of roots which would send up a water-lily, or it might besomething different. He had a feeling that the depths themselveshardly knew. Or there might be two things of two natures down there inthe lake. . . . 

Strickland set Alice to translating a French fable, and Jamie toreconsidering a neglected page of ancient history. Looking through thewest window, he saw that Alexander had taken his geometry out throughthe great rent in the wall. Book and student perched beneath thepine-tree, in a crook made by rock and brown root, overhanging theautumn world. Strickland at his own desk dipped quill into ink-welland continued a letter to a friend in England. The minutes went by. From the courtyard came a subdued, cheerful household clack andmurmur, voices of men and maids, with once Mrs. Jardine's genial, vigorous tones, and once the laird's deep bell note, calling to hisdogs. On the western side fell only the sough of the breeze in thepine. 

Jamie ceased the clocklike motion of his body to and fro over thedifficult lesson. "I never understood just what were the Erinnys, sir?"

"The Erinnys?" Strickland laid down the pen and turned in his chair. "I'll have to think a moment, to get it straight for you, Jamie. . . . The Erinnys are the Fates as avengers. They are the vengeance-demandingpart of ourselves objectified, supernaturalized, and named. Of old, where injury was done, the Erinnys were at hand to pull the roof downupon the head of the injurer. Their office was to provide unerringlysword for sword, bitter cup for bitter cup. They never forgot, theyalways avenged, though sometimes they took years to do it. Theyesteemed themselves, and were esteemed, essential to the moral order. They are the dark and bitter extreme of justice, given power by theimagination. . . . Do you think that you know the chapter now?"

Jamie achieved his recitation, and then was set to mathematics. Thetutor's quill drove on across the page. He looked up. 

"Mr. Touris has come to Black Hill?"

Jamie and Alice worshiped interruptions. 

"He has twenty carriers bringing fine things all the time--"

"Mother is going to take me when she goes to see Mrs. Alison, hissister--"

"He is going to spend money and make friends--"

"Mother says Mrs. Alison was most bonny when she was young, butEngland may have spoiled her--"

"The minister told the laird that Mr. Touris put fifty pounds in theplate--"

Strickland held up his hand, and the scholars, sighing, returned towork. _Buzz, buzz!_ went the bees outside the window. The sun climbedhigh. Alexander shut his geometry and came through the break in thewall and across the span of green to the school-room. 

"That's done, Mr. Strickland. "

Strickland looked at the paper that his eldest pupil put before him. "Yes, that is correct. Do you want, this morning, to take up thereading?"

"I had as well, I suppose. "

"If you go to Edinburgh--if you do as your father wishes and applyyourself to the law--you will need to read well and to speak well. Youdo not do badly, but not well enough. So, let's begin!" He put out hishand and drew from the bookshelf a volume bearing the title, _TheTreasury of Orators_. "Try what you please. "

Alexander took the book and moved to the unoccupied window. Here hehalf sat, half stood, the morning light flowing in upon him. He openedthe volume and read, with a questioning inflection, the title beneathhis eyes, "'The Cranes of Ibycus'?"

"Yes, " assented Strickland. "That is a short, graphic thing. "

Alexander read:

 "Ibycus, who sang of love, material and divine, in Rhegium and in Samos, would wander forth in the world and make his lyre sound now by the sea and now in the mountain. Wheresoever he went he was clad in the favor of all who loved song. He became a wandering minstrel-poet. The shepherd loved him, and the fisher; the trader and the mechanic sighed when he sang; the soldier and the king felt him at their hearts. The old returned in their thoughts to youth, young men and maidens trembled in heavenly sound and light. You would think that all the world loved Ibycus. 

 "Corinth, the jeweled city, planned her chariot-races and her festival of song. The strong, the star-eyed young men, traveled to Corinth from mainland and from island, and those inner athletes and starry ones, the poets, traveled. Great feasting was to be in Corinth, and contests of strength and flights of song, and in the theater, representation of gods and men. Ibycus, the wandering poet, would go to Corinth, there perhaps to receive a crown. 

 "Ibycus, loved of all who love song, traveled alone, but not alone. Yet shepherds, or women with their pitchers at the spring, saw but a poet with a staff and a lyre. Now he was found upon the highroad, and now the country paths drew him, and the solemn woods where men most easily find God. And so he approached Corinth. 

 "The day was calm and bright, with a lofty, blue, and stainless sky. The heart of Ibycus grew warm, and there seemed a brighter light within the light cast by the sun. Flower and plant and tree and all living things seemed to him to be glistening and singing, and to have for him, as he for them, a loving friendship. And, looking up to the sky, he saw, drawn out stringwise, a flight of cranes, addressed to Egypt. And between his heart and them ran, like a rippling path that the sun sends across the sea, a stream of good-will and understanding. They seemed a part of himself, winged in the blue heaven, and aware of the part of him that trod earth, that was entering the grave and shadowy wood that neighbored Corinth. 

 "The cranes vanished from overhead, the sky arched without stain. Ibycus, the sacred poet, with his staff and his lyre, went on into the wood. Now the light faded and there was green gloom, like the depths of Father Sea. 

 "Now robbers lay masked in the wood--"

Jamie and Alice sat very still, listening. Strickland kept his eyeson the reading youth. 

 "Now robbers lay masked in the wood--violent men and treacherous, watching for the unwary, to take from them goods and, if they resisted, life. In a dark place they lay in wait, and from thence they sprang upon Ibycus. 'What hast thou? Part it from thyself and leave it with us!'

 "Ibycus, who could sing of the wars of the Greeks and the Trojans no less well than of the joys of young love, made stand, held close to him his lyre, but raised on high his staff of oak. Then from behind one struck him with a keen knife, and he sank, and lay in his blood. The place was the edge of a glade, where the trees thinned away and the sky might be seen overhead. And now, across the blue heaven, came a second line of the south-ward-going cranes. They flew low, they flapped their wings, and the wood heard their crying. Then Ibycus the poet raised his arms to his brothers the birds. 'Ye cranes, flying between earth and heaven, avenge shed blood, as is right!'

 "Hoarse screamed the cranes flying overhead. Ibycus the poet closed his eyes, pressed his lips to Mother Earth, and died. The cranes screamed again, circling the wood, then in a long line sailed southward through the blue air until they might neither be heard nor seen. The robbers stared after them. They laughed, but without mirth. Then, stooping to the body of Ibycus, they would have rifled it when, hearing a sudden sound of men's voices entering the wood, they took violent fright and fled. "

Strickland looked still at the reader. Alexander had straightenedhimself. He was speaking rather than reading. His voice hadintensities and shadows. His brows had drawn together, his eyesglowed, and he stood with nostrils somewhat distended. The emotionthat he plainly showed seemed to gather about the injury done and theappeal of Ibycus. The earlier Ibycus had not seemed greatly tointerest him. Strickland was used to stormy youth, to its passionalmoments, sudden glows, burnings, sympathies, defiances, lurid shows ofeffects with the causes largely unapparent. It was his trade to knowyouth, and he had a psychologist's interest. He said now to himself, "There is something in his character that connects itself with, thatresponds to, the idea of vengeance. " There came into his memory thelaird's talk, the evening of Mr. Touris's visit, in June. Glenfernie, who would have wrestled with Grierson of Lagg at the edge of the pit;Glenfernie's mother and father, who might have had much the samefeeling; their forebears beyond them with like sensations toward theGriersons of their day. . . . The long line of them--the long line ofmankind--injured and injurers. . . . 

 "Travelers through the wood, whose voices the robbers heard, found Ibycus the poet lying upon the ground, ravished of life. It chanced that he had been known of them, known and loved. Great mourning arose, and vain search for them who had done this wrong. But those strong, wicked ones were gone, fled from their haunts, fled from the wood afar to Corinth, for the god Pan had thrown against them a pine cone. So the travelers took the body of Ibycus and bore it with them to Corinth. 

 "A poet had been slain upon the threshold of the house of song. Sacred blood had spattered the white robes of a queen dressed for jubilee. Evil unreturned to its doers must darken the sunshine of the famous days. Corinth uttered a cry of lamentation and wrath. 'Where are the ill-doers, the spillers of blood, that we may spill their blood and avenge Ibycus, showing the gods that we are their helpers?' But those robbers and murderers might not be found. And the body of Ibycus was consumed upon a funeral pyre. 

 "The festival hours went by in Corinth. And now began to fill the amphitheater where might find room a host for number like the acorns of Dodona. The throng was huge, the sound that it made like the shock of ocean. Around, tier above tier, swept the rows, and for roof there was the blue and sunny air. Then the voice of the sea hushed, for now entered the many-numbered chorus. Slow-circling, it sang of mighty Fate: '_For every word shall have its echo, and every deed shall see its face. The word shall say, "Is it my echo?" and the deed shall say, "Is it my face?"_'--

 "The chorus passes, singing. The voices die, there falls a silence, sent as it were from inner space. The open sky is above the amphitheater. And now there comes, from north to south, sailing that sea above, high, but not so high that their shape is indistinguishable, a long flight of cranes. Heads move, eyes are raised, but none know why that interest is so keen, so still. Then from out the throng rises, struck with forgetfulness of gathered Corinth and of its own reasons for being dumb as is the stone, a man's voice, and the fear that Pan gives ran yet around in that voice. 'See, brother, see! The cranes of Ibycus!'

 "'Ibycus!' The crowd about those men pressed in upon them. 'What do you know of Ibycus?' And great Pan drove them to show in their faces what they knew. So Corinth took--"

Alexander Jardine shut the book and, leaving the window, dropped itupon the table. His hand shook, his face was convulsed. "I've read asfar as needs be. Those things strike me like hammers!" With suddennesshe turned and was gone. 

Strickland was aware that he might not return that day to theschool-room, perhaps not to the house. He went out of the west doorand across the grassy space to the gap in the wall, through which hedisappeared. Beyond was the rough descent to wood and stream. 

Jamie spoke: "He's a queer body! He says he thinks that he lived along time ago, and then a shorter time ago, and then now. He says thatsome days he sees it all come up in a kind of dark desert. "

Alice put in her word, "Mother says he's many in one, and that themany and one don't yet recognize each other. "

"Your mother is a wise woman, " said the tutor. "Let me see how thework goes. "

The pine-tree, outside the wall, overhung a rude natural stairway ofstony ledge and outcropping root with patches of moss and heath. Downthis went Alexander into a cool dimness of fir and oak and birch, watered by a little stream. He kneeled by this, he cooled face andhands in the water, then flung himself beneath a tree and, burying hishead in his arms, lay still. The waves within subsided, sank to along, deep swell, then from that to quiet. The door that wind and tidehad beaten open shut again. Alexander lay without thinking, withoutovermuch feeling. At last, turning, he opened his eyes upon thetree-tops and the August sky. The door was shut upon tales of injuryand revenge. Between boy and man, he lay in a yearning stillness, colors and sounds and dim poetic strains his ministers of grace. Thislasted for a time, then he rose, first to a sitting posture, then tohis feet. Crows flew through the wood; he had a glimpse of yellowfields and purple heath. He set forth upon one of the long rambleswhich were a prized part of life. 

An hour or so later he stopped at a cotter's, some miles from home. Anold man and a woman gave him an oat cake and a drink of home-brewed. He was fond of folk like these--at home with them and they with him. There was no need to make talk, but he sat and looked at the marigoldswhile the woman moved about and the old man wove rushes into mats. From here he took to the hills and walked awhile with a shepherdnumbering his sheep. Finally, in mid-afternoon, he found himself upona heath, bare of trees, lifted and purple. 

He sat down amid the warm bloom; he lay down. Within was youth's blindtumult and longing, a passioning for he knew not what. "I wish thatthere were great things in my life. I wish that I were a discoverer, sailing like Columbus. I wish that I had a friend--"

He fell into a day-dream, lapped there in warm purple waves, hearingthe bees' interminable murmur. He faced, across a narrow vale, anabrupt, curiously shaped hill, dark with outstanding granite and withfir-trees. Where at the eastern end it broke away, where at its basethe vale widened, shone among the lively green of elms turrets andchimneys of a large house. "Black Hill--Black Hill--Black Hill. . . . "

A youth of about his own age came up the path from the vale. Alexander, lying amid the heath, caught at some distance the wholefigure, but as he approached lost him. Then, near at hand, the headrose above the brow of the ridge. It was a handsome head, with a capand feather, with gold-brown hair lightly clustering, and acountenance of spirit and daring with something subtle rubbed in. Head, shoulders, a supple figure, not so tall nor so largely made aswas Glenfernie's heir, all came upon the purple hilltop. 

CHAPTER IV

Alexander raised himself from his couch in the heather. 

"Good day!" said the new-comer. 

"Good day!"

The youth stood beside him. "I am Ian Rullock. "

"I am Alexander Jardine. "

"Of Glenfernie?"

"Aye, you've got it. "

"Then we're the neighbors that are to be friends. "

"If we are to be we are to be. . . . I want a friend. . . . I don't know ifyou're the one that is to answer. "

The other dropped beside him upon the heath. "I saw you walking alongthe hilltop. So when you did not come on I thought I'd climb and meetyou. This is a lonely, miserable country!"

Alexander was moved to defend. "There are more miserable! It's got itspoints. "

"I don't see them. I want London!"

"That's Babylon. --It's your own country. You're evening it withEngland!"

"No, I'm not. But you can't deny that it's poor. "

"There's one of its sons, named Touris, that is not poor!"

Rullock rose upon one knee. "The wise man gets rich and the foolstays poor. Do you want to be friends or do you want to fight?"

Alexander clasped his hands behind his head and lay back upon theearth. "No, I do not want to fight--not now! I wouldn't fight you, anyhow, for standing up for one to whom you're beholden. "

Silence fell between them, each having eyes upon the other. Somethingdrew each to each, something repelled each from each. It was aquestion, between those forces, which would gain. Alexander did notfeel strange with Ian, nor Ian with Alexander. It was as though theyhad met before. But how they had met and why, and where and when, andwhat that meeting had entailed and meant, was hidden from their gaze. The attractive increased over the repellent. Ian spoke. 

"There's none down there but my uncle and his sister, my aunt. Come ondown and let me show you the place. "

"I do not care if I do. " He rose, and the two went along the hilltopand down the path. 

Ian was the readier in talk. "I am going soon to Edinburgh--tocollege. "

"I'm going, too. The first of the year. I am going to try if I canstand the law. "

"I want to be a soldier. "

"I don't know what I want. . . . I want to journey--and journey--andjourney . . . With a book along. "

"Do you like books?"

"Aye, fine!"

"I like them right well. Are there any pretty girls around here?"

"I don't know. I don't like girls. "

"I like them at times, in their places. You must wrestle bravely, you're so strong in the shoulder and long in the arm!"

"You're not so big, but you look strong yourself. "

Each measured the other with his eyes. Friendship was already here. Itwas as though hand had fitted into glove. 

"What is your dog named?"

"Hector. "

"Mine's Bran. You come to Glenfernie to-morrow and I'll show you aplace that's all mine. It's the room in the old keep. I've books thereand apples and nuts and curiosities. There's a big fireplace, and myfather's let me build a furnace besides, and I've kettles andcrucibles and pans and vials--"

"What for?"

Alexander paused and gazed at Ian, then gave into his keeping thegreat secret. "Alchemy. I'm trying to change lead into gold. "

Ian thrilled. "I'll come! I'll ride over. I've a beautiful mare. "

"It's not eight miles--"

"I'll come. We're just in at Black Hill, you see, and I've had no timeto make a place like that! But I'll show you my room. Here's the parkgate. "

They walked up an avenue overarched by elms, to a house old but not soold, once half-ruinous, but now mended and being mended, enlarged, anddecorated, the aim a spacious place alike venerable and modern. Workmen yet swarmed about it. The whole presented a busy, cheerfulaspect--a gracious one, also, for under a monster elm before theterrace was found the master and owner, Mr. Archibald Touris. Hegreeted the youths with a manner meant to exhibit the expansive heartof a country gentleman. 

"You've found each other out, have you? Why, you look born to befriends! That's as it should be. --And what, Alexander, do you think ofBlack Hill?"

"It looks finely a rich man's place, sir. "

Mr. Touris laughed at his country bluntness, but did not take thetribute amiss. "Not so rich--not so mighty rich. But enough, enough!If Ian here behaves himself he'll have enough!" A master workmancalled him away. He went with a large wave of the hand. "Make yourselfat home, Alexander! Take him, Ian, to see your aunt Alison. " He wasgone with the workman. 

"I'll take you there presently, " said Ian. "I'm fond of AuntAlison--you'll like her, too--but she'll keep. Let's go see my mareFatima, and then my room. "

Fatima was a most beautiful young, snowy Arabian. Alexander sighedwith delight when they led her out from her stable and she walkedabout with Ian beside her, and when presently Ian mounted she curvetedand caracoled. Ian and she suited each other. Indefinably, there wasabout him, too, something Eastern. The two went to and fro, the mare'shoofs striking music from the flags. Behind them ran a gray range ofbuildings overtopped by bushy willows. Alexander sat on a stone bench, hugged his knees, and felt true love for the sight. Ian had come tohim like a gift from the blue. 

Ian dismounted, and they watched Fatima disappear into her stall. "Come now and see the house. "

The house was large and cumbered with furniture too much and too richfor the Scotch countryside. Ian's room had a great, rich bed and adressing-table that drew from Alexander a whistle, contemplative andscornful. But there were other matters besides luxury of couch andtoilet. Slung against the wall appeared a fine carbine, the pistolsand sword of Ian's father, and a wonderful long, twisted, anddamascened knife or dirk--creese, Ian called it--that had come in sometrading-ship of his uncle's. And he had books in a small closet room, and a picture that the two stood before. 

"Where did you get it?"

"There was an Italian who owed my uncle a debt. He had no money, so hegave him this. He said that it was painted a long time ago and that itwas very fine. "

"What is it?"

"It is a Bible piece. This is a city of refuge. This is a sinnerfleeing to it, and here behind him is the avenger of blood. You can'tsee, it is so dark. There!" He drew the window-curtain quite aside. Aflood of light came in and washed the picture. 

"I see. What is it doing here?"

"I don't know. I liked it. I suppose Aunt Alison thought it might hanghere. "

"I like to see pictures in my mind. But things like that poison me!Let's see the rest of the house. "

They went again through Ian's room. Coming to a fine carved ambry, hehesitated, then stood still. "I'm going to show you something else! Ishow it to you because I trust you. It's like your telling me aboutyour making gold out of lead. " He opened a door of the ambry, pulledout a drawer, and, pressing some spring, revealed a narrow, secretshelf. His hand went into the dimness and came out bearing a silvergoblet. This he set carefully upon a neighboring table, and looked atAlexander somewhat aslant out of long, golden-brown eyes. 

"It's a bonny goblet, " said Alexander. "Why do you keep it like that?"

Ian looked around him. "Years and years ago my father, who is deadnow, was in France. There was a banquet at Saint-Germain. _A verygreat person_ gave it and was in presence himself. All the gentlemenhis guests drank a toast for which the finest wine was poured inespecial goblets. Afterward each was given for a token the cup fromwhich he drank. . . . Before he died my father gave me this. But ofcourse I have to keep it secret. My uncle and all the world aroundhere are Whigs!"

"James Stewart!" quoth Alexander. "Humph!"

"Remember that you have not seen it, " said Ian, "and that I never saidaught to you but _King George, King George!_" With that he restoredthe goblet to the secret shelf, put back the drawer, and shut theambry door. "Friends trust one another in little and big. --Now let'sgo see Aunt Alison. "

They went in silence along a corridor where every footfall was subduedin India matting. Alexander spoke once:

"I feel all through me that we're friends. But you're a terrible foolthere!"

"I am not, " said Ian. His voice carried the truth of his own feeling. "I am like my father and mother and the chieftains my kin, and I havebeen with certain kings ever since there were kings. Others thinkotherwise, but I've got my rights!"

With that they came to the open door of a room. A voice spoke fromwithin:

"Ian!"

Ian crossed the threshold. "May we come in, Aunt Alison? It'sAlexander Jardine of Glenfernie. "

A tall, three-leaved screen pictured with pagodas, palms, and macawsstood between the door and the rest of the room. "Come, of course!"said the voice behind this. 

Passing the last pagoda edge, the two entered a white-paneled parlorwhere a lady in dove-gray muslin overlooked the unpacking of finechina. She turned in the great chair where she sat. "I am truly gladto see Alexander Jardine!" When he went up to her she took his twohands in hers. "I remember your mother and how fine a lassie she was!Good mind and good heart--"

"We've heard of you, too, " answered Alexander. He looked at her infrank admiration, _Eh, but you're bonny!_ written in his gaze. 

Mrs. Alison, as they called her, was something more than bonny. Shehad loveliness. More than that, she breathed a cleanliness of spirit, a lucid peace, a fibered self-mastery passing into light. Alexanderdid not analyze his feeling for her, but it was presently one of greatliking. Now she sat in her great chair while the maids went on withthe unpacking, and questioned him about Glenfernie and all the familyand life there. She was slight, not tall, with hair prematurelywhite, needing no powder. She sat and talked with her hand upon Ian. While she talked she glanced from the one youth to the other. At lastshe said:

"Alexander Jardine, I love Ian dearly. He needs and will needlove--great love. If you are going to be friends, remember that loveis bottomless. --And now go, the two of you, for the day is gettingon. "

They passed again the macaw-and-pagoda screen and left the paneledroom. The August light struck slant and gold. The two quitted thehouse and crossed the terrace into the avenue without againencountering the master of the place. 

"I will go with you to the top of the hill, " said Ian. They climbedthe ridge that was like a purple cloud. "I'll come to Glenfernieto-morrow or the next day. "

"Yes, come! I'm fond of Jamie, but he's three years younger than I. "

"You've got a sister?"

"Alice? She's only twelve. You come. I've been wanting somebody. "

"So have I. I'm lonelier than you. "

They came to the level top of the heath. The sun rode low; the shadowof the hill stretched at their feet, out over path and harvest-field. 

"Good-by, then!"

"Good-by!"

Ian stood still. Alexander, homeward bound, dropped over the crest. The earth wave hid from him Black Hill, house and all. But, lookingback, he could still see Ian against the sky. Then Ian sank, too. Alexander strode on toward Glenfernie. He went whistling, in expanded, golden spirits. Ian--and Ian--and Ian! Going through a grove of oaks, blackbirds flew overhead, among and above the branches. _The cranes ofIbycus!_ The phrase flashed into mind. "I wonder why things like thatdisturb me so!. . . I wonder if there's any bottom or top to livinganyhow!. . . I wonder--!" He looked at the birds and at the violetevening light at play in the old wood. The phrase went out of hismind. He left the remnant of the forest and was presently upon openmoor. He whistled again, loud and clear, and strode on happily. Ian--and Ian--and Ian!

CHAPTER V

The House of Glenfernie and the House of Touris became friends. Around of country festivities, capped by a great party at Black Hill, wrought bonds of acquaintanceship for and with the Scots familyreturned after long abode in England. Archibald Touris spent moneywith a cautious freedom. He set a table and poured a wine better byhalf than might be found elsewhere. He kept good horses and good dogs. Laborers who worked for him praised him; he proved a not ungenerouslandlord. Where he recognized obligations he met them punctually. Hehad large merchant virtues, no less than the accompanying limitations. He returned to the Church of Scotland. 

The laird of Glenfernie and the laird of Black Hill foundconstitutional impediments to their being more friendly than need be. Each was polite to the other to a certain point, then the one gloweredand the other scoffed. It ended in a painstaking keeping of distancebetween them, a task which, when they were in company, fell often toMrs. Jardine. She did it with tact, with a twist of her large, humorous mouth toward Strickland if he were by. Admirable as she was, it was curious to see the difference between her method, if methodthere were, and that of Mrs. Alison. The latter showed no effort, butwhere she was there fell harmony. William Jardine liked her, liked tobe in the room with her. His great frame and her slight one, hisrough, massive, somewhat unshaped personality and her exquisiteclearness contrasted finely enough. Her brother, who understood hervery little, yet had for her an odd, appealing affection, strange inone who had so positively settled what was life and the needs of life. It was his habit to speak of her as though she were more helplesslydependent even than other women. But at times there might be seen whowas more truly the dependent. 

August passed into September, September into brown October. Alexanderand Ian were almost continually in company. The attraction betweenthem was so great that it appeared as though it must stretch backwardinto some unknown seam of time. If they had differences, theseapparently only served in themselves to keep them revolving the oneabout the other. They might almost quarrel, but never enough to dragtheir two orbs apart, breaking and rending from the common center. Thesun might go down upon a kind of wrath, but it rose on hearts with thedifference forgotten. Their very unlikenesses pricked each on to seekhimself in the other. 

They were going to Edinburgh after Christmas, to be students there, togrow to be men. Here at home, upon the eve of their going, rein uponthem was slackened. They would so soon be independent of homediscipline that that independence was to a degree already allowed. Black Hill did not often question Ian's comings and goings, norGlenfernie Alexander's. The school-room saw the latter some part ofeach morning. For the rest of the day he might be almost anywhere withIan, at Glenfernie, or at Black Hill, or on the road between, or inthe country roundabout. 

William Jardine, chancing to be one day at Black Hill, watched fromMrs. Alison's parlor the two going down the avenue, the dogs at theirheels. "It's a fair David and Jonathan business!"

"David needed Jonathan, and Jonathan David. "

"Had Jonathan lived, ma'am, and the two come to conflict about thekingdom, what then, and where would have flown the friendship?"

"It would have flown on high, I suppose, and waited for them untilthey had grown wings to mount to it. "

"Oh, " said the laird, "you're one I can follow only a little way!"

Ian and Alexander felt only that the earth about them was bright andwarm. 

On a brown-and-gold day the two found themselves in the village ofGlenfernie. Ian had spent the night with Alexander--for some reasonthere was school holiday--the two were now abroad early in the day. The village sent its one street, its few poor lanes, up a barehillside to the church atop. Poor and rude enough, it had yet to-dayits cheerful air. High voices called, flaxen-haired children potteredabout, a mill-wheel creaked at the foot of the hill, iron clanged inthe smithy a little higher, the drovers' rough laughter burst from thetavern midway, and at the height the kirk was seeing a wedding. Theair had a tang of cooled wine, the sky was blue. 

Ian and Alexander, coming over the hill, reached the kirk in time tosee emerge the married pair with their kin and friends. The two stoodwith a rabble of children and boys beneath the yew-trees by the gate. The yellow-haired bride in her finery, the yellow-haired groom in his, the dressed and festive following, stepped from the kirkyard to somewaiting carts and horses. The most mounted and took place, theprocession put itself into motion with clatter and laughter. Thechildren and boys ran after to where the road dipped over the hill. Acluster of village folk turned the long, descending street. In passingthey spoke to Alexander and Ian. 

"Who was married?--Jock Wilson and Janet Macraw, o' Langmuir. "

The two lounged against the kirkyard wall, beneath the yews. 

"_Marry!_ That's a strange, terrible, useless word to me!"

"I don't know. . . . "

"Yes, it is!. . . Ian, do you ever think that you've lived before?"

"I don't know. I'm living now!"

"Well, I think that we all lived before. I think that the same thingshappen again--"

"Well, let them--some of them!" said Ian. "Come along, if we're goingthrough the glen. "

They left the kirkyard for the village street. Here they sauntered, friends with the whole. They looked in at the tavern upon the drovers, they watched the blacksmith and his helper. The red iron rang, thesparks flew. At the foot of the hill flowed the stream and stood themill. The wheel turned, the water diamonds dropped in sheets. Theirbusy, idle day took them on; they were now in bare, heathy countrywith the breathing, winey air. Presently White Farm could be seenamong aspens, and beyond it the wooded mouth of the glen. Some one, whistling, turned an elbow of the hill and caught up with the two. Itproved to be one several years their senior, a young man in theholiday dress of a prosperous farmer. He whistled clearly an oldborder air and walked without dragging or clumsiness. Coming up, heceased his whistling. 

"Good day, the both of ye!"

"It's Robin Greenlaw, " said Alexander, "from Littlefarm. --You've beento the wedding, Robin?"

"Aye. Janet's some kind of a cousin. It's a braw day for a wedding!You've got with you the new laird's nephew?--And how are you likingBlack Hill?"

"I like it. "

"I suppose you miss grandeurs abune what ye've got there. I have aliking myself, " said Greenlaw, "for grandeurs, though we've none atall at Littlefarm! That is to say, none that's just obvious. Are yougoing to White Farm?"

Alexander answered: "I've a message from my father for Mr. Barrow. Butafter that we're going through the glen. Will you come along?"

"I would, " said Greenlaw, seriously, "if I had not on my best. But Iknow how you, Alexander Jardine, take the devil's counsel aboutsetting foot in places bad for good clothes! So I'll give myself thepleasure some other time. And so good day!" He turned into a path thattook him presently out of sight and sound. 

"He's a fine one!" said Alexander. "I like him. "

"Who is he?"

"White Farm's great-nephew. Littlefarm was parted from White Farm. It's over yonder where you see the water shining. "

"He's free-mannered enough!"

"That's you and England! He's got as good a pedigree as any, and anotion of what's a man, besides. He's been to Glasgow to school, too. I like folk like that. "

"I like them as well as you!" said Ian. "That is, with reservations ofthem I cannot like. I'm Scots, too. "

Alexander laughed. They came down to the water and the stepping-stonesbefore White Farm. The house faced them, long and low, white amongtrees from which the leaves were falling. Alexander and Ian crossedupon the stones, and beyond the fringing hazels the dogs came to meetthem. 

Jarvis Barrow had all the appearance of a figure from that OldTestament in which he was learned. He might have been a prophet'sright-hand man, he might have been the prophet himself. He stood, atsixty-five, lean and strong, gray-haired, but with decrepitude faraway. Elder of the kirk, sternly religious, able at his own affairs, he read his Bible and prospered in his earthly living. Now he listenedto the laird's message, nodding his head, but saying little. His staffwas in his hand; he was on his way to kirk session; tell the lairdthat the account was correct. He stood without his door as though hewaited for the youths to give good day and depart. Alexander had madea movement in this direction when from beyond Jarvis Barrow came awoman's voice. It belonged to Jenny Barrow, the farmer's unmarrieddaughter, who kept house for him. 

"Father, do you gae on, and let the young gentlemen bide a wee andrest their banes and tell a puir woman wha never gaes onywhere thenews!"

"Then do ye sit awhile, laddies, with the womenfolk, " said JarvisBarrow. "But give me pardon if I go, for I canna keep the kirkwaiting. "

He was gone, staff and gray plaid and a collie with him. Jenny, hisdaughter, appeared in the door. 

"Come in, Mr. Alexander, and you, too, sir, and have a crack with us!We're in the dairy-room, Elspeth and Gilian and me. "

She was a woman of forty, raw-boned but not unhandsome, good-natured, capable, too, but with more heart than head. It was a saying with herthat she had brains enough for kirk on the Sabbath and a warm housethe week round. Everybody knew Jenny Barrow and liked well enoughbread of her baking. 

The room to which she led Ian and Alexander had its floor level withthe turf without the open door. The sun flooded it. There came fromwithin the sound, up and down, of a churn, and a voice singing:

 "O laddie, will ye gie to me A ribbon for my fairing?"

CHAPTER VI

It grew that Ian was telling stories of cities--of London and ofParis, for he had been there, and of Rome, for he had been there. Hehad seen kings and queens, he had seen the Pope--

"Lord save us!" ejaculated Jenny Barrow. 

He leaned against the dairy wall and the sun fell over him, and helooked something finer and more golden than often came that way. YoungGilian at the churn stood with parted lips, the long dasher still inher hands. This was as good as stories of elves, pixies, fays, men ofpeace and all! Elspeth let the milk-pans be and sat beside them on thelong bench, and, with hands folded in her lap, looked with brown eyesmany a league away. Neither Elspeth nor Gilian was without booklearning. Behind them and before them were long visits to scholarkindred in a city in the north and fit schooling there. London andParis and Rome. . . . Foreign lands and the great world. And this was aglittering young eagle that had sailed and seen!

Alexander gazed with delight upon Ian spreading triumphant wings. Thiswas his friend. There was nothing finer than continuously to come uponpraiseworthiness in your friend!

"And a beautiful lady came by who was the king's favorite--"

"Gude guide us! The limmer!"

"And she was walking on rose-colored velvet and her slippers haddiamonds worked in them. Snow was on the ground outside and poor folkwere freezing, but she carried over each arm a garland of roses asthough it were June--"

Jenny Barrow raised her hands. "She'll sit yet in the cauld blast, inthe sinner's shift!"

"And after a time there walked in the king, and the courtiers behindhim like the tail of a peacock--"

They had a happy hour in the White Farm dairy. At last Jenny and thegirls set for the two cold meat and bannocks and ale. And still attable Ian was the shining one. The sun was at noon and so was hismood. 

"You're fey!" said Alexander, at last. 

"Na, na!" spoke Jenny. "But, oh, he's the bonny lad!"

The dinner was eaten. It was time to be going. 

"Shut your book of stories!" said Alexander. "We're for the Kelpie'sPool, and that's not just a step from here!"

Elspeth raised her brown eyes. "Why will you go to the Kelpie's Pool?That's a drear water!"

"I want to show it to him. He's never seen it. "

"It's drear!" said Elspeth. "A drear, wanrestfu' place!"

But Ian and Alexander must go. The aunt and nieces accompanied them tothe door, stood and watched them forth, down the bank and into thepath that ran to the glen. Looking back, the youths saw themthere--Elspeth and Gilian and their aunt Jenny. Then the aspens camebetween and hid them and the white house and all. 

"They're bonny lasses!" said Ian. 

"Aye. They're so. "

"But, oh, man! you should see Miss Delafield of Tower Place inSurrey!"

"Is she so bonny?"

"She's more than bonny. She's beautiful and high-born and an heiress. When I'm a colonel of dragoons--"

"Are you going to be a colonel of dragoons?"

"Something like that. You talk of thinking that you were this and thatin the past. Well, I was a fighting-man!"

"We're all fighting-men. It's only what we fight and how. "

"Well, say that I had been a chief, and they lifted me on theirshields and called me king, the very next day I should have made herqueen!"

"You think like a ballad. And, oh, man, you talk mickle of thelasses!"

Ian looked at him with long, narrow, dark-gold eyes. "They're found inballads, " he said. 

Alexander just paused in his stride. "Humph! that's true!. . . "

They entered the glen. The stream began to brawl; on either hand thehills closed in, towering high. Some of the trees were bare, but tomost yet clung the red-brown or the gold-brown dress. The pines showedhard, green, and dead in the shadow; in the sunlight, fine, green-gold, and alive. The fallen leaves, moved by foot or by breeze, made a light, dry, talking sound. The white birch stems clustered andleaned; patches of bright-green moss ran between the drifts of leaves. The sides of the hills came close together, grew fearfully steep. Crags appeared, and fern-crowded fissures and roots of trees likeknots of frozen serpents. The glen narrowed and deepened; the watersang with a loud, rough voice. 

Alexander loved this place. He had known it in childhood, oftenstraying this way with the laird, or with Sandy the shepherd, or Daviefrom the house. When he was older he began to come alone. Soon he cameoften alone, learned every stick and stone and contour, effect oflight and streak of gloom. As idle or as purposeful as the wind, heknew the glen from top to bottom. He knew the voice of the stream andthe straining clutch of the roots over the broken crag. He had lain onall the beds of leaf and moss, and talked with every creeping orflying or running thing. Sometimes he read a book here, sometimes hepictured the world, or built fantastic stages, and among fantasticothers acted himself a fantastic part. Sometimes with a blind turningwithin he looked for himself. He had his own thoughts of God here, ofGod and the Kirk and the devil. Often, too, he neither read, dreamed, nor thought. He might lie an hour, still, passive, receptive. Thetrees and the clouds, crag life, bird life, and flower life, life ofwater, earth, and air, came inside. He was so used to his own silencein the glen that when he walked through it with others he kept itstill. Slightly taciturn everywhere, he was actively so here. The pathnarrowing, he and Ian must go in single file. Leading, Alexandertraveled in silence, and Ian, behind, not familiar with the place, must mind his steps, and so fell silent, too. Here and there, now andthen, Alexander halted. These were recesses, or it might be projectingplatforms of rock, that he liked. Below, the stream made still pools, or moved in eddies, or leaped with an innumerable hurrying noise fromlevel to level. Or again there held a reach of quiet water, and theglen-sides were soft with weeping birch, and there showed a wider archof still blue sky. Alexander stood and looked. Ian, behind him, wasglad of the pause. The place dizzied him who for years had been awayfrom hill and mountain, pass and torrent. Yet he would by no meanstell Alexander so. He would keep up with him. 

There was a mile of this glen, and now the going was worse and now itwas better. Three-fourths of the way through they came to an openingin the rock, over which, from a shelf above, fell a curtain of brier. 

"See!" said Alexander, and, parting the stems, showed a veritablecavern. "Come in--sit down! The Kelpie's Pool is out of the glen, butthey say that there's a bogle wons here, too. "

They sat down upon the rocky floor strewn with dead leaves. Throughthe dropped curtain they saw the world brokenly; the light in the cavewas sunken and dim, the air cold. Ian drew his shoulders together. 

"Here's a grand place for robbers, wraiths, or dragons!"

"Robbers, wraiths, or dragons, or just quiet dead leaves andourselves. Look here--!" He showed a heap of short fagots in a corner. "I put these here the last time I came. " Dragging them into the middleof the rock chamber, he swept up with them the dead leaves, then tookfrom a great pouch that he carried on his rambles a box with flint andsteel. He struck a spark upon dry moss and in a moment had a fire. "Isnot that beautiful?"

The smoke mounted to the top of the cavern, curled there or passed outinto the glen through the briers that dropped like a portcullis. Thefagots crackled in the flame, the light danced, the warmth waspleasant. So was the sense of adventure and of _solitude à deux_. Theystretched themselves beside the flame. Alexander produced from hispouch four small red-cheeked apples. They ate and talked, with betweentheir words silences of deep content. They were two comrade hunters oflong ago, cavemen who had dispossessed bear or wolf, who mightpresently with a sharpened bone and some red pigment draw bison anddeer in procession upon the cave wall. --They were skin-clad hillmen, shag-haired, with strange, rude weapons, in hiding here after hardfighting with a disciplined, conquering foe who had swords and shiningbreastplates and crested helmets. --They were fellow-soldiers of thatconquering tide, Romans of a band that kept the Wall, proud, with talkof camps and Cæsars. --They were knights of Arthur's table sent byMerlin on some magic quest. --They were Crusaders, and this cavern anEastern, desert cave. --They were men who rose with Wallace, must hidein caves from Edward Longshanks. --They were outlaws. --They werewizards--good wizards who caused flowers to bloom in winter for theunhappy, and made gold here for those who must be ransomed, and fedthemselves with secret bread. The fire roared--they were happy, Ianand Alexander. 

At last the fagots were burned out. The half-murk that at first wasmystery and enchantment began to put on somberness and melancholy. They rose from the rocky floor and extinguished the brands with theirfeet. But now they had this cavern in common and must arrange it fortheir next coming. Going outside, they gathered dead and fallen wood, broke it into right lengths, and, carrying it within, heaped it in thecorner. With a bough of pine they swept the floor, then, leaving thetreasure hold, dropped the curtain of brier in place. They were not soold but that there was yet the young boy in them; he hugged himselfover this cave of Robin Hood and swart magician. But now they left itand went on whistling through the glen:

 Gie ye give ane, then I'll give twa, For sae the store increases!

The sides of the glen fell back, grew lower. The leap of the water wasnot so marked; there were long pools of quiet. Their path had been amounting one; they were now on higher earth, near the plateau orwatershed that marked the top of the glen. The bright sky archedoverhead, the sun shone strongly, the air moved in currents withoutviolence. 

"You see where that smoke comes up between trees? That's MotherBinning's cot. "

"Who's she?"

"She's a wise auld wife. She's a scryer. That's her ash-tree. "

Their path brought them by the hut and its bit of garden. JockBinning, that was Mother Binning's crippled son, sat fishing in thestream. Mother Binning had been working in the garden, but when shesaw the figures on the path below she took her distaff and sat on thebench in the sun. When they came by she raised her voice. 

"Mr. Alexander, how are the laird and the leddy?"

"They're very well, Mother. "

"Ye'll be gaeing sune to Edinburgh? Wha may be this laddie?"

"It is Ian Rullock, of Black Hill. "

"Sae the baith o' ye are gaeing to Edinburgh? Will ye be friendsthere?"

"That we will!"

"Hech, sirs!" Mother Binning drew a thread from her distaff. The twowere about to travel on when she stopped them again with a gesture. "Dinna mak sic haste! There's time enough behind us, and time enoughbefore us. And it's a strange warld, and a large, and an auld! Sit yeand crack a bit with an auld wife by the road. "

But they had dallied at White Farm and in the cave, and Alexander wasin haste. 

"We cannot stop now, Mother. We're bound for the Kelpie's Pool. "

"And why do ye gae there? That's a drear, wanrestfu' place!" saidMother Binning. 

"Ian has not seen it yet. I want to show it to him. "

Mother Binning turned her distaff slowly. "Eh, then, if ye maun gae, gae!. . . We're a' ane! There's the kelpie pool for a'. "

"We'll stop a bit on the way back, " said Alexander. He spoke in awheedling, kindly voice, for he and Mother Binning were good friends. 

"Do that then, " she said. "I hae a hansel o' coffee by me. I'll maktwa cups, for I'll warrant that ye'll baith need it!"

The air was indeed growing colder when the two came at last upon themoor that ran down to the Kelpie's Pool. Furze and moss and ling, awild country stretched around without trees or house or moving form. The bare sunshine took on a remote, a cool and foreign, aspect. Thesmall singing of the wind in whin and heather came from a thin, eeryworld. Down below them they saw the dark little tarn, the Kelpie'sPool. It was very clear, but dark, with a bottom of peat. Around itgrew rushes and a few low willows. The two sat upon an outcropping ofstone and gazed down upon it. 

"It's a gey lonely place, " said Alexander. "Now I like it as well orbetter than I do the cave, and now I would leave it far behind me!"

"I like the cave best. This is a creepy place. "

"Once I let myself out at Glenfernie without any knowing and came hereby night. "

Ian felt emulation. "Oh, I would do that, too, if there was any need!Did you see anything?"

"Do you mean the kelpie?"

"Yes. "

"No. I saw something--once. But that time I wanted to see how thestars looked in the water. "

Ian looked at the water, that lay like a round mirror, and then to thevast shell of the sky above. He, too, had love of beauty--a moresensuous love than Alexander's, but love. This shared perception madeone of the bonds between them. 

"It was as still--much stiller than it is to-day! The air was clearand the night dark and grand. I looked down, and there was theNorthern Crown, clasp and all. "

Ian in imagination saw it, too. They sat, chin on knees, upon themoorside above the Kelpie's Pool. The water was faintly crisped, thereeds and willow boughs just stirred. 

"But the kelpie--did you ever see that?"

"Sometimes it is seen as a water-horse, sometimes as a demon. I neversaw anything like that but once. I never told any one about it. It mayhave been just one of those willows, after all. But I thought I saw awoman. "

"Go on!"

"There was a great mist that day and it was hard to see. Sometimes youcould not see--it was just rolling waves of gray. So I stumbled down, and I was in the rushes before I knew that I had come to them. It wasspring and the pool was full, and the water plashed and came over myfoot. It was like something holding my ankles. . . . And then I sawher--if it was not the willow. She was like a fair woman with darkhair unsnooded. She looked at me as though she would mock me, and Ithought she laughed--and then the mist rolled down and over, and Icould not see the hills nor the water nor scarce the reeds I was in. So I lifted my feet from the sucking water and got away. . . . I do notknow if it was the kelpie's daughter or the willow--but if it was thewillow it could look like a human--or an unhuman--body!"

Ian gazed at the pool. He had many advantages over Alexander, he knew, but the latter had this curious daring. He did more things withhimself and of himself than did he, Ian. There was that in Ian thatdid not like this, that was jealous of being surpassed. And there wasthat in Ian that would not directly display this feeling, that wouldprovide it, indeed, with all kinds of masks, but would, withcertainty, act from that spurring, though intricate enough might bethe path between the stimulus and the act. 

"It is deep?"

"Aye. Almost bottomless, you would think, and cold as winter. "

"Let us go swimming. "

"The day's getting late and it's growing cold. However, if you wantto--"

Ian did not greatly want to. But if Alexander could be so indifferent, he could be determined and ardent. "What's a little mirk and cold? Iwant to say I've swum in it. " He began to unbutton his waistcoat. 

They stripped, left their clothes in the stone's keeping, and ran downthe moorside. The light played over their bodies, unblemished, smooth, and healthfully colored, clean-lined and rightly spare. They hadbeautiful postures and movements when they stood, when they ran; ayouthful and austere grace as of Spartan youth plunging down to theicy Eurotas. The earth around lay as stripped as they; the naked, ineffable blue ether held them as it did all things; the wandering airbroke against them in invisible surf. They ran down the long slope ofthe moor, parted the reeds, and dived to meet their own reflections. The water was most truly deep and cold. They struck out, they swam tothe middle of the pool, they turned upon their backs and looked up tothe blue zenith, then, turning again, with strong arm strokes theysent the wave over each other. They rounded the pool under the twistedwillows, beside the shaking reeds; they swam across and across. 

Alexander looked at the sun that was deep in the western quarter. "Time to be out and going!" He swam to the edge of the pool, butbefore he should draw himself out stopped to look up at a willow abovehim, the one that he thought he might, in the mist, have taken for thekelpie's daughter. It was of a height that, seen at a little distance, might even a tall woman. It put out two broken, shortened brancheslike arms. . . . He lost himself in the study of possibilities, balancedamong the reeds that sighed around. He could not decide, so at last heshook himself from that consideration, and, pushing into shallowwater, stepped from the pool. He had taken a few steps up the moor erewith suddenness he felt that Ian was not with him. He turned. Ian wasyet out in the middle ring of the tarn. The light struck upon hishead. Then he dived under--or seemed to dive under. He was long incoming up; and when he did so it was in the same place and hisbackward-drawn face had a strangeness. 

"Ian!"

Ian sank again. 

"He's crampit!" Alexander flashed like a thrown brand down the way hehad mounted and across the strip of weeds, and in again to thesteel-dark water. "I'm coming!" He gained to his fellow, caught himere he sank the third time. 

Dragged from the Kelpie's Pool, Ian lay upon the moor. Alexander, bringing with haste the clothes from the stone above, knelt besidehim, rubbed and kneaded the life into him. He opened his eyes. 

"Alexander--!"

Alexander rubbed with vigor. "I'm here. Eh, lad, but you gave me afright!"

In another five minutes he sat up. "I'm--I'm all right now. Let's getour things on and go. "

They dressed, Alexander helping Ian. The blood came slowly back intothe latter's cheek; he walked, but he shivered yet. 

"Let's go get Mother Binning's coffee!" said Alexander. "Come, I'llput my arm about you so. " They went thus up the moor and across, andthen down to the trees, the stream, and the glen. "There's the smokefrom her chimney! You may have both cups and lie by the fire tillyou're warm. Mercy me! how lonely the cave would have been if you haddrowned!"

They got down to the flowing water. 

"I'm all right now!" said Ian. He released himself, but before he didso he turned in Alexander's arm, put his own arm around the other'sneck, and kissed him. "You saved my life. Let's be friends forever!"

"That's what we are, " said Alexander, "friends forever. "

"You've proved it to me; one day I'll prove it to you!"

"We don't need proofs. We just know that we like each other, andthat's all there is about it!"

"Yes, it's that way, " said Ian, and so they came to Mother Binning'scot, the fire, and the coffee. 

CHAPTER VII

Upon a quiet, gray December afternoon, nine years and more from theJune day when he had fished in the glen and Mother Binning had toldhim of her vision of the Jacobite gathering at Braemar, EnglishStrickland, walking for exercise to the village and back, foundhimself overtaken by Mr. M'Nab, the minister who in his white mansedwelt by the white kirk on the top of the windy hill. This was, byevery earthly canon, a good man, but a stern and unsupple. He had notbeen long in this parish, and he was sweeping with a strong, newbesom. The old minister, to his mind, had been Erastian and lax, weakin doctrine and in discipline of the fold. Mr. M'Nab meant not to beweak. He loathed sin and would compel the sinner also to loathe it. Now he came up, tall and darkly clad, and in his Calvinistic hand hisBible. 

"Gude day, sir!"

"Good day, Mr. M'Nab!" The two went on side by side. The day was verystill, the sky an even gray, snow being prepared. "You saw the laird?"

"Aye. He's verra low. "

"He'll not recover I think. It's been a slow failing for twoyears--ever since Mrs. Jardine's death. "

"She was dead before I came to this kirk. But once, when I was ayoung man, I stayed awhile in these parts. I remember her. "

"She was the best of women. "

"So they said. But she had not that grip upon religion that the lairdhas!"

"Maybe not. "

Mr. M'Nab directed his glance upon the Glenfernie tutor. He did notthink that this Englishman, either, had much grip upon religion. Hedetermined, at the first opportunity, to call his attention to thatfact and to strive to teach his fingers how to clasp. He had a cravingthirst for the saving of souls, and to draw one whole from Laodiceawas next best to lifting from Babylon. But to-day the laird and hisspiritual concerns had the field. 

"He comes, by the mother's side, at least, of godly stock. Hismother's father was martyred for the faith in the auld persecutingtime. His grandmother wearied her mind away in prison. His mothersuffered much when she was a lassie. "

"It's small wonder that he has nursed bitterness, " said Strickland. "He must have drunk in terror and hate with her milk. . . . He conqueredthe terror. "

"_'Do not I hate them, O Lord, that hate thee? and am not I grievedwith those that rise up against thee? I hate them with perfect hatred;I count them my enemies. '_--What else should his heart do but burnwith a righteous wrath?"

Strickland sighed, looking at the quiet gray hills and the vast, stillweb of cloud above. "It's come to be a withering fire, hunting fueleverywhere! I remember when he held it in bounds, even when for a timeit seemed to die out. But of late years it has got the better of him. At last, I think, it is devouring himself. "

M'Nab made a dissenting sound. "He has got the implicit belief in Godthat I see sair lack of elsewhere! He holds fast to God. "

"Aye. The God who slays the Amalekites. "

M'Nab turned his wintry glance upon him. "And is not that God?"

The other looked at the hill and at the vast, quiet, gray field ofcloud. "Perhaps!. . . Let's talk of something else. I am too tired toargue. I sat up with him last night. "

The minister would have preferred to continue to discuss the characterof Deity. He turned heavily. "I was in company, not long ago, withsome gentlemen who were wondering why you stayed on at GlenfernieHouse. They said that you had good offers elsewhere--much better thanwith a Scots laird. "

"I promised Mrs. Jardine that I would stay. "

"While the laird lived?"

"No, not just that--though I think that she would have liked me to doso. But so long as the laird would keep Jamie with him at home. "

"What will he do now--Jamie?"

"He has set his heart on the army. He's strong of body, with a kind ofbig, happy-go-luckiness--"

A horseman came up behind them. It proved to be Robin Greenlaw, ofLittlefarm. He checked his gray and exchanged greetings with theminister and the tutor. "How does the laird find himself the day?" heasked Strickland. 

"No better, I think, Mr. Greenlaw. "

"I'm sorry. It's the end, I jalouse! Is Mr. Alexander come?"

"We look for him to-morrow. "

"The land and the folk'll be blithe to see him--if it was not for theoccasion of his coming! If there's aught a body can do for any atGlenfernie--?"

"Every one has been as good as gold, Greenlaw. But you know there'snot much at the last that can be done--"

"No. We all pass, and they that bide can but make the dirge. But I'llbe obliged if you'll say to Mr. Alexander that if there _is_ aught--"He gathered up the reins. "It will be snowing presently. I alwaysthought that I'd like to part on a day like this, gray and quiet, withall the color and the shouting lifted elsewhere. " He was gone, trotting before them on his big horse. 

Strickland and the minister looked after him. "There's one to be likedno little!" said Strickland. 

But Mr. M'Nab's answering tone was wintry yet. "He makes mair songsthan he listens to sermons! Jarvis Barrow, that's a strong witness, should have had another sort of great-nephew! And so he that will belaird comes home to-morrow? It's little that he has been at home oflate years. "

"Yes, little. "

The manse with the kirk beyond rose before them, drawn against thepallid sky. "A wanderer to and fro in the earth, and I doubtnot--though we do not hear much of it--an eater of husks!--Will younot come in, Mr. Strickland?"

"Another time, Mr. M'Nab. I've an errand in the village. --TouchingAlexander Jardine. I suppose that the whole sense-bound world might becalled by a world farther on an eater of husks. But I know naught tojustify any especial application of the phrase to him. I know, indeed, a good deal quite to the contrary. You are, it seems to me, somethingless than charitable--"

M'Nab regarded him with an earnest, narrow, wintry look. "I would notwish to deserve that epithet, Mr. Strickland. But the world is evil, and Satan stands close at the ear of the young, both the poor and themof place and world's gear! So I doubt not that he eats the husks. Idoubt not, either, that the Lord has a rod for him, as for us all, that will drive him, willy-nilly, home. So I'll say good day, sir. To-morrow I'll go again to the laird, and so every day until hissummons comes. "

They parted at the manse door. The world was gray, the snow swifteningits approach. Strickland, passing the kirk, kept on down the onevillage street. All and any who were out of doors spoke to him, askinghow did the laird. Some asked if "the young laird" had come. 

In the shop where he made his purchase the woman who sold would havekept him talking an hour: "Wad the laird last the week? Wad he makefriends before he died with Mr. Touris of Black Hill with whom he hadthe great quarrel three years since? Eh, sirs! and he never set footagain in Touris House, nor Mr. Touris in his!--Wad Mr. Jamie gae nowto Edinburgh or on his travels, that had been at home sae langbecause the laird wadna part with him?--Wad Miss Alice, that was asbonny as a rose and mair friendly than the gowans on a June lea, justbide on at the house with her aunt, Mrs. Grizel, that came when theleddy died? Wad--"

Strickland smiled. "You must just come up to the house, Mrs. Macmurdo, and have a talk with Mrs. Grizel. --I hope the laird may last theweek. "

"You're a close ane!" thought the disappointed Mrs. Macmurdo. Aloudshe said, "Aweel, sir, Mr. Alexander that will be laird is coming hamefrae foreign parts?"

"Yes. "

"Sic a wanderer as he has been! But there!" said Mrs. Macmurdo, "onythat saw him when he was a laddie gaeing here and gaeing there by hislane-some, glen and brae and muir, might ha' said, 'Ye're awanderer--and as sune as ye may ye'll wander farther!'"

"You're quite right, Mrs. Macmurdo, " said Strickland, and took hisparcel from her. 

"A wanderer and a seeker!" Mrs. Macmurdo was loth to let him go. "Andhis great friend is still Captain Ian Rullock?"

"Yes, still. "

Mrs. Macmurdo reluctantly opened the shop door. "Aweel, sir, if yemaun gae. --There'll be snaw the night, I'm thinking! Do ye stop at theinn? There's twa-three sogers in town. "

Strickland had not meant to stop. But, coming to the Jardine Arms andglancing through the window, he saw by the light of the fire in thecommon room four men in red coats sitting at table, drinking. He feltjaded and depressed, needing distraction from the gray chill day andthe laird's dying. Curiosity faintly stretched herself. He turned intothe inn, took a seat by a corner table, and called for a bottle ofwine. In addition to the soldiers the room had a handful ofothers--farmers, a lawyer's clerk from Stirling, a petty officer ofthe excise, and two or three village nondescripts. From this groupthere now disengaged himself Robin Greenlaw, who came across toStrickland's table. 

"Sit down and have a glass with me, " said the latter. "Who are they?"

"A recruiting party, " answered Greenlaw, accepting the invitation. "Ilike to hear their talk! I'll listen, drinking your wine and thankingyou, sir! and riding home I'll make a song about them. "

He sat with his arm over the chair-back, his right hand now liftingand now lowering the wine-glass. He had a look of strength and innerpleasure that rested and refreshed. 

"What are they saying now?" asked Strickland. 

The soldiers made the center of attention. More or less all in theroom harkened to their talk, disconnected, obscure, idle, andboisterous as much of it was. The revenue officer, by virtue of beingalso the king's paid man, had claimed comrade's right and was drinkingwith them and putting questions. He was so obliging as to ask these ina round tone of voice and to repeat on the same note the informationgathered. 

"Recruits for the King's army, fighting King Louis on the riverMain. --Where's that?--It's in Germany. Our King and the Hanoveriansand the King of Prussia and the Queen of Austria are fighting the Kingof France. --Aye, of course ye know that, neighbors, being intelligentScots folk, but recapitulation is na out of order!"

"Ask them what's thought of the Hanoverians. " It was the lawyer'sclerk's question. Thereupon rose some noisy difference of opinionamong the drinking redcoats. The excise man finally reported. "They'rena English, nor Scots, nor even Irish. But they're liked weel enough!They're good fighters. Oh, aye, when ye march and fight alangsidethem, they're good enough! They're his Majesty's cousins. God saveKing George!"

The recruiting party banged with tankards upon the table. One of thenumber put a question of his own. He had a look half pedant, halfbully, and he spoke with a one-quarter-drunken, owllike solemnity. 

"I may take it from the look of things that there are none hereaboutsbut good Whigs and upholders of government? No Tories--no damned blackJacobites?"

The excise man hemmed. "Why, ye see we're no sae muckle far fromHielands and Hielandmen, and it's known what they are, chief, chieftain, and clan--saving always the duke and every Campbell! And Iwadna say that there are not, here and there, this side the Hielands, an auld family with leanings the auld way, and even a few gentlemenwho were _out_ in the 'fifteen. But the maist of us, gentle andsimple, are up and down Whig and Kirk and reigning House. --Na, na!when we drink to the King we dinna pass the glass over the water!"

A dark, thin soldier put in his word, well garnished with oaths. "Nowthat there's war up and down and so many of us are going out of thecountry, there's a saying that the Pretender may e'en sail across fromFrance and beat a drum and give a shout! Then there'll be a sorting--"

"Them that would rise wouldn't be enough to make a graveyard ghost tofrighten with!"

"You're mistaken there. They'll frighten ye all right when they answerthe drum! I'm thinking there's some in the army would answer it!"

"Then they'll be hanged, drawn, and quartered!" averred the corporal. "Who are ye thinking would do that?"

"I'm not precisely knowing. But there are some with King George werebrought up on the hope of King James!"

More liquor appeared upon the table, was poured and drunk. The talkgrew professional. The King's shilling, and the advantage of takingit, came solely upon the board, and who might or might not 'list fromthis dale and the bordering hills. Strickland and Robin Greenlaw lefttheir corner. 

"I must get back to the house. "

"And I to Littlefarm. "

They went out together. There were few in the street. The snow wasbeginning to fall. Greenlaw untied his horse. 

"I hope that we're not facing another 'fifteen! _'Scotland's ainStewarts, and Break the Union!'_ It sounds well, but it's not in theline of progression. What does Captain Ian Rullock think about it?"

"I don't know. He hasn't been here, you know, for a long while. "

"That's true. He and Mr. Alexander are still like brothers?"

"Like brothers. "

Greenlaw mounted his horse. "Well, he's a bonny man, but he's got apiece of the demon in him! So have I, I ken very well, and so, doubtless, has he who will be Glenfernie, and all the rest of us--"

"I sit down to supper with mine very often, " said Strickland. 

"Oh yes, he's common--the demon! But somehow I could find him in IanRullock, though all covered up with gold. But doubtless, " saidGreenlaw, debonairly, "it would be the much of the fellow in me thatwould recognize much in another!" He put his gray into motion. "Goodday, sir!" He was gone, disappearing down the long street, into thesnow that was now falling like a veil. 

Strickland turned homeward. The snow fell fast and thick in largewhite flakes. Glenfernie House rose before him, crowning the craggyhill, the modern building and the remnant of the old castle, not agreat place, but an ancient, settled, and rooted, part of a land poorbut not without grandeur, not without a rhythm attained betweengrandeur and homeliness. The road swept around and up between leaflesstrees and green cone-bearing ones. The snow was whitening thebranches, the snow wrapped house and landscape in its veil. It broke, in part it obliterated, line and modeling; the whole seemed on thepoint of dissolving into a vast and silent unity. "Like a dying man, "thought Strickland. He came upon the narrow level space about thehouse, passed the great cedar planted by a pilgrim laird the year ofFlodden Field, and entered by a door in the southern face. 

Davie met him. "Eh, sir, Mr. Alexander's come!"

"Come!"

"Aye, just! An hour past, riding Black Alan, with Tam Dickson behindon Whitefoot, and weary enough thae horses looked! Mr. Alexander wadha' gane without bite or sup to the laird's room, but he's lyingasleep. So now he's gane to his ain auld room for a bit of rest. Haith, sir, " said Davie, "but he's like the auld laird when he wastwenty-eight!"

CHAPTER VIII

Strickland went, to the hall, where he found Alice. 

"Come to the fire! I've been watching the snow, but it is so white andthick and still it fair frightens me! Davie told you that Alexanderhas come?"

"Yes. From Edinburgh to-day. "

"Yes. He left London as soon as he had our letters. "

She stood opposite him, a bright and bonny lass, with a look of hermother, but with more beauty. The light from the burning logs deepenedthe gold in her hair, as the warmth made more vivid the rose of hercheek. She owned a warm and laughing heart, a natural goodness. Strickland, who had watched and taught her since she was a slip of achild, had for her a great fondness. 

Jamie entered the hall. "Father's awake now, but Aunt Grizel andTibbie Ross will not tell him Alexander's come until they've given himsomething to eat. " He came to the fire and stood, his blue eyesglinting light. "It's fine to see Alexander! The whole place feelsdifferent!"

"You've got a fine love for Alexander, " said Strickland. So long hadhe lived with the Jardines of Glenfernie that they had grown like ownfolk to him, and he to them. He looked very kindly at the young man, handsome, big, flushed with feeling. He did not say, "Now you'll begoing, Jamie, and he'll be staying, " but the thought was in mind, andpresently Alice gave it voice. 

"He says that he has seen his earth, and that now he means to be along time at home. "

Davie appeared. "Mr. Alexander has gone to the laird's room. Mrs. Grizel wad have ye all come, too, sae be ye move saftly and sit dumb. "

The three went. The laird's room was large and somewhat grimly bare. When his wife died he would have taken out every luxury. But a greatfire burned on the hearth and gave a touch of redemption. A couch, too, had been brought in for the watcher at night, and a greatflowered chair. In this now sat Mrs. Grizel Kerr, a pleasant, elderly, comely body, noted for her housewifery and her garden of herbs. Behindher, out of a shadowy corner, gleamed the white mutch of Tibbie Ross, the best nurse in that countryside. Jamie and Alice took two chairsthat had been set for them near the bed. Strickland moved to therecess of a window. Outside the snow fell in very large flakes, largeand many, straight and steady, there being no wind. 

In a chair drawn close to the great bed, on a line with the sick man'shand lying on the coverlet, sat the heir of Glenfernie. He sat leaningforward, with one hand near the hand of his father. The laird's eyeswere closed. He had been given a stimulant and he now lay gatheringhis powers that were not far from this life's frontier. The curtainsof the bed had been drawn quite back; propped by pillows into ahalf-sitting posture, he was plain to all in the room, in the ruddylight of the fire. A clock upon the wall ticked, ticked. Those in theroom sat very still. 

The laird drew a determined breath and opened his eyes. "Alexander!"

"Father!"

"You look like myself sitting there, and yet not myself. I am going todie. "

"If that's your will, father. "

"Aye, it's my will, for I've made it mine. I can't talk much. We'lltalk at times and sit still between. Are you going to stay with meto-night?"

"Indeed I am, father. Right here beside you. "

"Well, I've missed you. But you had to have your wanderings and yourlife of men. I understood that. "

"You've been most good to me. It is in my heart and in the tears of myeyes. "

"I did not grudge the siller. And I've had a pride in you, Alexander. Now you'll be the laird. Now let's sit quiet a bit. "

The snow fell, the fire burned, the clock ticked. He spoke again. "It's before an eye inside that you'll be a wanderer and a goer aboutyet--within and without, my laddie, within and without! Do not forget, though, to hold the old place together that so many Jardines have beenborn in, and to care for the tenant bodies and the old folk--andthere's your brother and sister. "

"I will forget nothing that you say, father. "

"I have kept that to say on top of my mind. . . . The old place and thetenant bodies and old folk, and your brother and sister. I have yourword, and so, " said the laird, "that's done and may driftby. --Grizel, I wad sleep a bit. Let him go and come again. "

His eyes closed. Alexander rose from the chair beside him. Coming toAlice, he put his arm around her, and with Jamie at his other hand thethree went from the room. Strickland tarried a moment to consult withMrs. Grizel. 

"The doctor comes to-morrow?"

"Aye. Tibbie thinks him a bit stronger. "

"I will watch to-night with Alexander. "

"Hoot, man! ye maun be weary enough yourself!" said Mrs. Grizel. 

"No, I am not. I will sleep awhile after supper, and come in aboutten. So you and Tibbie may get one good night. "

Some hours later, in the room that had been his since his first comingto Glenfernie, he gazed out of window before turning to godown-stairs. The snow had ceased to fall, and out of a great streamingfloe of clouds looked a half-moon. Under it lay wan hill and plain. The clouds were all of a size and vast in number, a herd of the upperair. The wind drove them, not like a shepherd, but like a wolf attheir heels. The moon seemed the shepherd, laboring for control. Thenthe clouds themselves seemed the wolves, and the moon a traveleragainst whom they leaped, who was thrown among them, and roseagain. . . . Then the moon was a soul, struggling with the wrack and waveof things. 

Strickland went down the old, winding Glenfernie stair, and came atlast to the laird's room. Tibbie Ross opened the door to him, and hesaw it all in low firelight and made ready for the night. The lairdlay propped as before in the great bed, but seemed asleep. Alexandersat before the fire, elbows upon knees and chin in hand, brooding overthe red coals. Tibbie murmured a direction or two and showed wine andbread set in the deep window. Then with a courtesy and a breathed, "Gie ye gude night, sirs!" she was forth to her own rest. The doorclosed softly behind her. Strickland stepped as softly to the chairbeyond Alexander. The couch was spread for the watchers' alternateuse, if so they chose; on a table burned shaded candles. Stricklandhad a book in his pocket. Sitting down, he produced this, for he wouldnot seem to watch the man by the fire. 

Alexander Jardine, large and strong of frame, with a countenancemassive and thoughtful for so young a man, bronzed, with well-turnedfeatures, gazed steadily into the red hollows where the light played, withdrew and played again. Strickland tried to read, but the sense ofthe other's presence affected him, came between his mind and the page. Involuntarily he began to occupy himself with Alexander and to picturehis life away from Glenfernie, away, too, from Edinburgh and Scotland. It was now six years since, definitely, he had given up the law, throwing himself, as it were, on the laird's mercy both for long andwide travel, and for life among books other than those indicated foradvocates. The laird had let him go his gait--the laird with Mrs. Jardine a little before him. The Jardine fortune was not a great one, but there was enough for an heir who showed no inclination to live andto travel _en prince_, who in certain ways was nearer the asceticthan the spendthrift. . . . Before Strickland's mind, strolling dreamily, came pictures of far back, of years ago, of long since. A by-wind hadbrought to the tutor then certain curious bits of knowledge. Alexander, a student in Edinburgh, had lived for some time upon halfof his allowance in order to accommodate Ian Rullock with the otherhalf, the latter being in a crisis of quarrel with his uncle, who, when he quarreled, used always, where he could, the money screw. Strickland had listened to his Edinburgh informant, but had neverdivulged the news given. No more had he told another bit, floated tohim again by that ancient Edinburgh friend and gossip, who had youngcousins at college and listened to their talk. It pertained to a timea little before that of the shared income. This time it had beenshared blood. Strickland, sitting with his book in the quiet room, sawin imagination the students' chambers in Edinburgh, and the littlethrong of very young men, flushed with wine and with youth, makingfriendships, and talking of friendships made, and dubbing AlexanderDamon and Ian Pythias. Then more wine and a bravura passage. Damon andPythias opening each a vein with some convenient dagger, smearing intothe wound some drops of the other's blood, and going home each with atourniquet above the right wrist. . . . Well, that was years ago--andyouth loved such passages!

Alexander, by the fire, stooped to put back a coal that had fallenupon the oak boards, then sank again into his reverie. Strickland reada paragraph without any especial comprehension, after which he foundhimself again by the stream of Alexander's life. That friendship withIan Rullock utterly held, he believed. Well, Ian Rullock, too, seemedsomehow a great personage. Very different from Alexander, and yetsomehow large to match. . . . Where had Alexander been afterEdinburgh--where had he not been? Very often Ian was with him, butsometimes and for months he would seem to have been alone. Glenferniemight receive letters from Germany, from Italy or Egypt, or fromfurther yet to the east. He had been alone this year, for Ian was nowthe King's man and with his regiment, Strickland supposed, whereverthat might be. Alexander had written from Buda-Pesth, from Erfurt, from Amsterdam, from London. Now he sat here at Glenfernie, lookinginto the fire. Strickland, who liked books of travel, wondered what hesaw of old cities, grave or gay, of ruined temples, sphinxes, monuments, grass-grown battle-fields, and ships at sea, storied lands, peoples, individual men and women. He had wayfared long; he must havehad many an adventure. He had been from childhood a learner. His touchupon a book spoke of adeptship in that world. . . . Well, here he was, and what would he do now, when he was laird? Strickland lost himselfin speculation. Little or naught had ever been in Alexander's lettersabout women. 

The white ash fell, the clock ticked, the wind went around the housewith a faint, banshee crying. The figure by the fire rested there, silent, still, and brooding. Strickland observed with some wonder itspower of long, concentrated thinking. It sat there, not visiblytense, seemingly relaxed, yet as evidently looking into some place ofinner motion, wider and swifter than that of the night world about it. Strickland tried to read. The clock hand moved toward midnight. 

The laird spoke from the great bed. "Alexander--"

"I am here, father. " Alexander rose and went to the sick man's side. "You slept finely! And here we have food for you, and drops to giveyou strength--"

The laird swallowed the drops and a spoonful or two of broth. "There. Now I want to talk. Aye, I am strong enough. I feel stronger. I amstrong. It hurts me more to check me. Is that the wind blowing?"

"Yes. It is a wild night. "

"It is singing. I could almost pick out the words. Alexander, there'sa quarrel I have with Touris of Black Hill. I have no wish to make itup. He did me a wrong and is a sinner in many ways. But his sister isdifferent. If you see her tell her that I aye liked her. "

"Would it make you happier to be reconciled to Mr. Touris?"

"No, it would not! You were never a canting one, Alexander! Let thatbe. Anger is anger, and it's weakness to gainsay it! That is, " saidthe laird, "when it's just--and this is just. Alexander, my bonnyman--"

"I'm here, father. "

"I've been lying here, gaeing up and down in my thoughts, a bairnagain with my grandmither, gaeing up and down the braes and by theglen. I want to say somewhat to you. When you see an adder set yourheel upon it! When a wolf goes by take your firelock and after him!When a denier and a cheat is near you tell the world as much and helpto set the snare! Where there are betrayers and persecutors hunt thewild plant shall make a cup like their ain!" He fell to coughing, coughing more and more violently. 

Strickland rose and came to the bedside, and the two watchers gave himwater and wine to drink, and would have had him, when the fit wasover, cease from all speech. He shook them off. 

"Alexander, ye're like me. Ye're mair like me than any think! Where yefind your Grierson of Lagg, clench with him--clench--Alexander!"

He coughed, lifting himself in their arms. A blood-vessel broke. Tibbie Ross, answering the calling, hurried in. "Gude with us! it'sthe end!" Mrs. Grizel came, wrapped in a great flowered bed-gown. In afew minutes all was over. Strickland and Alexander laid him straightthat had been the laird. 

CHAPTER IX

The month was May. The laird of Glenfernie, who had walked to theKelpie's Pool, now came down the glen. Mother Binning was yet in hercot, though an older woman now and somewhat broken. 

"Oh aye, my bonny man! All things die and all things live. To and frogaes the shuttle!"

Glenfernie sat on the door-stone. She took all the news he couldbring, and had her own questions to put. 

"How's the house and all in it?"

"Well. "

"Ye've got a bonny sister! Whom will she marry? There's Abercrombieand Fleming and Ferguson. "

"I do not know. The one she likes the best. "

"And when will ye be marrying yourself?"

"I am not going to marry, Mother. I would marry Wisdom, if I could!"

"Hoot! she stays single! Do ye love the hunt of Wisdom so?"

"Aye, I do. But it's a long, long chase--and to tell you the truth, attimes I think she's just a wraith! And at times I am lazy and wouldjust sit in the sun and be a fool. "

"Like to-day?"

"Like to-day. And so, " said Alexander, rising, "as I feel that way, I'll e'en be going on!"

"I'm thinking that maist of the wise have inner tokens by which theyken the fule. I was ne'er afraid of folly, " said Mother Binning. "It'sgood growing stuff!"

Glenfernie laughed and left her and the drone of her wheel. A cluckinghen and her brood, the cot and its ash-tree, sank from sight. A littlelonger and he reached the middle glen where the banks approached andthe full stream rushed with a manifold sound. Here was the curtain ofbrier masking the cave that he had shared with Ian. He drew it asideand entered. So much smaller was the place than it had seemed inboyhood! Twice since they came to be men had he been here with Ian, and they had smiled over their cavern, but felt for it a tenderness. In a corner lay the fagots that, the last time, they had gathered withlaughter and left here against outlaws' needs. Ian! He pictured Ianwith his soldiers. 

Outside the cavern, the air came about him like a cloud of fragrance. As he went down the glen, into its softer sweeps, this increased, asdid the song of birds. The primrose was strewn about in disks of palegold, the white thorn lifted great bouquets, the bluebell touched theheart. A lark sang in the sky, linnet and cuckoo at hand, in the woodat the top of the glen cooed the doves. The water rippled by theleaning birches, the wild bees went from flower to flower. The sky wasall sapphire, the air a perfumed ocean. So beautiful rang the springthat it was like a bell in the heart, in the blood. The laird ofGlenfernie, coming to a great natural chair of sun-warmed rock, satdown to listen. All was of a sweetness, poignant, intense. But in thevery act of recognizing this, there came upon him an old mood ofmelancholy, an inner mist and chill, a gray languor and wanting. Thevery bourgeoning and blossoming about him seemed to draw light fromhim, not give light. "I brought the Kelpie's Pool back with me, " hethought. He shut his eyes, leaning his head against the stone, at lastwith a sideward movement burying it in his folded arms. "Morelife--more! What was a great current goes sluggish and landbound. Where again is the open sea--the more--the boundless? Whereagain--where again?"

He sat for an hour by the wild, singing stream. It drenched him, theloved place and the sweet season, with its thousand store of beauties. Its infinite number of touches brought at last response. The vaguecrying and longing of nature hushed before a present lullaby. At lasthe rose and went on with the calling stream. 

The narrow path, set about with living green, with the spanglyflowers, and between the branches fragments of the blue lift as clearas glass, led down the glen, widening now to hill and dale. Softeningand widening, the world laughed in May. The stream grew broad andtranquil, with grassy shores overhung by green boughs. Here and therethe bank extended into the flood a little grassy cape edged withviolets. Alexander, following the spiral of the path, came upon theview of such a spot as this. It lay just before him, a little belowhis road. The stream washed its fairy beach. From the new grass rosea blooming thorn-tree; beneath this knelt a girl and, resting upon herhands, looked at her face in the water. 

The laird of Glenfernie stood still. A drooping birch hid him; hisstep had been upon moss and was not heard. The face and form upon thebank, the face in the water, showed no consciousness of any humanneighbor. The face was that of a woman of perhaps twenty-four. Thehair was brown, the eyes brown. The head was beautifully placed on around, smooth throat. With a wide forehead, with great width betweenthe eyes, the face tapered to a small round chin. The mouth and underthe eyes smiled in a thousand different ways. The beauty that wasthere was subtle, not discoverable by every one. --The girl settledback upon the grass beneath the thorn-tree. She was very nearGlenfernie; he could see the rise and fall of her bosom beneath herblue print gown. It was Elspeth Barrow--he knew her now, though he hadnot seen her for a long time. She sat still, her brown eyes raised tobuilding birds in the thorn-tree. Then she began herself to sing, clear and sweet. 

 "A lad and a lass met ower the brae; They blushed rose-red, but they said nae word-- The woodbine fair and the milk-white slae:-- And frae one to the other gaed a silver bird, A silver bird. 

 "A man set his Wish all odds before, With sword, with pen, and with gold he stirred Till the Wish and he met on a conquered shore, And frae one to the other gaed an ebon bird, An ebon bird. 

 "God looked on a man and said: ''Tis time! The broken mends, clear flows the blurred. You and I are two worlds that rhyme!' And frae one to the other gaed a golden bird, A golden bird. "

She sang it through, then sat entirely still against the stem of thethorn, while about her lips played that faint, unapproachable, glamouring smile. Her hands touched the grass to either side her body;her slender, blue-clad figure, the all of her, smote him like somegod's line of poetry. 

There was in the laird of Glenfernie's nature an empty palace. It hadbeen built through ages and every wind of pleasure and pain had blownabout it. Then it had slowly come about that the winds of pain hadincreased upon the winds of pleasure. The mind closed the door of thepalace and the nature inclined to turn from it. It was there, but asea mist hid it, and a tall thorn-hedge, and a web stretched acrossits idle gates. It had hardly come, in this life, into Glenfernie'swaking mind that it was there at all. 

Now with a suddenness every door clanged open. The mist parted, thethorn-wood sank, the web was torn. The palace stood, shining likehome, and it was he who was afar, in the mist and the wood, and theweb of idleness and oblivion in shreds about him. Set in thethrone-room, upon the throne, he saw the queen. 

His mood, that May day, had given the moment, and wide circumstancehad met it. Now the hand was in the glove, the statue in the niche, the bow upon the string, the spark in the tinder, the sea through thedike. Now what had reached being must take its course. 

He felt that so fatally that he did not think of resistance. . . . Elspeth, upon the grassy cape, beneath the blooming thorn, heard stepsdown the glen path, and turned her eyes to see the young laird movingbetween the birch stems. Now he was level with the holding; now hespoke to her, lifting his hat. She answered, with the smile beneathher eyes:

"Aye, Glenfernie, it's a braw day!"

"May I come into the fairy country and sit awhile and visit?"

"Aye. " She welcomed him to a hillock of green rising from the water'sedge. "It _is_ fairyland, and these are the broad seas around, and Iknow if I came here by night I should find the Good People before me!"She looked at him with friendliness, half shy, half frank. "It is thebest of weather for wandering. "

"Are you fond of that, too? Do you go up and down alone?"

"By my lee-lane when Gilian's not here. She's in Aberdeen now, wherelive our mother's folk. "

"I have not seen you for years. "

"I mind the last time. Your mother lay ill. One evening at sunset Mr. Ian Rullock and you came to White Farm. "

"It must have been after sunset. It must have been dark. "

"Back of that you and he came from Edinburgh one time. We were down bythe wishing-green, Robin Greenlaw and Gilian and I and three or fourother lads and lassies. Do you remember? Mr. Rullock would have usdance, and we all took hands--you, too--and went around the ash-treeas though it were a May-pole. We changed hands, one with another, anddanced upon the green. Then you and he got upon your horses and rodeaway. He was riding the white mare Fatima. But oh, " said Elspeth, "then came grandfather, who had seen us from the reaped field, and heblamed us sair and put no to our playing! He gave word to theminister, and Sunday the sermon dealt with the ill women of Scripture. Back of that--"

"Back of that--"

"There was the day the two of you would go to the Kelpie's Pool. "Elspeth's eyes enlarged and darkened. "The next morn we heard--JockBinning told us--that Mr. Ian had nearly drowned. "

"Almost ten years ago. Once--twice--thrice in ten years. How idly werethey spent, those years!"

"Oh, " cried Elspeth, "they say that you have been to world's end andhave gotten great learning!"

"One comes home from all that to find world's end and great learning. "

Elspeth leaned from him, back against the thorn-tree. She lookedsomewhat disquietedly, somewhat questioningly, at this new laird. Glenfernie, in his turn, laid upon himself both hands of control. Hethought:

"Do not peril all--do not peril all--with haste and frightening!"

He sat upon the green hillock and talked of country news. She met himwith this and that . . . White Farm affairs, Littlefarm. 

"Robin, " said Alexander, "manages so well that he'll grow wealthy!"

"Oh no! He manages well, but he'll never grow wealthy outside! Butinside he has great riches. "

_"Does she love him, then?"_ It poured fear into his heart. A magicianwith a sword--with a great, evil, written-upon creese like thathanging at Black Hill--was here before the palace. 

"Do you love him?" asked Alexander, and asked it with so straight asimplicity that Elspeth Barrow took no offense. 

She looked at him, and those strange smiles played about her lips. "Robin is a fairy man, " she said. "He has ower little of struggle savewith his rhymes, " and left him to make what he could of that. 

"She is heart-free, " he thought, but still he feared and boded. 

Elspeth rose from the grass, stepped from beneath the blooming tree. "I must be going. It wears toward noon. "

Together they left the flower-set cape. The laird of Glenfernie lookedback upon it. 

"_Heaven sent a sample down. _ You come here when you wish? You walkabout with the spring and summer days?"

"Aye, when my work's done. Gilian and I love the greenwood. "

He gave her the narrow path, but kept beside her on stone and deadleaves and mossy root. Though he was so large of frame, he moved witha practised, habitual ease, as far as might be from any savor ofclumsiness. He had magnetism, and to-day he drew like a planet inglow. Now he looked at the woman beside him, and now he lookedstraight ahead with kindled eyes. 

Elspeth walked with slightly quickened breath, with knitted brows. Thelaird of Glenfernie was above her in station, though go to theancestors and blood was equal enough! It carried appeal to a youngwoman's vanity, to be walking so, to feel that the laird liked wellenough to be where he was. She liked him, too. Glenfernie House wastalked of, talked of, by village and farm and cot, talked of, talkedof, year by year--all the Jardines, their virtues and their vices, what they said and what they did. She had heard, ever since she was abairn, that continual comment, like a little prattling burn runningwinter and summer through the dale. So she knew much that was true ofAlexander Jardine, but likewise entertained a sufficient amount ofmisapprehension and romancing. Out of it all came, however, for thedale, and for the women at White Farm who listened to the burn'svoice, a sense of trustworthiness. Elspeth, walking by Glenfernie, felt kindness for him. If, also, there ran a tremor of feeling that itwas very fair to be Elspeth Barrow and walking so, she was young andit was natural. But beyond that was a sense, vague, unexplained toherself, but disturbing. There was feeling in him that was not in her. She was aware of it as she might be aware of a gathering storm, thoughthe brain received as yet no clear message. She felt, struggling withthat diffused kindness and young vanity, something like discomfort andfear. So her mood was complex enough, unharmonized, parted betweenopposing currents. She was a riddle to herself. 

But Glenfernie walked in a great simplicity of faeryland or heaven. She did not love Robin Greenlaw; she was not so young a lass, with arose in her cheek for every one; she was come so far without matingbecause she had snow in her heart! The palace gleamed, the palaceshone. All the music of earth--of the world--poured through. The sunhad drunk up the mist, time had eaten the thorn-wood, the spider atthe gate had vanished into chaos and old night. 

CHAPTER X

The cows and sheep and work-horses, the dogs, the barn-yard fowls, thevery hives of bees at White Farm, seemed to know well enough that itwas the Sabbath. The flowers knew it that edged the kitchen garden, the cherry-tree knew it by the southern wall. The sunshine knew it, wearing its calm Sunday best. Sights and sounds attuned themselves. 

The White Farm family was home from kirk. Jenny Barrow and Elspeth putaway hood and wide hat of straw, slipped from and shook out and foldedon the shelf Sunday gowns and kerchiefs. Then each donned a cleanprint and a less fine kerchief and came forth to direct and aid thetwo cotter lasses who served at White Farm. These by now had off theirkirk things, but they marked Sunday still by keeping shoes andstockings. Menie and Merran, Elspeth and Jenny, set theyesterday-prepared dinner cold upon the table, drew the ale, andplaced chairs and stools. Two men, Thomas and Willy, father and son, who drove the plow, sowed and reaped, for White Farm, came from thebarn. They were yet Sunday-clad, with very clean, shining faces. "Callfather, Elspeth!" directed Jenny, and set on the table a honeycomb. 

Elspeth went without the door. Before the house grew a great fir-treethat had a bench built around it. Here, in fine weather, in rest hoursand on Sunday, might be looked for Jarvis Barrow. It was his habit totake the far side of the tree, with the trunk between him and thehouse. So there spread before him the running river, the dale andmoor, and at last the piled hills. Here he sat, leaning hands upon agreat stick shaped like a crook, his Bible open upon his knees. It wasa great book, large of print, read over in every part, but openingmost easily among the prophets. No cry, no denunciation, no longing, no judgment from Isaiah to Malachi, but was known to the elder of thekirk. Now he sat here, in his Sunday dress, with the Bible. At alittle distance, on the round bench, sat Robin Greenlaw. The old manread sternly, concentratedly on; the young one looked at the purplemountain-heads. Elspeth came around the tree. 

"Grandfather, dinner is ready. --Robin! we didn't know that you werehere--"

"I went the way around to speak with the laird. Then I thought, 'Iwill eat at White Farm--'"

"You're welcome!--Grandfather, let me take the Book. "

"No, " said the old man, and bore it himself withindoors. Spare andunbent of frame, threescore and ten and five, and able yet at theplow-stilts, rigid of will, servant to the darker Calvinism, starvingwhere he might human pride and human affections, and yet with much ofboth to starve, he moved and spoke with slow authority, looked apatriarch and ruled his holding. When presently he came to table inthe clean, sanded room with the sunlight on the wall and floor, andwhen, standing, he said the long, the earnest grace, it might havebeen taken that here, in the Scotch farm-house, was at least a minorprophet. The grace was long, a true wrestling in prayer. Ended, adecent pause was made, then all took place, Jarvis Barrow and hisdaughter and granddaughter, Robin Greenlaw, Thomas and Willy, Menieand Merran. The cold meat, the bread, and other food were passed fromhand to hand, the ale poured. The Sunday hush, the Sunday voices, continued to hold. Jarvis Barrow would have no laughter and idleclashes at his table on the Lord's day. Menie and Merran and Willykept a stolid air, with only now and then a sidelong half-smile ornudging request for this or that. Elspeth ate little, sat with herbrown eyes fixed out of the window. Robin Greenlaw ate heartilyenough, but he had an air distrait, and once or twice he frowned. ButJenny Barrow could not long keep still and incurious, even upon theSabbath day. 

"Eh, Robin, what was your crack with the laird?"

"He wants to buy Warlock for James Jardine. He's got his ensign'scommission to go fight the French. "

"Eh, he'll be a bonny lad on Warlock! I thought you wadna sell him?"

"I'll sell to Glenfernie. "

The farmer spoke from the head of the table. "I'll na hae talk, Robin, of buying and selling on the day! It clinks like the money-changersand sellers of doves. "

Thomas, his helper, raised his head from a plate of cold mutton. "Glenfernie was na at kirk. He's na the kirkkeeper his father was. Na, na!"

"Na, " said the farmer. "Bairns dinna walk nowadays in parents' ways. "

Willy had a bit of news he would fain get in. "Nae doot Glenfernie'sbrave, but he wadna be a sodger, either! I was gaeing alang wi' theyowes, and there was he and Drummielaw riding and gabbing. Sae therecam on a skirling and jumping wind and rain, and we a' gat under atree, the yowes and the dogs and Glenfernie and Drummielaw and me. Then we changed gude day and they went on gabbing. And 'Nae, ' saysGlenfernie, 'I am nae lawyer and I am nae sodger. Jamie wad be thelast, but brithers may love and yet be thinking far apairt. The bestfriend I hae in the warld is a sodger, but I'm thinking I hae lost theknack o' fechting. When you lose the taste you lose the knack. '"

"I's fearing, " said Thomas, "that he's lost the taste o' releegion!"

"Eh, " exclaimed Jenny Barrow, "but he's a bonny big man! He came byyestreen, and I thought, 'For a' there is sae muckle o' ye, ye look asthough ye walked on air!'"

Thomas groaned. "Muckle tae be saved, muckle tae be lost!"

Jarvis Barrow spoke from the head of the table. "If fowk canna talk onthe Sabbath o' spiritual things, maybe they can mak shift to haud thetongue in their chafts! I wad think that what we saw and heard theday wad put ye ower the burn frae vain converse!"

Thomas nodded approval. 

"Aweel--" began Jenny, but did not find just the words with which tocontinue. 

Elspeth, turning ever so slightly in her chair, looked farther off tothe hills and summer clouds. A slow wave of color came over her faceand throat. Menie and Merran looked sidelong each at the other, thentheir blue eyes fell to their plates. But Willy almost audibly smackedhis lips. 

"Gude keep us! the meenister gaed thae sinners their licks!"

"A sair sight, but an eedifying!" said Thomas. 

Robin Greenlaw pushed back his chair. He saw the inside of the kirkagain, and two miserable, loutish, lawless lovers standing for publicdiscipline. His color rose. "Aye, it was a sair sight, " he said, abruptly, made a pause, then went on with the impetuousness of a burnunlocked from winter ice. "If I should say just what I think, Isuppose, uncle, that I could not come here again! So I'll e'en sayonly that I think that was a sair sight and that I felt great shameand pity for all sinners. So, feeling it for all, I felt it for Mallieand Jock, standing there an hour, first on one foot and then on theother, to be gloated at and rebukit, and for the minister doing therebuking, and for the kirkful all gloating, and thinking, 'Lord, notsuch are we!' and for Robin Greenlaw who often enough himself takeswildfire for true light! I say I think it was sair sight and sairdoing--"

Barrow's hand came down upon the table. "Robin Greenlaw!"

"You need not thunder at me, sir. I'm done! I did not mean to makesuch a clatter, for in this house what clatter makes any difference?It's the sinner makes the clatter, and it's just promptly sunk andlost in godliness!"

The old man and the young turned in their chairs, faced each other. They looked somewhat alike, and in the heart of each was fondness forthe other. Greenlaw, eye to eye with the patriarch, felt his wrathgoing. 

"Eh, uncle, I did not mean to hurt the Sunday!"

Jarvis Barrow spoke with the look and the weight of a prophet inIsrael. "What is your quarrel about, and for what are ye flytingagainst the kirk and the minister and the kirkkeepers? Are ye wantingthat twa sinners, having sinned, should hae their sin for secret andsweet to their aneselves, gilded and pairfumed and excused andunnamed? Are ye wanting that nane should know, and the plague shouldlive without the doctor and without the mark upon the door? Or are yethinking that it is nae plague at all, nae sin, and nae blame? Then yebe atheist, Robin Greenlaw, and ye gae indeed frae my door, and wadgae were ye na my nephew, but my son!" He gathered force. "Elder ofthe kirk, I sit here, and I tell ye that were it my ain flesh andblood that did evil, my stick and my plaid I wad take and ower themoor I wad gae to tell manse and parish that Sin, the wolf, had creptinto the fauld! And I wad see thae folly-crammed and sinfu' sauls, that had let him in and had his bite, set for shame and shawing andwarning and example before the congregation, and I wad say to theminister, 'Lift voice against them and spare not!' And I wad be therethe day and in my seat, though my heart o' flesh was like to break!"His hand fell again heavily upon the board. "Sae weak and womanish isthae time we live in!" He flashed at his great-nephew. "Sae poetical!It wasna sae when the Malignants drove us and we fled to the hills andwere fed on the muirs with the word of the Lord! It wasna sae in thetime when Gawin Elliot that Glenfernie draws frae was hanged forgieing us that word! Then gin a sin-blasted ane was found amang us, his road indeed was shawn him! Aye, were't man or woman! _'For whilethey be folded together as thorns, and while they are drunken asdrunkards, they shall be devoured as stubble fully dry!'_"

He pushed back his heavy chair; he rose from table and went forth, tall, ancient, gray, armored in belief. They heard him take his Biblefrom where it lay, and knew that he was back under the fir-tree, facing from the house toward moor and hill and mountain. 

"Eh-h, " groaned Thomas, "the elder is a mighty witness!"

The family at White Farm ate in silence. Elspeth slipped from herplace. 

"Where are ye gaeing, hinny?" asked Jenny. "Ye hae eaten naething. "

"I've finished, " said Elspeth. "I'm going to afternoon kirk, and I'llbe getting ready. "

She went into the room that she shared with Gilian and shut the door. Robin looked after her. 

"When is Gilian coming home?"

"Naebody knows. She is sae weel at Aberdeen! They write that she is agreat student and is liked abune a', and they clamor to keep her. --Areye gaeing to second kirk, Robin?"

"I do not think so. But I'll walk over the moor with you. "

The meal ended. Thomas and Willy went forth to the barn. Menie andMerran began to clear the table. They were not going to second kirk, and so the work was left to their hand. Jenny bustled to get on againher Sunday gear. She would not have missed, for a pretty, afternoonkirk and all the neighbors who were twice-goers. It was fair andtheater and promenade and kirk to her in one--though of course sheonly said "kirk. "

They walked over the moor, Jarvis Barrow and Jenny and Robin andElspeth. And at a crossing path they came upon a figure seated on astone and found it to be that of the laird of Glenfernie. 

"Gude day, Glenfernie!"

"Good day, White Farm!"

He joined himself to them. For a moment he and Robin Greenlaw weretogether. 

"Do you know what I hear them calling you?" quoth the latter. "I hearthem say 'The wandering laird!'"

Alexander smiled. "That's not so bad a name!"

He walked now beside Jarvis Barrow. The old man's stride was hardlyshortened by age. The two kept ahead of the two women, Greenlaw, Thomas, and the sheep-dog Sandy. 

"It's a bonny day, White Farm!"

"Aye, it's bonny eneuch, Glenfernie. Are ye for kirk?"

"Maybe so, maybe not. I take much of my kirk out of doors. Moors makegrand kirks. That has a sound, has it not, of heathenish brasscymbals?"

"It hae. "

"All the same, I honor every kirk that stands sincere. "

"Wasna your father sincere? Why gae ye not in his steps?"

"Maybe I do. . . . Yes, he was sincere. I trust that I am so, too. Iwould be. "

"Why gae ye not in his steps, then?"

"All buildings are not alike and yet they may be built sincerely. "

"Ye're wrong! Ye'll see it one day. Ye'll come round to your father'ssteps, only ye'll tread them deeper! Ye've got it in you, to the farback. I hear good o' ye, and I hear ill o' ye. "

"Belike. "

"Ye've traveled. See if ye can travel out of the ring of God!"

"What is the ring of God? If it is as large as I think it is, " saidGlenfernie, "I'll not travel out of it. "

He looked out over moor and moss. There breathed about him somethingthat gave the old man wonder. "Hae ye gold-mines and jewels, Glenfernie? Hae the King made ye Minister?"

The wandering laird laughed. "Better than that, White Farm, betterthan that!" He was tempted then and there to say: "I love yourgranddaughter Elspeth. I love Elspeth!" It was his intention to saysomething like this as soon as might be to White Farm. "I love Elspethand Elspeth loves me. So we would marry, White Farm, and she be ladybeside the laird at Glenfernie. " But he could not say it yet, becausehe did not know if Elspeth loved him. He was in a condition of hope, but very humbly so, far from assurance. He never did Elspeth theindignity of thinking that a lesser thing than love might lead her toGlenfernie House. If she came she would come because she loved--notelse. 

They left the moor, passed through the hollow of the stream and by themill, and began to climb the village street. Folk looked out of dooror window upon them; kirk-goers astir, dressed in their best, withregulated step and mouth and eyes set aright, gave the correctgreeting, neither more nor less. If the afternoon breeze, if a littlerunlet of water going down the street, chose to murmur: "The laird isthick with White Farm! What makes the laird so thick with White Farm?"that was breeze or runlet's doing. 

They passed the bare, gaunt manse and came to the kirkyard with thedark, low stones over the generations dead. But the grass was vivid, and the daisies bloomed, and even the yew-trees had some kind ofpeacock sheen, while the sky overhead burnt essential sapphire. Eventhe white of the lark held a friendly tinge as of rose petals mixedsomehow with it. And the bell that was ending its ringing, if it wassolemn, was also silver-sweet. Glenfernie determined that he would goto church. He entered with the White Farm folk and he sat with them, leaving the laird's high-walled, curtained pew without human tenancy. Mrs. Grizel came but to morning sermon. Alice was with a kinswoman ofrank in a great house near Edinburgh, submitting, not withoutenjoyment, to certain fine filings and polishings and lacquerings andcontacts. Jamie, who would be a soldier and fight the French, had hiscommission and was gone this past week to Carlisle, to his regiment. English Strickland was yet at Glenfernie House. Between him and thelaird held much liking and respect. Tutor no longer, he stayed on assecretary and right-hand man. But Strickland was not at church. 

The white cavern, bare and chill, with small, deep windows looking outupon the hills of June, was but sparely set out with folk. Afternoonwas not morning. Nor was there again the disciplinary vision of theforenoon. The sinners were not set the second time for a gazing-stock. It was just usual afternoon kirk. The prayer was made, the psalm wassung, Mr. M'Nab preached a strong if wintry sermon. Jarvis Barrow, white-headed, strong-featured, intent, sat as in some tower overagainst Jerusalem, considering the foes that beset her. Beside him sathis daughter Jenny, in striped petticoat and plain overgown, bluekerchief, and hat of straw. Next to Jenny was Elspeth in a dim-greenstuff, thin, besprent with small flowers, a fine white kerchief, and awider straw hat. Robin Greenlaw sat beside Elspeth, and the laird byGreenlaw. Half the congregation thought with variations:

"Wha ever heard of the laird's not being in his ain place? He andWhite Farm and Littlefarm maun be well acquaint'! He's foreign, amaist, and gangs his ain gait!"

Glenfernie, who had broken the conventions, sat in a profoundcarelessness of that. The kirk was not gray to him to-day, though hehad thought it so on other days, nor bare, nor chill. June waswithout, but June was more within. He also prayed, though hisunuttered words ran in and out between the minister's uttered ones. Under the wintry sermon he built a dream and it glowed like jewels. Atthe psalm, standing, he heard Elspeth's clear voice praising God, andhis heart lifted on that beam of song until it was as though it cameto Heaven. 

 "Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place In generations all. Before thou ever hadst brought forth The mountains great or small, Ere ever thou hadst formed the earth And all the world abroad, Ev'n thou from everlasting art To everlasting God. "

"Love, love, love!" cried Glenfernie's heart. His nature did withmight what its hand found to do, and now, having turned to lovebetween man and woman, it loved with a huge, deep, pulsing, world-oldstrength. He heard Elspeth, he felt Elspeth only; he but wished toblend with her and go on with her forever from the heaven to heavenwhich, blended so, they would make. 

 ". . . As with an overflowing flood Thou carriest them away; They like a sleep are, like the grass That grows at morn are they. At morn it flourishes and grows, Cut down at ev'n doth fade--"

"Not grass of the field, O Lord, " cried Glenfernie's heart, "but theforest of oaks, but the stars that hold for aye, one to the other--"

CHAPTER XI

The glen was dressed in June, at its height of green movement andsong. Alexander and Elspeth walked there and turned aside through aminiature pass down which flowed a stream in miniature to join thelarger flood. This cleft led them to a green hollow masked by the mainwall of the glen, a fairy place, hidden and lone. Seven times had thetwo been in company since that morning of the flower-sprinkled capeand the thorn-tree. First stood a chance meeting upon the moor, Elspeth walking from the village with a basket upon her arm and thelaird riding home after business in the nearest considerable town. Hedismounted; he walked beside her to the stepping-stones before thefarm. The second time he went to White Farm, and she and Jenny, withMerran to help, were laying linen to bleach upon the sun-washedhillside. He had stayed an hour, and though he was not alone with her, yet he might look at her, listen to her. She was not a chatterer; sheworked or stood, almost as silent as a master painter's subtle picturestepped out of its frame, or as Pygmalion's statue-maid, flushing withlife, but as yet tongue-holden. Yet she said certain things, and theywere to him all music and wit. The third time had been by thewishing-green. That was but for a moment, but he counted it greatgain. 

"Here, " she said, "was where we danced! Mr. Ian Rullock and you andRobin and the rest of us. Don't you remember? It was evening and therewas a fleet of gold clouds in the sky. It is so near the house. I walkhere when I have a glint of time. "

The fourth time, riding Black Alan, he had stopped at the door andtalked with Jarvis Barrow. He was thirsty and had asked for water, andJenny had called, "Elspeth, bring the laird a cup frae the well!" Shehad brought it, and, taking it from her, all the romance of the worldhad seemed to him to close them round, to bear them to some great andfair and deep and passionate place. The fifth time had been the daywhen he went to kirk with White Farm and listened to her voice in thepsalm. The sixth time had been again upon the moor. The seventh timewas this. He had come down through the glen as he had done before. Hehad no reason to suppose that this day more than another he would findher, but there, half a mile from White Farm, he came upon her, standing, watching a lintwhite's nest. They walked together, and whenthat little, right-angled, infant fellow of the glen opened to themthey turned and followed its bright rivulet to the green hiddenhollow. 

The earth lay warm and dry, clad with short turf. They sat downbeneath an oak-tree. None would come this way; they had to themselvesa bright span of time and place. Elspeth looked at him with brown, friendly eyes. Each time she met him her eyes grew more kind; more andmore she liked the laird. Something fluttered in her nature; like abird in a room with many windows and all but one closed, it turned nowthis way, now that, seeking the open lattice. There was the lovelyworld--which way to it? And the window that in a dream had seemed toher to open was mayhap closed, and another that she had not notedmayhap opening. . . . But Glenfernie, winged, was in that world, and nowall that he desired was that the bright bird should fly to him there. But until to-day patience and caution and much humility had kept himfrom direct speech. He knew that she had not loved, as he had done, atonce. He had set himself to win her to love him. But so great was hispassion that now he thought:

"Surely not one, but two as one, make this terrible and happyfurnace!" He thought, "I will speak now, " and then delayed over thewords. 

"This is a bonny, wee place!" said Elspeth. "Did you never hear theold folks tell that your great-grandmother, that was among thepersecuted, loved it? When your father was a laddie they often used tosit here, the two of them. They were great wanderers together. "

"I never heard it, " said Alexander. "Almost it seems too bright. . . . "

They sat in silence, but the train of thought started went on withGlenfernie:

"But perhaps she never went so far as the Kelpie's Pool. "

"The Kelpie's Pool!. . . I do not like that place! Tell me, Glenfernie, wonders of travel. "

"What shall I tell you?"

"Tell me of the East. Tell me what like is the Sea of Galilee. "

Glenfernie talked, since Elspeth bade him talk. He talked of what hehad seen and known, and that brought him, with the aid of questionsfrom the woman listening, to talk of himself. "I had a strange kind ofyouth. . . . So many dim, struggling longings, dreams, aspirings!--but Ithink they may be always there with youth. "

"Yes, they are, " said Elspeth. 

"We talked of the Kelpie's Pool. Something like that was thestrangeness with me. Black rifts and whirlpools and dead tarns withinme, opening up now and again, lifted as by a trembling of the earth, coming up from the past! Angers and broodings, and things seen inflashes--then all gone as the lightning goes, and the mind does nothold what was shown. . . . I became a man and it ceased. Sometimes I knowthat in sleep or dream I have been beside a kelpie pool. But I thinkthe better part of me has drained them where they lay under open sky. "He laughed, put his hands over his face for a moment, then, droppingthem, whistled to the blackbirds aloft in the oak-tree. 

"And now?"

"Now there is clean fire in me!" He turned to her; he drew himselfnearer over the sward. "Elspeth, Elspeth, Elspeth! do not tell me thatyou do not know that I love you!"

"Love me--love me?" answered Elspeth. She rose from her earthen chair;she moved as if to leave the place; then she stood still. "Perhaps apart of me knew and a part did not know. . . . I will try to be honest, for you are honest, Glenfernie! Yes, I knew, but I would not letmyself perceive and think and say that I knew. . . . And now what will Isay?"

"Say that you love me! Say that you love and will marry me!"

"I like you and I trust you, but I feel no more, Glenfernie, I feel nomore!"

"It may grow, Elspeth--"

Elspeth moved to the stem of the oak beneath which they had beenseated. She raised her arm and rested it against the bark, then laidher forehead upon the warm molded flesh in the blue print sleeve. Forsome moments she stayed so, with hidden face, unmoving against thebole of the tree, like a relief done of old by some wonderful artist. The laird of Glenfernie, watching her, felt, such was his passion, thewhole of earth and sky, the whole of time, draw to just this point, hang on just her movement and her word. 

"Elspeth!" he cried at last. "Elspeth!"

Elspeth turned, but she stood yet against the tree. Now both arms werelifted; she had for a moment the appearance of one who hung upon thetree. Her eyes were wet, tears were upon her cheek. She shook themoff, then left the oak and came a step or two toward him. "There issomething in my brain and heart that tells me what love is. When Ilove I shall love hard. . . . I have had fancies. . . . But, like yours, Glenfernie, their times are outgrown and gone by. . . . It's clear totry. I like you so much! but I do not love now--and I'll not wed andcome to Glenfernie House until I do. "

"'It's clear to try, ' you said. "

Elspeth looked at him long. "If it is there, even little and far away, I'll try to bend my steps the way shall bring it nearer. But, oh, Glenfernie, it may be that there is naught upon the road!"

"Will you journey to look for it? That's all I ask now. Will youjourney to look for it?"

"Yes, I may promise that. And I do not know, " said Elspeth, wonderingly, "what keeps me from thinking I'll meet it. " She sat downamong the oak roots. "Let us rest a bit, and say no word, and then gohome. "

The sunlight filled the hollow, the wimpling burn took the blue of thesky, the breeze whispered among the oak leaves. The two sat and gazedat the day, at the grass, at the little thorn-trees and hazels thatringed the place around. They sat very still, seeking composure. Shegained it first. 

"When will your sister be coming home?"

"It is not settled. Glenfernie House was sad of late years. She oughtto have the life and brightness that she's getting now. "

"And will you travel no more?"

He saw as in a lightning glare that she pictured no change for himbeyond such as being laird would make. He was glad when the flash wentand he could forget what it had of destructive and desolating. Hewould drag hope down from the sky above the sky of lightnings. Hespoke. 

"There were duties now to be taken up. I could not stay away all normost nor much of the time. I saw that. But I could study here, andonce in a while run somewhere over the earth. . . . But now I would stayin this dale till I die! Unless you were with me--the two of us goingto see the sights of the earth, and then returning home--going andreturning--going and returning--and both a great sweetness--"

"Oh!" breathed Elspeth. She put her hands again over her eyes, and shesaw, unrolling, a great fair life _if_--_if_--She rose to her feet. "Let us go! It grows late. They'll miss me. "

They came into the glen and so went down with the stream to the openland and to White Farm. 

"Where hae you been?" asked Jenny. "Here was father hame frae theshearing with his eyes blurred, speiring for you to read to him!"

"I was walking by the glen and the laird came down through, so we madehere together. Where is grandfather?"

"He wadna sit waiting. He's gane to walk on the muir. Will ye na bide, Glenfernie?"

But the laird would not stay. It was wearing toward sunset. Menie, withindoors, called Jenny. The latter turned away. Glenfernie spoke toElspeth. 

"If I find your grandfather on the moor I shall speak of this that isbetween us. Do not look so troubled! 'If' or 'if not' it is better totell. So you will not be plagued. And, anyhow, it is the wise folks'road. "

Back came Jenny. "Has he gane? I had for him a tass of wine and a bitof cake. "

The moor lay like a stiffened billow of the sea, green with purpleglints. The clear western sky was ruddy gold, the sun's great ballapproaching the horizon. But when it dipped the short June nightwould know little dark in this northern land. The air struck mostfresh and pure. Glenfernie came presently upon the old farmer, foundhim seated upon a bit of bank, his gray plaid about him, hiscrook-like stick planted before him, his eyes upon the western sea ofglory. The younger man stopped beside him, settled down upon the bank, and gazed with the elder into the ocean of colored air. 

"Ae gowden floor as though it were glass, " said Jarvis Barrow. "Aegowden floor and ae river named of Life, passing the greatness ofOrinoco or Amazon. And the tree of life for the healing of thenations. And a' the trees that ever leafed or flowered, ta'entogether, but ae withered twig to that!"

Glenfernie gazed with him. "I do not doubt that there will come a daywhen we'll walk over the plains of the sun--the flesh of our body thenas gauze, moved at will where we please and swift as thought--innerand outer motion keeping time with the beat and rhythm of that _wherewe are_--"

"The young do not speak the auld tongue. "

"Tongues alter with the rest. "

Silence fell while the sun reddened, going nearer to the mountainbrow. The young man and the old, the farmer and the laird, sat still. The air struck more freshly, stronger, coming from the sea. Far off ahorn was blown, a dog barked. 

"Will ye be hame now for gude, Glenfernie? Lairds should bide in theirain houses if the land is to have any gude of them. "

"I wish to stay, White Farm, the greatest part of the year round. Iwant to speak to you very seriously. Think back a moment to my fatherand mother, and to my forebears farther back yet. As they had faults, and yet had a longing to do the right and struggled toward it overthick and thin, so I believe I may say of myself. That is, I struggletoward it, " said Alexander, "though I'm not so sure of the thick andthin. "

"Your mither wasna your father's kind. She had always her smile to theside and her japes, and she looked to the warld. Not that she didnamean to do weel in it! She did. But I couldna just see clear the sealin her forehead. "

"That was because you did not look close enough, " said Alexander. "Itwas there. "

"I didna mind your uphawding your mither. Aweel, what did ye have tosay?"

The laird turned full to him. "White Farm, you were once a young man. You loved and married. So do I love, so would I marry! The woman Ilove does not yet love me, but she has, I think, some liking. --I bidein hope. I would speak to you about it, as is right. "

"Wha is she?"

"Your granddaughter Elspeth. "

Silence, while the shadows of the trees in the vale below grew longerand longer. Then said White Farm:

"She isna what they call your equal in station. And she has nae tocheror as good as nane. "

"For the last I have enough for us both. For the first the springs ofBarrow and Jardine, back in Time's mountains, are much the same. Scotland's not the country to bother overmuch if the one stream goes, in a certain place, through a good farm, and the other by a notover-rich laird's house. "

"Are ye Whig and Kirk like your father?"

"I am Whig--until something more to the dawn than that comes up. Forthe Kirk . . . I will tell truth and say that I have my innerdifferences. But they do not lean toward Pope or prelate. . . . I amChristian, where Christ is taken very universally--the higher Self, the mounting Wisdom of us all. . . . Some high things you and I may viewdifferently, but I believe that there are high things. "

"And seek them?"

"And seek them. "

"You always had the air to me, " vouchsafed White Farm, "of one whahunted gowd elsewhaur than in the earthly mine. " He looked at the redwest, and drew his plaid about him, and took firmer clutch upon hisstaff. "But the lassie does not love you?"

"My trust is that she may come to do so. "

The elder got to his feet. Alexander rose also. 

"It's coming night! Ye will be gaeing on over the muir to the House?"

"Yes. Then, sir, I may come to White Farm, or meet her when I may, andhave my chance?"

"Aye. If so be I hear nae great thing against ye. If so be ye'rereasonable. If so be that in no way do ye try to hurt the lassie. "

"I'll be reasonable, " said the laird of Glenfernie. "And I'd not hurtElspeth if I could!" His face shone, his voice was a deep and happymusic. He was so bound, so at the feet of Elspeth, that he could notbut believe in joy and fortune. The sun had dipped; the land laydusk, but the sky was a rose. There was a skimming of swallowsoverhead, a singing of the wind in the ling. He walked with White Farmto the foot of the moor, then said good night and turned toward hisown house. 

CHAPTER XII

Two days later Alexander rode to Black Hill. There had been in thenight a storm with thunder and lightning, wind and rain. Huge, raggedbanks of clouds yet hung sullen in the air, though with lakes of bluebetween and shafts of sun. The road was wet and shone. Now Black Alanmust pick his way, and now there held long stretches of easy going. The old laird's quarrel with Mr. Archibald Touris was not the younglaird's. The old laird's liking for Mrs. Alison was strongly the younglaird's. Glenfernie, in the months since his father's death, hadridden often enough to Black Hill. Now as he journeyed, together withthe summer and melody of his thoughts Elspeth-toward, he was holdingwith himself a cogitation upon the subject of Ian and Ian's lastletter. He rode easily a powerful steed, needing to be strong for sostrongly built a horseman. His riding-dress was blue; he wore his ownhair, unpowdered and gathered in a ribbon beneath a three-corneredhat. There was perplexity and trouble, too, in the Ian complex, butfor all that he rode with the color and sparkle of happiness in hisface. In his gray eyes light played to great depths. 

Black Hill appeared before him, the dark pine and crag of the hillitself, and below that the house with its far-stretching, well-plantedpolicy. He passed the gates, rode under the green elm boughs of theavenue, and was presently before the porch of the house. A manpresented himself to take Black Alan. 

"Aye, sir, there's company. Mr. Touris and Mrs. Alison are with themin the gardens. "

Glenfernie went there, passing by a terrace walk around the house. Going under the windows of the room that was yet Ian's when he camehome. Ian still in his mind, he recovered strongly the look of thatroom the day Ian had taken him there, in boyhood, when they first met. Out of that vividness started a nucleus more vivid yet--the picture inthe book-closet of the city of refuge, and the silver goblet drawnfrom the hidden shelf of the aumry. The recaptured moment lost shapeand color, returned to the infinite past. He turned the corner of thehouse and came into the gardens that Mr. Touris had had laid out afterthe French style. 

Here by the fountain he discovered the retired merchant, and with hima guest, an old trade connection, now a power in the East IndiaCompany. The laird of Black Hill, a little more withered, a littlemore stooped than of old, but still fluent, caustic, and with now andthen to the surface a vague, cold froth of insincerity, made up muchto this magnate of commerce. He stood on his own heath, or by his ownfountain, but his neck had in it a deferential crook. Lacs--rupees--factories--rajahs--ships--cottons--the words fell like the tinkle of agolden fountain. Listening to these two stood, with his hands behindhis back, Mr. Wotherspoon, Black Hill's lawyer and man of businessdown from Edinburgh. At a little distance Mrs. Alison showed her rosesto the wife of the East India man and to a kinsman, Mr. Munro Touris, from Inverness way. 

Mr. Touris addressed himself with his careful smile to Alexander. "Good day, Glenfernie! This, Mr. Goodworth, is a good neighbor ofmine, Mr. Jardine of Glenfernie. Alexander, Mr. Goodworth is art andpart of the East India. You have met Mr. Wotherspoon before, I think?There are Alison and Mrs. Goodworth and Munro Touris by the roses. "

Glenfernie went over to the roses. Mrs. Alison, smiling upon him, presented him to Mrs. Goodworth, a dark, bright, black-eyed, talkativelady. He and Munro Touris nodded to each other. The laird of BlackHill, the India merchant, and the lawyer now joined them, and allstrolled together along the very wide and straight graveled path. Thetalk was chiefly upheld by Black Hill and the great trader, with thelawyer putting in now and again a shrewd word, and the trader's wifemaking aside to Mrs. Alison an embroidery of comment. There had nowbeen left trade in excelsis and host and guests were upon the state ofthe country, an unpopular war, and fall of ministers. Came in phrasescompounded to meet Jacobite complications and dangers. ThePretender--the Pretender and his son--French aid--French army thatmight be sent to Scotland--position of defense--rumors everywhere yougo--disaffected and Stewart-mad--. Munro Touris had a biting word tosay upon the Highland chiefs. The lawyer talked of certain Lowlandlords and gentlemen. Mr. Touris vented a bitter gibe. He had a blacklook in his small, sunken eyes. Alexander, reading him, knew that hethought of Ian. In a moment the whole conversation had dragged thatway. Mrs. Goodworth spoke with vivacity. 

"Lord, sir! I hope that your nephew, now that he wears the King'scoat, has left off talking as he did when he was a boy! He showed hisHighland strain with a warrant! You would have thought that he hadbeen _out_ himself thirty years ago!"

Her husband checked her. "You have not seen him since he was sixteen. Boys like that have wild notions of romance and devotion. They changewhen they're older. "

The lawyer took the word. "Captain Rullock doubtless buried all thatyears ago. His wearing the King's coat hauds for proof. "

Munro Touris had been college-mate in Edinburgh. "He watered all thatgunpowder in him years ago, did he not, Glenfernie?"

"'To water gunpowder--to shut off danger. ' That's a good figure ofyours, Munro!" said Alexander. Munro, who had been thought dull in theold days, flushed with pleasure. 

They had come to a kind of summer-house overrun with roses. Mr. Archibald Touris stopped short and, with his back to this structure, faced the company with him, brought thus to a halt. He looked at themwith a carefully composed countenance. 

"I am sure, Munro, that Ian Rullock 'watered the gunpowder, ' as youcleverly say. Boys, ma'am"--to Mrs. Goodworth--"are, as your husbandremarks, romantic simpletons. No one takes them and their views oflife seriously. Certainly not their political views! When they comemen they laugh themselves. They are not boys then; they are men. Whichis, as it were, the preface to what I might as well tell you. Mynephew has resigned his captaincy and quitted the army. Apparently hehas come to feel that soldiering is not, after all, the life heprefers. It may be that he will take to the law, or he may wander andthen laird it when I am gone. Or if he is very wise--I meant to speakto you of this in private, Goodworth--he might be furnished withshares and ventures in the East India. He has great abilities. "

"Well, India's the field!" said the London merchant, placidly. "If aman has the mind and the will he may make and keep and flourish andtaste power--"

"Left the King's forces!" cried Munro Touris. "Why--! And will he becoming to Black Hill, sir?"

"Yes. Next week. We have, " said Mr. Touris, and though he tried hecould not keep the saturnine out of his voice--"we have some things totalk over. "

As he spoke he moved from before the summer-house into a cross-path, and the others followed him and his Company magnate. The Edinburghlawyer and Glenfernie found themselves together. The former lagged astep and held the younger man back with him; he dropped his voice

"I've not been three hours in the house. I've had no talk with Mr. Touris. What's all this about? I know that you and his nephew are asclose as brothers--not that brothers are always close!"

"He writes only that he is tired of martial life. He has the soldierin him, but he has much besides. That 'much besides' often steps in tochange a man's profession. "

"Well, I hope you'll persuade him to see the old gunpowder very damp!I remember that, as a very young man, he talked imprudently. But hehas been, " said the lawyer, "far and wide since those days. "

"Yes, far and wide. "

Mr. Wotherspoon with a long forefinger turned a crimson rose seen inprofile full toward him. "I met him--once--when I was in London a yearago. I had not seen him for years. " He let the rose swing back. "Hehas a magnificence! Do you know I study a good deal? They say that sodo you. I have an inclination toward fifteenth-century Italian. Ishould place him there. " He spoke absently, still staring at the rose. "A dash--not an ill dash, of course--of what you might call the Borgia. . . Good and evil tied into a sultry, thunderous splendor. "

Glenfernie bent a keen look upon him out of gray eyes. "An enemy mightdescribe him so, perhaps. I can see that such a one might do so. "

"Ah, you're his friend!"

"Yes. "

"Well, " said Mr. Wotherspoon, straightening himself from thecontemplation of the roses, "there's no greater thing than to have asteadfast friend!"

It seemed that an expedition had been planned, for a servant nowappeared to say that coach and horses were at the door. Mr. Tourisexplained:

"I've engaged to show Mr. And Mrs. Goodworth our considerable town. Mr. Wotherspoon, too, has a moment's business there. Alison will notcome, but Munro Touris rides along. Will you come, too, Glenfernie?We'll have a bit of dinner at the 'Glorious Occasion. '"

"No, thank you. I have to get home presently. But I'll stay a littleand talk to Mrs. Alison, if I may. "

"Ah, you may!" said Mrs. Alison. 

From the porch they watched the coach and four away, with Munro Tourisfollowing on a strong and ugly bay mare. The elm boughs of the avenuehid the whole. The cloud continents and islands were dissolving intothe air ocean, the sun lay in strong beams, the water drops weredrying from leaf and blade. Mrs. Alison and Alexander moved throughthe great hall and down a corridor to a little parlor that was hersalone. They entered it. It gave, through an open door and two windowsset wide, upon a small, choice garden and one wide-spreading, noble, ancient tree. Glenfernie entered as one who knew the place, but uponwhom, at every coming, it struck with freshness and liking. The roomitself was most simple. 

"I like, " said Alexander, "our spare, clean, precise Scotch parlors. But this is to me like a fine, small prioress's room in a convent oflearned saints!"

His old friend laughed. "Very little learned, very little saintly, notat all prior! Let us sit in the doorway, smell the lavender, and hearthe linnets in the tree. "

She took the chair he pushed forward. He sat upon the door-step at herfeet. 

"Concerning Ian, " she said. "What do you make out of it all?"

"I make out that I hope he'll not involve himself in some French andTory mad attempt!"

"What do his letters say?"

"They speak by indirection. Moreover, they're at present few andshort. . . . We shall see when he comes!"

"Do you think that he will tell you all?"

Alexander's gray eyes glanced at her as earlier they had glanced atMr. Wotherspoon. "I do not think that we keep much from each other!. . . No, of course you are right! If there is anything that in honor hecannot tell, or that I--with my pledges, such as they are, in anotherurn--may not hear, we shall find silences. I pin my trust to therebeing nothing, after all!"

"The old wreath withered, and a new one better woven and moreevergreen--"

"I do not know. . . . I said just now that Ian and I kept little fromeach other. In an exceeding great measure that is true. But there arehuge lands in every nature where even the oldest, closest, swornfriend does not walk. It must be so. Friendship is not falsified norbetrayed by its being so. "

"Not at all!" said Mrs. Alison. "True friend or lover loves that senseof the unplumbed, of the infinite, in the cared-for one. To do elsewould be to deny the unplumbed, the infinite, in himself, and so thematching, the equaling, the _oneing_ of love!" She leaned forward inher chair; she regarded the small, fragrant garden where every sweetand olden flower seemed to bloom. "Now let us leave Ian, and old, stanch, trusted, and trusting friendship. It is part of oneness--itwill be cared for!" She turned her bright, calm gaze upon him. "Whatother realm have you come into, Alexander? It was plain the last timethat you were here, but I did not speak of it--it is plain to-day!"She laughed. She had a silver, sweet, and merry laugh. "My dear, thereis a bloom and joy, a _vivification_ about you that may be felt tenfeet away!" She looked at him with affection and now seriously. "Iknow, I think, the look of one who comes into spiritual treasures. This is that and not that. It is the wilderness of lovelyflowers--hardly quite the music of the spheres! It is not the mountainheight, but the waving, leafy, lower slopes--and yet we pass on to theheight by those slopes! Are you in love, Alexander?"

"You guess so much!" he said. "You have guessed that, too. I do notcare! I am glad that the sun shines through me. "

"You must be happy in your love! Who is she?"

"Elspeth Barrow, the granddaughter of Jarvis Barrow of White Farm. . . . You say that I must be happy in my love. The Lord of Heaven knows thatI am! and yet she is not yet sure that she loves me in her turn. Onemight say that I had great uncertainty of bliss. But I love sostrongly that I have no strength of disbelief in me!"

"Elspeth Barrow!"

"My old friend--the unworldliest, the better-worldliest soul Iknow--do not you join in that hue and cry about world's gear andposition! To be Barrow is as good as to be Jardine. Elspeth isElspeth. "

"Oh, I know why I made exclamation! Just the old, dull earthysurprise! Wait for me a moment, Alexander. " She put her hands beforeher eyes, then, dropping them, sat with her gaze upon the great treeshot through with light from the clearing sky. "I see her now. Atfirst I could not disentangle her and Gilian, for they were alwaystogether. I have not seen them often--just three or four times toremember, perhaps. But in April I chanced for some reason to go toWhite Farm. . . . I see her now! Yes, she has beauty, though it would notstrike many with the edge of the sword. . . . Yes, I see--about the mouthand the eyes and the set of the head. It's subtle--it's like somepictures I remember in Italy. And intelligence is there. Enchantment. . . The more real, perhaps, for not being the most obvious. . . . So youare enchained, witched, held by the great sorceress!. . . Elspeth isonly one of her little names--her great name is just love--lovebetween man and woman. . . . Oh yes, the whole of the sweetness isdistilled into one honey-drop--the whole giant thing is shortened intoone image--the whole heaven and earth slip silkenly into one banner, and you would die for it! You see, my dear, " said Mrs. Alison, who hadnever married, "I loved one who died. I know. "

Glenfernie took her hand and kissed it. "Nothing is loss toyou--nothing! For me, I am more darkly made. So I hope to God I'llnot lose Elspeth!"

Her tears, that were hardly of grief, dropped upon his bent head. "Eh, my laddie! the old love is there in the midst of the wide love. Butthe larger controls. . . . Well, enough of that! And do you mean that youhave asked Elspeth to marry you--and that she does not know her ownheart?"

They talked, sitting before the fragrant garden, in the little roomthat was tranquil, blissful, and recluse. At last he rose. 

"I must go. "

They went out through the garden to the wicket that parted her demesnefrom the formal, wide pleasure-sweeps. He stopped for a moment underthe great tree. 

"In a fortnight or so I must go to Edinburgh to see Renwick about thatland. And it is in my mind to travel from there to London for a fewweeks. There are two or three persons whom I know who could put astout shoulder to the wheel of Jamie's prospects. Word of mouth isbetter with them than would be letters. Jamie is at Windsor. I couldtake him with me here or there--give him, doubtless, a little help. "

"You are a world-man, " said his friend, "which is quite different froma worldly man! Come or go as you will, still all is your garden thatyou cultivate. . . . Now you are thinking again of Elspeth!"

"Perhaps if for a month or two I plague her not, then when I comeagain she may have a greater knowledge of herself. Perhaps it is moregenerous to be absent for a time--"

"I see that you will not doubt--that you cannot doubt--that in theend she loves you!"

"Is it arrogance, self-love, and ignorance if I think that? Or is itknowledge? I think it, and I cannot and will not else!"

They came to the wicket, and stood there a moment ere going on by theterrace to the front of the house. The day was now clear and vivid, soft and bright. The birds sang in a long ecstasy, the flowers bloomedas though all life must be put into June, the droning bees went aboutwith the steadiest preoccupation. Alexander looked about him. 

"The earth is drunk with sweetness, and I see now how great joy is sibto great pain!" He shook himself. "Come back to earth and daylight, Alexander Jardine!" He put a hand, large, strong, and shapely, overMrs. Alison's slender ivory one. "She, too, has long fingers, thoughher hand is brown. But it is an artist hand--a picture hand--athoughtful hand. "

Mrs. Alison laughed, but her eyes were tender over him. "Oh, man! whata great forest--what an ever-rising song--is this same thing you'refeeling! And so old--and so fire-new!" They walked along the terraceto the porch. "They're bringing you Black Alan to ride away upon. Butyou'll come again as soon as Ian's here?"

"Yes, of course. You may be assured that if he is free of that Stewartcoil--or if he is in it only so deep that he may yet free himself--Ishall say all that I can to keep him free or to urge him forth. Notfor much would I see Ian take ship in that attempt!"

"No!. . . I have been reading the Book of Daniel. Do you know what Ianis like to me? He is like some great lord--a prince or governor--inthe court maybe of Belshazzar, or Darius the Mede, or Cyrus thePersian--in that hot and stately land of golden images and old riversand the sound of the cornet, flute, harp, sackbut, psaltery, anddulcimer and all kinds of music. He must serve his tyrant--and yetDaniel, kneeling in his house, in his chamber, with the windows opentoward Jerusalem, might hear a cry to hold his name in his prayers. . . . What strange thoughts we have of ourselves, and of those nearest anddearest!"

"Mr. Wotherspoon says that he is fifteenth-century Italian. You haveboth done a proper bit of characterization! But I, " said Alexander, "Iknow another great territory of Ian. "

"I know that, Glenfernie! And so do I know other good realms of Ian. Yet that was what I thought when I read Daniel. And I had the thought, too, that those old people were capable of great friendships. "

Black Alan was waiting. Glenfernie mounted, said good-by again; thegreen boughs of the elm-trees took him and his steed. 

CHAPTER XIII

Ian forestalled Alexander, riding to Glenfernie House the morningafter his arrival at Black Hill. "Let us go, " he said, "where we cantalk at ease! The old, alchemical room?"

They crossed the grass-grown court to the keep, entered and went upthe broken stair to the stone-walled chamber that took up the secondfloor, that looked out of loophole windows north, south, east, andwest. The day was high summer, bright and hot. Strong light and lessstrong light came in beams from the four quarters and made in thelarge place a conflict of light and shadow. The fireplace was greatenough for Gog and Magog to have warmed themselves thereby. Around, inan orderly litter, yet stood on table or bench or shelf many of thematters that Alexander had gathered there in his boyhood. In onecorner was the furnace that when he was sixteen his father had let himbuild. More recent was the oaken table in the middle of the room, twodeep chairs, and shelves with many books. After the warmth of the sunthe place presented a grave, cool, brown harbor. 

The two, entering, had each an arm over the other's shoulder. Wherethey were known their friendship was famed. Youth and manhood, theyhad been together when it was possible. When it was not so thethought of each outtraveled separation. Their differences, theirvaried colors of being, seemed but to bind them closer. They enteredthis room like David and Jonathan. 

Ian also was tall, but not so largely made as was the other. Lithe, embrowned, with gold-bronze hair and eyes, knit of a piece, moving asby one undulation, there was something in him not like the Scot, something foreign, exotic. Sometimes Alexander called him "Saracen"--afinding of the imagination that dated from old days upon the moorabove the Kelpie's Pool when they read together the _Faery Queen_. Theother day, at Black Hill, this ancient fancy had played throughAlexander's mind while Mr. Wotherspoon talked of Italy, and Mrs. Alison of Babylonish lords. . . . The point was that he relished Paynimknight and Renaissance noble and prince of Babylon. Let Ian seem or beall that, and richer yet! Still there would be Ian, outside of allcircles drawn. 

In the room that he called the "alchemical, " Ian, disengaging himself, turned and put both hands on Alexander's shoulders. "Thou OldSteadfast!" he cried. "God knows how glad I am to see thee!"

Alexander laughed. "Not more glad than I am at the sight of you!What's the tidings?"

"What should they be? I am tired of being King George's soldier!"

"So that you are tired of being any little king of this earth'ssoldier!"

"Why, I think I am--"

"Kings 'over the water' included, Ian?"

"Kings without kingdoms? Well, " said Ian, "they don't amount to much, do they?"

"They do not. " The two moved together to the table and the chairs byit. "You are free of them, Ian?"

"What is it to be free of them?"

"Well, to be plain, out of the Stewart cark and moil! Pretender, Chevalier de St. George, or uncrowned king--let it drift away like thedead leaf it is!"

"A dead leaf. Is it a dead leaf?. . . I wonder!. . . But you are usuallyright, old Steadfast!"

"I see that you will not tell me plainly. "

"Are you so anxious? There is nothing to be anxious about. "

"Nothing. . . . What is 'nothing'?"

Ian drummed upon the table and whistled "Lillibullero. ""Something--nothing. Nothing--something! Old Steadfast, you are asight for sair een! They say you make the best of lairds! Every cottersings of just ways!"

"My father was a good laird. I would not shatter the tradition. Comewith me to Edinburgh and London, on that journey I wrote you of!"

"No. I want to sink into the summer green and not raise my head fromsome old poetry book! I have been marching and countermarching until Iam tired. As for what you have in your mind, don't fash yourself aboutit! I will say that, at the moment, I think it _is_ a dead leaf. . . . Ofcourse, should the Pope's staff unexpectedly begin to bud andflower--! But it mayn't--indeed, it only looks at present smooth andpolished and dead. . . . I left the army because, naturally, I didn'twant to be there in case--just in case--the staff budded. Heigho! Itis the truth. You need not look troubled, " said Ian. 

His friend must rest with that. He did so, and put that matter aside. At any rate, things stood there better than he had feared. "I shall begone a month or two. But you'll still be here when I come home?"

"As far as I know I'll be here through the summer. I have no plans. . . . If the leaf remains dry and dead, what should you say to taking shipat Leith in September for Holland? Amsterdam--then Antwerp--then theRhine. We might see the great Frederick--push farther and look at theQueen of Hungary. "

"No, I may not. I look to be a home-staying laird. "

They sat with the table between them, and the light from the foursides of the room rippled and crossed over them. Books were on thetable, folios and volumes in less. 

"The home-staying laird--the full scholar--at last the writer--themaster . . . It is a good fortune!"

As Ian spoke he stretched his arms, he leaned back in his chair andregarded the room, the fireplace, the little furnace, and the shelvesranged with the quaint, makeshift apparatuses of boyhood. He looked atthe green boughs without the loophole windows and at the crossinglights and shadows, and the brown books upon the brown table, and atlast, under somewhat lowered lids, at Alexander. What moved in thebottom of his mind it would be hard to say. He thought that he lovedthe man sitting over against him, and so, surely, to some great amounthe did. But somewhere, in the thousand valleys behind them, he hadstayed in an inn of malice and had carried hence poison in a vial assmall as a single cell. What suddenly made that past to burn and setit in the present it were hard to say. A spark perhaps of envy or ofjealousy, or a movement of contempt for Alexander's "fortune. " But helooked at his friend with half-closed eyes, and under the sea ofconsciousness crawled, half-blind, half-asleep, a willingness forGlenfernie to find some thorn in life. The wish did not come toconsciousness. It was far down. He thought of himself as steel true toAlexander. And in a moment the old love drew again. He put out hishands across the board. "When are we going to see Mother Binning andto light the fire in the cave?. . . There are not many like you, Alexander! I'm glad to get back. "

"I'm glad to have you back, old sworn-fellow, old Saracen!"

They clasped hands. Gray eyes and brown eyes with gold flecks met in agaze that was as steady with the one as with the other. It wasAlexander who first loosened handclasp. 

They talked of affairs, particular and general, of Ian's lateproceedings and the lairdship of Alexander, of men and places thatthey knew away from this countryside. Ian watched the other as theytalked. Whatever there was that had moved, down there in the abyss, was asleep again. 

"Old Steadfast, you are ruddy and joyous! How long since I was here, in the winter? Four months? Well, you've changed. What is it?. . . Is itlove? Are you in love?"

"If I am--" Glenfernie rose and paced the room. Coming to one of thenarrow windows, he stood and looked out and down upon bank and braeand wood and field and moor. He returned to the table. "I'll tell youabout it. "

He told. Ian sat and listened. The light played about him, shook golddots and lines over his green coat, over his hands, his faintlysmiling face, his head held straight and high. He was so well to lookat, so "magnificent"! Alexander spoke with the eloquence of apossessing passion, and Ian listened and felt himself to be thesympathizing friend. Even the profound, unreasonable, unhumorousidealism of old Steadfast had its quaint, Utopian appeal. He was goingto marry the farmer's granddaughter, though he might, undoubtedly, marry better. . . . Ian listened, questioned, summed up:

"I have always been the worldly-wise one! Is there any use in mytalking now of worldly wisdom?"

"No use at all. "

"Then I won't!. . . Old Alexander the Great, are you happy?"

"If she gives me her love. "

Ian dismissed that with a wave of his hand. "Oh, I think she'll giveit, dear simpleton!" He looked at Glenfernie now with genialaffection. "Well, on the whole, and balancing one thing againstanother, I think that I want you to be happy!"

Alexander laughed at that minification. "And my happiness is bigenough--or if I get it it will be big enough--not in the least todisturb our friendship country, Ian!"

"I'll believe that, too. Our relations are old and rooted. "

"Old and rooted. "

"So I wish you joy. . . . And I remember when you thought you would notmarry!"

"Oh--memories! I'm sweeping them away! I'm beginning again!. . . I holdfast the memory of friendship. I hold fast the memory that somehow, inthis form or that, I must have loved her from the beginning ofthings!" He rose and moved about the room. Going to the fireplace, heleaned his forehead against the stone and looked down at the laid, notkindled, wood. He turned and came back to Ian. "The world seems to meall good. "

Ian laughed at him, half in raillery, but half in a flood of kindness. If what had stirred had been ancient betrayal, alive and vital oneknew not when, now again it was dead, dead. He rose, he put his armagain about Alexander's shoulder. "Glenfernie! Glenfernie! you're indeep! Well, I hope the world will stay heaven, e'en for your sake!"

They left the old room with its hauntings of a boy's search for gold, with, back of that, who might know what hauntings of ancient times andfortress doings, violences and agonies, subduings, revivings, cark andcare and light struggling through, dark nights and waited-for dawns!They went down the stair and out of the keep. Late June flamed aroundthem. 

Ian stayed another hour or two ere he rode back to Black Hill. WithGlenfernie he went over Glenfernie House, the known, familiar rooms. They went to the school-room together and out through the breach inthe old castle wall, and sat among the pine roots, and looked downthrough leafy tree-tops to the glint of water. When, in the sun-washedhouse and narrow garden and grassy court, they came upon men and womenthey stopped and spoke, and all was friendly and merry as it should bein a land of good folk. Ian had his crack with Davie, with Eppie andPhemie and old Lauchlinson and others. They sat for a few minutes withMrs. Grizel where, in a most housewifely corner, she measured currantsand bargained with pickers of cherries. Strickland they came upon inthe book-room. With the Jardines and this gentleman the sense ofemployed and employee had long ago passed into a larger inclusion. Heand the young laird talked and worked together as members of onefamily. Now there was some converse among the three, and then the twoleft Strickland in the cool, dusky room. Outside the house June flamedagain. For a while they paced up and down under the trees in thenarrow garden atop the craggy height. Then Ian mounted Fatima, who allthese years was kept for him at Black Hill. 

"You'll come over to-morrow?"

"Yes. "

Glenfernie watched him down the steep-descending, winding road, andthought of many roads that, good company, he and Ian had traveledtogether. 

This was the middle of the day. In the afternoon he walked to WhiteFarm. . . . It was sunset when he turned his face homeward. He lookedback and saw Elspeth at the stepping-stones, in a clear flame ofgolden sky and golden water. She had seemed kind; he walked on air, his hand in Hope's. Hope had well-nigh the look of Assurance. He wasgoing away because it was promised and arranged for and he must go. But he was coming again--he was coming again. 

A golden moon rose through the clear east. He was in no hurry to reachGlenfernie House. The aching, panting bliss that he felt, the energycompressed, held back, straining at the leash, wanted night andisolation. So it could better dream of day and the clasp of that otherthat with him would make one. Now he walked and now stood, his eyesupon the mounting orb or the greater stars that it could not dim, andnow he stretched himself in the summer heath. At last, not far frommidnight, he came to that face of Glenfernie Hill below the old wall, to the home stream and the bit of thick wood where once, in boyhood, he had lain with covered face under the trees and little by little hadput from his mind "The Cranes of Ibycus. " The moonlight was all brokenhere. Shafts of black and white lay inextricably crossed and mingled. Alexander passed through the little wood and climbed, with the securestep of old habit, the steep, rough path to the pine without the wall, there stooped and came through the broken wall to the moon-silveredcourt, and so to the door left open for him. 

CHAPTER XIV

The laird of Glenfernie was away to Edinburgh on Black Alan, TamDickson with him on Whitefoot. Ian Rullock riding Fatima, behind him aBlack Hill groom on an iron-gray, came over the moor to the head ofthe glen. Ian checked the mare. Behind him rolled the moor, with thehollow where lay, water in a deep jade cup, the Kelpie's Pool. Beforehim struck down the green feathered cleft, opening out at last intothe vale. He could see the water there, and a silver gleam that wasWhite Farm. He sat for a minute, pondering whether he should ride backthe way he had come or, giving Fatima to Peter Lindsay, walk throughthe glen. He looked at his watch, looked, too, at a heap of cloudsalong the western horizon. The gleam in the vale at last decided him. He left the saddle. 

"Take Fatima around to White Farm, Lindsay. I'll walk through theglen. " His thought was, "I might as well see what like is Alexander'sinamorata!" It was true that he had seen her quite long ago, but timehad overlaid the image, or perhaps he had never paid especial note. 

Peter Lindsay stooped to catch the reins that the other tossed him. "There's weather in thae clouds, sir!"

"Not before night, I think. They're moving very slowly. "

Lindsay turned with the horses. Ian, light of step, resilient, "magnificent, " turned from the purple moor into the shade of birches. A few moments and he was near the cot of Mother Binning. A cockcrowed, a feather of blue smoke went up from her peat fire. 

He came to her door, meaning to stay but for a good-natured fiveminutes of gossip. She had lived here forever, set in the picture withash-tree and boulder. But when he came to the door he found sittingwith her, in the checkered space behind the opening, Glenfernie'sinamorata. 

Now he remembered her. . . . He wondered if he had truly ever forgottenher. 

When he had received his welcome he sat down upon the door-step. Hecould have touched Elspeth's skirt. When she lowered her eyes theyrested upon his gold-brown head, upon his hand in a little pool oflight. 

"Eh, laddie!" said Mother Binning, "but ye grow mair braw each time yecome!"

Elspeth thought him braw. The wishing-green where they danced, hand inhand!. . . Now she knew--now she knew--why her heart had lain so coldand still--for months, for years, cold and still! That was what heartsdid until the sun came. . . . Definitely, in this hour, for her now, uponthis stretch of the mortal path, Ian became the sun. 

Ian sat daffing, talking. The old woman listened, her wheel idle; theyoung woman listened. The young woman, sitting half in shadow, half inlight, put up her hand and drew farther over her face the brim of herwide hat of country weave. She wished to hide her eyes, her lips. Shesat there pale, and through her ran in fine, innumerable waves humanpassion and longing, wild courage and trembling humility. 

The sunlight that flooded the door-stone and patched the cottage floorbegan to lessen and withdraw. Low and distant there sounded a roll ofthunder. Jock Binning came upon his crutches from the bench by thestream where he made a fishing-net. 

"A tempest's daundering up!"

Elspeth rose. "I must go home--I must get home before it comes!"

"If ye'll bide, lassie, it may go by. "

"No, I cannot. " She had brought to Mother Binning a basket heaped withbloomy plums. She took it up and set it on the table. "I'll get thebasket when next I come. Now I must go! Hark, there's the thunderagain!"

Ian had risen also. "I will go with you. Yes! It was my purpose towalk through to White Farm. I sent Fatima around with Peter Lindsay. "

As they passed the ash-tree there was lightning, but yet the heavensshowed great lakes of blue, and a broken sunlight lay upon the path. 

"There's time enough! We need not go too fast. The path is rough forthat. "

They walked in silence, now side by side, now, where the way wasnarrow, one before the other. The blue clouded over, there sprang awind. The trees bent and shook, the deep glen grew gray and dark. That wind died and there was a breathless stillness, heated and heavy. Each heard the other's breathing as they walked. 

"Let us go more quickly! We have a long way. "

"Will you go back to Mother Binning's?"

"That, too, is far. "

They had passed the cave a little way and were in mid-glen. It wasdusk in this narrow pass. The trees hung, shadows in a broodingtwilight; between the close-set pillars of the hills the sky showedslate-hued, with pallid feathers of cloud driven across. Lightningtore it, the thunder was loud, the trees upon the hilltops began tomove. Some raindrops fell, large, slow, and warm. The lightning ranagain, blindingly bright; the ensuing thunderclap seemed to shake therock. As it died, the cataract sound of the wind was heard among theranked trees. The drops came faster, came fast. 

"It's no use!" cried Ian. "You'll be drenched and blinded! There'sdanger, too, in these tall trees. Come back to the cave and takeshelter!"

He turned. She followed him, breathless, liking the storm--so that nobolt struck him. In every nerve, in every vein, she felt life rouseitself. It was like day to old night, summer to one born in winter, apassion of revival where she had not known that there was anything torevive. The past was as it were not, the future was as it were not;all things poured into a tremendous present. It was proper that thereshould be storm without, if within was to be this enormous, aching, happy tumult that was pain indeed, but pain that one would not spare!

Ian parted the swinging briers. They entered the cavern. If it wasdim outside in the glen, it was dimmer here. Then the lightningflashed and all was lit. It vanished, the light from the air inconflict with itself. All was dark--then the flash again! The rain nowfell in a torrent. 

"At least it is dry here! There is wood, but I have no way to makefire. "

"I am not cold. "

"Sit here, upon this ledge. Alexander and I cleared it and widenedit. "

She sat down. When he spoke of Alexander she thought of Alexander, without unkindness, without comparing, without compunction, a thoughtcolorless and simple, as of one whom she had known and liked a longtime ago. Indeed, it might be said that she had little here with whichto reproach herself. She had been honest--had not said "Take!" whereshe could not fulfil. . . . And now the laird of Glenfernie was like aform met long ago--long ago! It seemed so long and far away that shecould not even think of him as suffering. As she might leave afugitive memory, so she turned her mind from him. 

Ian thought of Alexander . . . But he looked, by the lightning's lamp, at the woman opposite. 

She was not the first that he had desired, but he desired now withunwonted strength. He did not know why--he did not analyze himself northe situation--but all the others seemed gathered up in her. She wasfair to him, desirable!. . . He thirsted, quite with the mortal honestyof an Arab, day and night and day again without drink in the desert, and the oasis palms seen at last on the horizon. In his self-directionthitherward he was as candid, one-pointed, and ruthless as the Arabmight be. He had no deliberate thought of harm to the woman beforehim--as little as the Arab would have of hurting the well whose coolwave seemed to like the lip touch. Perhaps he as little stopped toreason as would have done the Arab. Perhaps he had no thought ofdeeply injuring a friend. If there were two desert-traversers, or morethan two, making for the well, friendship would not hold one back, push another forward. Race!--and if the well was but to one, then letfate and Allah approve the swiftest! Under such circumstances wouldnot Alexander outdo him if he might? He was willing to believe so. Glenfernie said himself that the girl did not know if she cared forhim. If, then, the well was not for him, anyway?. . . _Where was thewrong?_ Now Ian believed in his own power and easy might andpleasantness and, on the whole, goodness--believed, too, in the loveof Alexander for him, love that he had tried before, and it held. _Andif he made love to Elspeth Barrow need old Steadfast ever know it?_And, finally, and perhaps, unacknowledged to himself, from the first, he turned to that cabinet of his heart where was the vial made ofpride, that held the drop of malice. The storm continued. They lookedthrough the portcullis made by the briers upon a world of rain. Thelightning flashed, the thunder rolled; in here was the castle hold, dim and safe. They were as alone as in a fairy-tale, as alone asthough around the cave beat an ocean that boat had never crossed. 

They sat near each other; once or twice Ian, rising, moved to and froin the cave, or at the opening looked into the turmoil without. Whenhe did this her eyes followed him. Each, in every fiber, hadconsciousness of the other. They were as conscious of each other aslion and lioness in a desert cave. 

They talked, but they did not talk much. What they said was triteenough. Underneath was the potent language, wave meeting wave withshock and thrill and exultation. These would not come, here and now, to outer utterance. But sooner or later they would come. Each knewthat--though not always does one acknowledge what is known. 

When they spoke it was chiefly of weather and of country people. . . . 

The lightning blazed less frequently, thunder subdued itself. For atime the rain fell thick and leaden, but after an hour it thinned andgrew silver. Presently it wholly stopped. 

"This storm is over, " said Ian. 

Elspeth rose from the ledge of stone. He drew aside the drippingcurtain of leaf and stem, and she stepped forth from the cave, and hefollowed. The clouds were breaking, the birds were singing. The day ofcreation could not have seen the glen more lucent and fragrant. When, soon, they came to its lower reaches, with White Farm before them, they saw overhead a rainbow. 

 * * * * *

The day of the storm and the cave was over, but with no outward wordtheir inner selves had covenanted to meet again. They met in the leafyglen. It was easy for her to find an errand to Mother Binning's, or, even, in the long summer afternoons, to wander forth from White Farmunquestioned. As for him, he came over the moor, avoided the cot atthe glen head, and plunged down the steep hillside below. Once theymet Jock Binning in the glen. After that they chose for theirtrysting-place that green hidden arm that once she and the laird ofGlenfernie had entered. 

Elspeth did not think in those days; she loved. She moved as one whois moved; she was drawn as by the cords of the sun. The Ancient One, the Sphinx, had her fast. The reflection of a greater thing claimedher and taught her, held her like a bayadere in a temple court. 

As for Ian, he also held that he loved. He was the Arab bound for thewell for which he thirsted, single-minded as to that, and without muchpresent consciousness of tarnish or sin. . . . But what might arise inhis mind when his thirst was quenched? Ian did not care, in theseblissful days, to think of that. 

He had come on the day of the storm, the cave, and the rainbow to afatal place in his very long life. He was upon very still, deep water, glasslike, with only vague threads and tremors to show what mightissue in resistless currents. He had been in such a place, in hisplanetary life, over and over and over again. This concatenation hadformed it, or that concatenation; the surrounding phenomena varied, but essentially it was always the same, like a dream place. Thequestion was, would he turn his boat, or raft, or whatever was beneathhim, or his own stroke as swimmer, and escape from this glassy placewhose currents were yet but tendrils? He could do it; it was theValley of Decision. . . . But so often, in all those lives whose bitterand sweet were distilled into this one, he had not done it. It hadgrown much easier not to do it. Sometimes it had been illusory love, sometimes ambition, sometimes towering pride and self-seeking, sometimes mere indolent unreadiness, dreamy self-will. On he had goneout of the lower end of the Valley of Decision, where the tendrilsbecame arms of giants and decisions might no longer be made. 

CHAPTER XV

The laird of Glenfernie stayed longer from home than, riding away, hehad expected to do. It was the latter half of August when he and BlackAlan, Tam Dickson and Whitefoot, came up the winding road toGlenfernie door. Phemie it was, at the clothes-lines, who noted themon the lowest spiral, who turned and ran and informed the household. "The laird's coming! The laird's coming!" Men and women and dogs beganto stir. 

Strickland, looking from the window of his own high room, saw theriders in and out of the bronzing woods. Descending, he joined Mrs. Grizel upon the wide stone step without the hall door. Davie was inwaiting, and a stable-boy or two came at a run. 

"Two months!" said Mrs. Grizel. "But it used to be six months, a year, two years, and more! He grows a home body, as lairds ought to be!"

Alexander dismounted at the door, took her in his arms and kissed hertwice, shook hands with Strickland, greeted Davie and the men. "Howgood it is to get home! I've pined like a lost bairn. And none of youlook older--Aunt Grizel hasn't a single white hair!"

"Go along with you, laddie!" said Aunt Grizel. "You haven't been solong away!"

The sun was half-way down the western quarter. He changed hisriding-clothes, and they set food for him in the hall. He ate, andDavie drew the cloth and brought wine and glasses. Some matter orother called Mrs. Grizel away, but Strickland stayed and drank winewith him. 

Questions and answers had been exchanged. Glenfernie gave in detailreasons for his lengthened stay. There had been a businesspostponement and complication--in London Jamie's affairs; again, inEdinburgh, insistence of kindred with whom Alice was blooming, "growing a fine lady, too!" and at the last a sudden and for a whiledangerous sickness of Tam Dickson's that had kept them a week at aninn a dozen miles this side of Edinburgh. 

"Each time I started up sprang a stout hedge! But they're all down nowand here I am!" He raised his wine-glass. "To home, and the sweetnessthereof!" said Alexander. 

"I am glad to see you back, " said Strickland, and meant it. 

The late sunlight streamed through the open door. Bran, the old hound, basked in it; it wiped the rust from the ancient weapons on the walland wrote hieroglyphics in among them; it made glow the wine in theglass. Alexander turned in his chair. 

"It's near sunset. . . . Now what, just, did you hear about Ian Rullock'sgoing?"

"We supposed that he would be here through the autumn--certainly untilafter your return. Then, three days ago, comes Peter Lindsay with thenote for you, and word that he was gone. Lindsay thought that he hadreceived letters from great people and had gone to them for a visit. "

Alexander spread the missive that had been given him upon the table. "It's short!" He held it so that Strickland might read:

 GLENFERNIE, --Perhaps the leaf is not yet wholly sere. Be that as it may be, I'm leaving Black Hill for a time. 

 IAN RULLOCK. 

"That's a puzzling billet!" said Alexander. "'_Glenfernie_--_IanRullock!_'"

"What does he mean by the leaf not dead?"

"That was a figure of speech used between us in regard to a certainthing. . . . Well, he also has moods! It is my trust that he has notanswered to some one's piping that the leaf's not dead! That is thelikeliest thing--that he answered and has gone. I'll ride to BlackHill to-morrow. " The sun set, twilight passed, candles were lighted. "Have you seen any from White Farm?"

"I walked there from Littlefarm with Robin Greenlaw. Jarvis Barrow wasreading Leviticus, looking like a listener in the Plain of Sinai. Theyexpected Gilian home from Aberdeen. They say the harvest everywhere isgood. "

Alexander asked no further and presently they parted for the night. The laird of Glenfernie looked from his chamber window, and he lookedtoward White Farm. It was dark, clear night, and all the autumn starsshone like worlds of hope. 

The next morning he mounted his horse and went off to Black Hill. Hewould get this matter of Ian straight. It was early when he rode, andhe came to Black Hill to find Mr. Touris and his sister yet at thebreakfast-table. Mrs. Alison, who might have been up hours, sat overagainst a dour-looking master of the house who sipped his tea andcrumbled his toast and had few good words for anything. But he wasglad and said that he was glad to see Glenfernie. 

"Now, maybe, we'll have some light on Ian's doings!"

"I came for light to you, sir. "

"Do you mean that he hasn't written you?"

"Only a line that I found waiting for me. It says, simply, that heleaves Black Hill for a while. "

"Well, you won't get light from me! My light's darkness. The womenfound in his room a memorandum of ships and two addresses, one a housein Amsterdam, and one, if you please, in Paris--_FaubourgSaint-Germain!_"

"Do you mean that he left without explanation or good-by?"

Mrs. Alison spoke. "No, Archibald does not mean that. One evening Ianoutdid himself in bonniness and golden talk. Then as we took ourcandles he told us that the wander-fever had him and that he would beriding to Edinburgh. Archibald protested, but he daffed it by. So thenext day he went, and he may be in Edinburgh. It would seem nothing, if these Highland chiefs were not his kin and if there wasn't thisround and round rumor of the Pretender and the French army! There maybe nothing--he may be riding back almost to-morrow!"

But Mr. Touris would not shake the black dog from his shoulders. "He'll bring trouble yet--was born the sort to do it!"

Alexander defended him. 

"Oh, you're his friend--sworn for thick and thin! As for Alison, she'dfind a good word for the fiend from hell!--not that my sister's son isanything of that, " said the Scotchman. "But he'll bring trouble towarm, canny, king-and-kirk-abiding folk! He's an Indian macaw in adove-cote. "

They rose from table. Out on the terrace they walked up and down inthe soft, bright morning light. Mr. Touris seemed to wish company; heclung to Glenfernie until the latter must mount his horse and ridehome. Only for a moment did Alexander and Mrs. Alison have speechtogether. 

"When will you be seeing Elspeth?"

"I hope this afternoon. "

"May joy come to you, Alexander!"

"I want it to come. I want it to come. "

He and Black Alan journeyed home. As he rode he thought now and againof Ian, perhaps in Edinburgh according to his word of mouth, butperhaps, despite that word, on board some ship that should place himin the Low Countries, from which he might travel into France and toParis and that group of Jacobites humming like a byke of bees around aprince, the heir of all the Stewarts. He thought with old affectionand old concern. Whatever Ian did--intrigued with Jacobite interest orheld aloof like a sensible man--yet was he Ian with the old appeal. _Take me or leave me--me and my dusky gold!_ Alexander drew a deepbreath, shook his shoulders, raised his head. "Let my friend be as heis!"

He ceased to think of Ian and turned to the oncoming afternoon--theafternoon rainbow-hued, coming on to the sound of music. 

Again in his own house, he and Strickland worked an hour or more uponestate business. That over and dinner past, he went to the room in thekeep. When the hour struck three he passed out of the opening in theold wall, clambered down the bank, and, going through the wood, tookhis way to White Farm. 

Just one foreground wish in his mind was granted. There was an orchardstrip by White Farm, and here, beneath a red-apple tree, he foundElspeth alone. She was perfectly direct with him. 

"Willy told us that you were home. I thought you might come now toWhite Farm. I was watching. I wanted to speak to you where none wasby. Let us cross the burn and walk in the fields. "

The fields were reaped, lay in tawny stubble. The path ran by this andby a lichened stone wall. Overhead, swallows were skimming. Heath andbracken, rolled the colored hills. The air swam cool and golden, witha smell of the harvest earth. 

"Elspeth, I stayed away years and years and years, and I stayed awaynot one hour!"

She stopped; she stood with her back to the wall. The farm-house hadsunk from sight, the sun was westering, the fields lay dim gold andsolitary. She had over her head a silken scarf, the ends of which shedrew together and held with one brown, slender hand against herbreast. She wore a dark gown; he saw her bosom rise and fall. 

"I watched for you to tell you that this must not go on any longer. Icame to my mind when you were gone, Mr. Alexander--I came to my mind!I think that you are braw and noble, but in the way of loving, as loveis between man and woman, I have none for you--I have none for you!"

The sun appeared to dip, the fields to darken. Pain came toGlenfernie, wildering and blinding. He stood silent. 

"I might have known before you went--I might have known from thatfirst meeting, in May, in the glen! But I was a fool, and vague, andwilling, I suppose, to put tip of tongue to a land of sweetness! If, mistaken myself, I helped you to mistake, I am bitter sorry and I askyour forgiveness! But the thing, Glenfernie, the thing stands! It'sfor us to part. "

He stared at her dumbly. In every line of her, in every tone of her, there was finality. He was tenacious of purpose, capable oflong-sustained and patient effort, but he seemed to know that, forthis life, purpose and effort here might as well be laid aside. Theknowledge wrapped him, quiet, gray, and utter. He put his hands to hisbrow; he moved a few steps to and fro; he came to the wall and leanedagainst it. It seemed to him that he regarded the clay-cold corpse ofhis life. 

"O the world!" cried Elspeth. "When we are little it seems so little!If you suffer, I am sorry. "

"Present suffering may be faced if there's light behind. "

"There's not this light, Glenfernie. . . . O world! if there is someother light--"

"And time will do naught for me, Elspeth?"

"No. Time will do naught for you. It is over! And the day goes downand the world spins on. "

They stood apart, without speaking, under their hands the heapedstones of the wall. The swallows skimmed; a tinkling of sheep-bellswas heard; the stubble and the moor beyond the fields lay in gold, insunken green and violet; the hilltops met the sky in a line long, clean, remote, and still. Elspeth spoke. 

"I am going now, back home. Let's say good-by here, each wishing theother some good in, or maybe out of, this carefu' world!"

"You, also, are unhappy. Why?"

"I am not! Do I seem so? I am sorry for unhappiness--that is all! Ofcourse we grow older, " said Elspeth, "older and wiser. But you nor noone must think that I am unhappy! For I am not. " She put out her handsto him. "Let us say good-by!"

"Is it so? Is it so?"

"Never make doubt of that! I want you to see that it is cleansnapped--clean gone!"

She gave him her hands. They lay in his grasp untrembling, filled witha gathered strength. He wrung them, bowed his head upon them, let themgo. They fell at her sides; then she raised them, drew the scarf overher head and, holding it as before, turned and went away up the pathbetween the yellow stubble and the wall. She walked quickly, darkclad; she was gone like a bird into a wood, like a branch of autumnleaves when the sea fog rolls in. 

The laird of Glenfernie turned to his ancient house on the craggyhill. . . . That night he made him a fire in his old loved room in thekeep. He sat beside it; he lighted candles and opened books, and nowand then he sat so still before them that he may have thought that heread. But the books slipped away, and the candles guttered down, andthe fire went out. At last, in the thick darkness, he spread his armsupon the table and bowed his head in them, and his frame shook with aman's slow weeping. 

CHAPTER XVI

The bright autumn sank into November, November winds and mists into amuffled, gray-roofed, white-floored December. And still the laird ofGlenfernie lived with the work of the estate and, when that was done, and when the long, lonely, rambling daily walk or ride was over, withbooks. The room in the keep had now many books. He sat among them, andhe built his fire higher, and his candles burned into late night. Whether he read or did not read, he stayed among them and drew whatrestless comfort he might. Strickland, from his own high room, wakingin the night, saw the loophole slit of light. 

He felt concern. The change that had come to his old pupil was markedenough. Strickland's mind dwelt on the old laird. Was that thepersonality, not of one, but of two, of the whole line, perhaps, developing all the time, step by step with what seemed the plastic, otherwise, free time of youth, appearing always in due season, whenits hour struck? Would Alexander, with minor differences, repeat hisfather? How of the mother? Would the father drown the mother? In theenormous all-one, the huge blend, what would arrive? Out of allfathers and mothers, out of all causes?

It could not be said that Alexander was surly. Nor, if the weatherwas dark with him, that he tried to shake his darkness into others'skies. Nor that he meanly succumbed to the weight, whatever it was, that bore upon him. He did his work, and achieved at least the show ofequanimity. Strickland wondered. What was it that had happened? Itnever occurred to him that it had happened here in this dale. But inall that life of Alexander's in the wider world there must needs havebeen relationships of lands established. Somewhere, something hadhappened to overcloud his day, to uncover ancestral resemblances, possibilities. Something, somewhere, and he had had news of it thisautumn. . . . It happened that Strickland had never seen Glenfernie withElspeth Barrow. 

Mrs. Grizel was not observant. So that her nephew came to breakfast, dinner, and supper, so that he was not averse to casual speech ofhousehold interests, so that he seemed to keep his health, so that hegave her now and then words and a kiss of affection, she was willingto believe that persons addicted to books and the company ofthemselves had a right to stillness and gravity. Alice stayed inEdinburgh; Jamie soldiered it in Flanders. Strickland wrote andcomputed for and with the laird, then watched him forth, a solitaryfigure, by the fir-trees, by the leafless trees, and down the circlingroad into the winter country. Or he saw firelight in the keep and knewthat Alexander walked to and fro, to and fro, or sat bowed over abook. Late at night, waking, he saw that Glenfernie still watched. 

It was not Ian Rullock nor anything to do with him that had helped onthis sharp alteration, this turn into some Cimmerian stretch of themind's or the emotions' vast landscape. If Strickland had at firstwondered if this might be the case, the thought vanished. Glenfernie, free to speak of Ian, spoke freely, with the relief of there, atleast, a sunny day. It somewhat amazed and disquieted, even while ittouched, the older man of quiet passions and even ways, the oldstrength of this friendship. Glenfernie seemed to brood with amother-passion over Ian. To an extent here he confided in Strickland. The latter knew of the worry about Jacobite plots and the drawing ofIan into that vortex--Ian known now to be in Paris, writing thencetwice or thrice during this autumn and early winter, letters that cameto Glenfernie's hand by unusual channels, smacking all of them ofJacobite or High Tory transmissals. Strickland did not see theseletters. Of them Alexander said only that Ian wrote as usual, exceptthat he made no reference to sere leaves turning green or a dead staffbudding. 

In the room with only the loophole windows, by the firelight, Alexander read over again the second of these letters. "So you haveloved and lost, old Steadfast? Let it not grieve you too much!" Andthat was all of that. And it pleased Alexander that it was all. Ianwas too wise to touch and finger the heart. Ian, Ian, rich and deepand himself almost! Ten thousand Ian recollections pressed in uponAlexander. Let Ian, an he would, go a-lusting after old dynasties! Yetwas he Ian! In these months it was Ian memories that chiefly gaveAlexander comfort. 

They gave beyond what, at this time, Mrs. Alison could give. Atconsiderable intervals he went to Black Hill. But his old friend livedin a rare, upland air, and he could not yet find rest in her clime. She saw that. 

"It's for after a while, isn't it, Alexander? Oh, after a while you'llsee that it is the breathing, living air! But do not feel now that youare in duty bound to come here. Wait until you feel like coming, andnever think that I'll be hurt--"

"I am a marsh thing, " he said. "I feel dull and still and cold, andover me is a heavy atmosphere filled with motes. Forgive me and let mecome to you farther on and higher up. "

He went back to the gray crag, Glenfernie House and the room in thekeep, the fire and his books, and a brooding traveling over the past, and, like a pool of gold in a long arctic night, the image, nested andwarm, of Ian. Love was lost, but there stayed the ancient, ancientfriend. 

Two weeks before Christmas Alice came home, bright as a rose. Shetalked of a thousand events, large and small. Glenfernie listened, smiled, asked questions, praised her, and said it was good to havebrightness in the house. 

"Aye, it is!" she answered. "How grave and old you and Mr. Stricklandand the books and the hall and Bran look!"

"It's heigho! for Jamie, isn't it?" asked Alexander. "Winter makes uslook old. Wait till springtime!"

That evening she waylaid Strickland. "What is the matter withAlexander?"

"I don't know. "

"He looks five years older. He looks as though he had been throughwars. "

"Perhaps he has. I don't know what it is, " said Strickland, soberly. 

"Do you think, " said Alice--"do you think he could have had--oh, somewhere out in the world!--a love-affair, and it ended badly? Shedied, or there was a rival, or something like that, and he has justheard of it?"

"You have been reading novels, " said Strickland. "And yet--!"

That night, seeing from his own window the light in the keep, heturned to his bed with the thought of the havoc of love. Lying therewith open eyes he saw in procession Unhappy Love. He lay long awake, but at last he turned and addressed himself to sleep. "He's a strongclimber! Whatever it is, maybe he'll climb out of it. "

But in the keep, Alexander, sitting by the fire with lowered head andhanging hands, saw not the time when he would climb out of it. . . . 

He went no more to White Farm. He went, though not every Sunday, tokirk and sat with his aunt and with Strickland in the laird's boxlike, curtained pew. Mr. M'Nab preached of original sin and ineffablecondemnation, and of the few, the very, very few, saved as by fire. Hesaw Jarvis Barrow sitting motionless, sternly agreeing, and beyond himJenny Barrow and then Elspeth and Gilian. Out of kirk, in thekirkyard, he gave them good day. He studied to keep strangeness outof his manner; an onlooker would note only a somewhat silent, preoccupied laird. He might be pondering the sermon. Mr. M'Nab'ssermons were calculated to arouse alarm and concern--or, in the caseof the justified, stern triumph--in the human breast. White Farm madeno quarrel with the laird for that quietude and withdrawing. In theautumn he had told Jarvis Barrow of that hour with Elspeth in thestubble-field. The old man listened, then, "They are strange warks, women!" he said, and almost immediately went on to speak of otherthings. There seemed no sympathy and no regret for the earthlyhappening. But he liked to debate with the laird election and theperseverance of the saints. 

Jenny Barrow, only, could not be held from exclamation overGlenfernie's defection. "Why does he na come as he used to? Wha's doneaught to him or said a word to gie offense?" She talked to Menie andMerran since Elspeth and Gilian gave her notice that they were weariedof the subject. Perhaps Jenny's concern with it kept her from theperception that not Glenfernie only was changing or had changed. Elspeth--! But Elspeth had been always a dreamer, rather silent, alistener rather than a speaker. Jenny did not look around corners; theovert sufficed for a bustling, good-natured life. Gilian's arrival, moreover, made for a diversion of attention. By the time noveltysubsided again into every day an altered Elspeth had so fitted intothe frame of life that Jenny was unaware of alteration. 

But Gilian was not Jenny. 

Each of Jarvis Barrow's granddaughters had her own small bedroom. Three nights after Gilian's home-coming she came, when the candleswere out, into Elspeth's room. It was September and, for the season, warm. A great round moon poured its light into the little room. Elspeth was seated upon her bed. Her hair was loosened and fell overher white gown. Her feet were under her; she sat like an Easterncarving, still in the moonlight. 

"Elspeth!"

Elspeth took a moment to come back to White Farm. "What is it, Gilian?"

Gilian moved to the window and sat in it. She had not undressed. Themoon silvered her, too. "What has happened, Elspeth?"

"Naught. What should happen?"

"It's no use telling me that. --We've been away from each other almosta year. I know that I've changed, grown, in that time, and it'snatural that you should do the same. But it's something besides that!"

Elspeth laughed and her laughter was like a little, cold, mirthlesschime of silver bells. "You're fanciful, Gilian!. . . We're no longerlassies; we're women! So the colors of things get a littledifferent--that's all!"

"Don't you love me, Elspeth?"

"Yes, I love you. What has that to do with it?"

"Has it not? Has love naught to do with it? Love at all--all love?"

Elspeth parted her long dark hair into two waves, drew it before her, and began to braid it, sitting still, her limbs under her, upon thebed. "I saw you on the moor walking and talking with grandfather. What did he say to you?"

"You are changed and I said that you were changed. He had notnoticed--he would not be like to notice! Then he told me about thelaird and you. "

"Yes. About the laird and me. "

"You couldn't love him? They say he is a fine man. "

"No, I couldn't love him. I like him. He understands. No one is toblame. "

"But if it is not that, what is it--what is it, Elspeth?"

"It's naught--naught--naught, I tell you!"

"It's a strange naught that makes you like a dark lady in aballad-book!"

Elspeth laughed again. "Didn't I say that you were fanciful? It's lateand I am sleepy. "

That had been while the leaves were still upon the trees. The nextmorning and thenceforward Elspeth seemed to make a point ofcheerfulness. It passed with her aunt and the helpers in the house. Jarvis Barrow appeared to take no especial note if women laughed orsighed, so long as they lived irreproachably. 

The leaves bronzed, the autumn rains came, the leaves fell, the treesstood bare, the winds began to blow, there fell the first snowflakes. Gilian, walking home from the town, was overtaken on the moor by RobinGreenlaw. 

"Where is Elspeth?"

"We are making our winter dresses. She would not leave her sewing. "

The cousins walked upon the moor path together. Gilian was fairer andmore strongly made than Elspeth. They walked in silence; then saidRobin:

"You're the old Gilian, but I'm sure I miss the old Elspeth!"

"I think, myself, she's gone visiting! I rack and rack my brains tofind what grief could have come to Elspeth. She will not help me. "

"Gilian, could it be that, after all, her heart is set on the laird?"

"Did you know about that?"

"In part I guessed, watching them together. And then I saw howGlenfernie oldened in a night. Then, being with my uncle one day, helet drop a word that I followed up. I led him on and he told me. Glenfernie acted like a true man. "

"If there's one thing of which I'm sure it is that she hardly thinksof him from Sunday to Sunday. She thinks then for a little because shesees him in kirk--but that passes, too!"

"Then what is it?"

"I don't know. I don't know of anybody else. Maybe no outer thing hasanything to do with it. Sometimes we just have drumlie, dreary seasonsand we do not know why. . . . She loves the spring. Maybe when springcomes she'll be Elspeth once more!"

"I hope so, " said Greenlaw. "Spring makes all the world bonny again. "

That was in November. On Christmas Eve Elspeth Barrow drowned herselfin the Kelpie's Pool. 

CHAPTER XVII

There had been three hours of light on Christmas Day when RobinGreenlaw appeared at Glenfernie House and would see the laird. 

"He's in his ain room in the keep, " said Davie, and went with themessage. 

Alexander came down the stair and out into the flagged court. Theweather had been unwontedly clement, melting the earlier snows, letting the brown earth forth again for one look about her. To-daythere was pale sunlight. Greenlaw sat his big gray. The laird came tohim. 

"Get down, man, and come in for Christmas cheer!"

"Send Davie away, " said Greenlaw. 

Alexander's gray eyes glanced. "You're bringing something that is notChristmas cheer!--Davie, tell Dandie Saunderson to saddle Black Alanat once. --Now, Robin!"

"Yesterday, " said Greenlaw, "Elspeth Barrow vanished from White Farm. They wanted to send Christmas fare to old Skene the cotter. She saidshe would take a basket there, and so she went away, down thestream--about ten of the morning they think it was. It was not forhours that they grew at all anxious. She's never come back. She didnot go to Skene's. We can hear no word of her from any. Hergrandfather and I and the men at White Farm looked for her through thenight. This morning there's an alarm sent up and down the dale. "

"What harm could happen--"

"She might have strayed into some lonely place--fallen--hurt herself. There were gipsies seen the other day over by Windyedge. Or she mighthave walked on and on upon what road she took, and somehow nonechanced to notice her. I am going now to ride the Edinburgh way. "

"Have you gone up the glen?"

"That was tried this morning at first light. But that is just oppositeto Skene's and the way she certainly took at first. She would have toturn and go about through the woods, or White Farm would see her. " Hisvoice had a haunting note of fear and trouble. 

Glenfernie caught it. "She was not out of health nor unhappy?"

"She is changed from the old Elspeth. When you ask her if she isunhappy she says that she is not. . . . I do not know. Something iswrong. With the others, I am seeking about as though I expected eachmoment to see her sitting or standing by the roadside. But I do notexpect to see her. I do not know what I expect. We have sent toWindyedge to apprehend those gipsies. "

"Let me speak one moment to Mr. Strickland to send the men forth andgo himself. Then I am ready. "

On Black Alan he rode with Robin down the hill and through the woodand upon the White Farm way. The earth was mainly bare of snow, butfrozen hard. The hoofs rang out but left no print. The air hung still, light and dry; the sun, far in the south, sent slanting, pale-goldbeams. The two men made little speech as they rode. They passed menand youths, single figures and clusters. 

"Ony news, Littlefarm? We've been--or we're going--seeking here, orhere--"

A woman stopped them. "It was thae gipsies, sirs! I had a dream aboutthem, five nights syne! A lintwhite was flying by them, and they gavechase. Either it's that or she made away with herself! I had a dreamthat might be read that way, too. "

When they came to White Farm it was to find there only Jenny and Menieand Merran. 

"Somebody maun stay to keep the house warm gin the lassie comestumbling hame, cauld and hungry and half doited! Eh, Glenfernie, yethat are a learned man and know the warld, gie us help!"

"I am going up the glen, " said Alexander to Greenlaw. "I do not knowwhy, but I think it should be tried again. And I know it, root andbranch. I am going afoot. I will leave Black Alan here. "

They wasted no time. He went, while Robin Greenlaw on his gray tookthe opposed direction. Looking back, he saw the great fire that Jennykept, dancing through the open door and in the pane of the window. Then the trees and the winding of the path shut it away, shut awayhouse and field and all token of human life. 

He moved swiftly to the mouth of the glen, but then more slowly. Thetrees soared bare, the water rushed with a hoarse sound, snow lay inclefts. So well he knew the place! There was no spot where foot mighthave climbed, no ledge nor opening where form might lay, huddled oroutstretched, that lacked his searching eye or hand. Here was thepebbly cape with the thorn-tree where in May he had come upon Elspeth, sitting by the water, singing. . . . Farther on he turned into thatsmaller, that fairy glen, bending like an arm from the main pass. Herewas the oak beneath which they had sat, against which she had leaned. It wrapt him from himself, this place. He stood, and space aroundseemed filled with forms just beyond visibility. What were they? Hedid not know, but they seemed to breathe against his heart, towhisper. . . . He searched this place well, but there were only thewinter banks and trees, the little burn, the invisible presences. Backin the deep glen a hawk sailed overhead, across the stripe ofpale-blue sky. Alexander went on by the stream and the projecting rockand the twisted roots. There was no sound other than the loud voice ofthe water, talking only of its return to the sea. When he came to thecave he pushed aside the masking growth and entered. Dark and barrenhere, with the ashes of an old fire! For one moment, as it weredistinctly, he saw Ian. He stood so clear in the mind's eye that itseemed that one intense effort might have set him bodily in thecavern. But the central strength let the image go. Alexander moved theashes of the fire with his foot, shuddered in the place of cold andshadow, and, stooping, went out of the cave and on upon his search forElspeth Barrow. 

He sought the glen through, and at last, at the head, he came toMother Binning's cot. Her fire was burning; she was standing in thedoor looking toward him. 

"Eh, Glenfernie! is there news of the lassie?"

"None. You've got the sight. Can you not _see_?"

"It's gane from me! When it gaes I'm just like ony bird with a brokenwing. "

"If you cannot see, what do you think?"

"I dinna want to think and I dinna want to say. Whaur be ye gaeingnow?"

"On over the moor and down by the Kelpie's Pool. "

"Gae on then. I'll watch for ye coming back. "

He went on. Something strange had him, drawing him. He came out fromthe band of trees upon the swelling open moor, bare and brown savewhere the snow laced it. Gold filtered over it; a pale sky archedabove; it was wide, still, and awful--a desert. He saw the light rundown and glint upon the pool. Searchers had ridden across this mooralso, he had been told. He went down at once to the pool and stood bythe kelpie willow. He was not thinking, he was not keenly feeling. Heseemed to stand in open, endless, formless space, and in unfencedtime. A clump of dry reeds rose by his knee, and upon the other sideof these he noticed that a stone had been lifted from its bed. Hestooped, and in the reeds he found an inch-long fragment of ribbon--ofa snood. 

He stepped back from the willow. He took off and dropped upon the moorhat and riding-coat and boots, inner coat and waistcoat. Then heentered the Kelpie's Pool. He searched it, measure by measure, and atlast he found the body of Elspeth. He drew it up; he loosened and letfall the stone tied in the plaid that was wrapped around it; he borethe form out of the pool and laid it upon the bank beyond the willow. The sunlight showed the whole, the face and figure. The laird ofGlenfernie, kneeling beside it, put back the long drowned hair andsaw, pinned upon the bosom of the gown, the folded letter, wrappedtwice in thicker paper. He took it from her and opened it. The writingwas yet legible. 

 I hope that I shall not be found. If I am, let this answer for me. I was unhappy, more unhappy than you can think. Let no one be blamed. It was one far from here and you will not know his name. Do not think of me as wicked nor as a murderess. The unhappy should have pardon and rest. Good-by to all--good-by!

In the upper corner was written, "For White Farm. " That was all. 

Glenfernie put this letter into the bosom of his shirt. He then got onagain the clothing he had discarded, and, stooping, put his armsbeneath the lifeless form. He lifted it and bore it from the Kelpie'sPool and up the moor. He was a man much stronger than the ordinary; hecarried it as though he felt no weight. The icy water of the pool uponhim was as nothing, and as he walked his face was still as a stoneface in a desert. So he came with Elspeth's body back to the glen, andMother Binning saw him coming. 

"Hech, sirs! Hech, sirs! Will it hae been that way--will it hae beenthat way?"

He stopped for a moment. He laid his burden down upon the boards justwithin the door and smoothed back the streaming hair. "Even the shellflung out by the ocean is beautiful!"

"Eh, man! Eh, man! It's wae sometimes to be a woman!"

"Give me, " he said, "a plaid, dry and warm, to hap her in. "

"Will ye na leave her here? Put her in my bed and gae tell WhiteFarm!"

"No, I will carry her home. "

Mother Binning took from a chest a gray plaid. He lifted again thedead woman, and she happed the plaid about her. "Ah, the lassie--thelassie! Come to me, Glenfernie, and I will scry for you who it was!"

He looked at her as though he did not hear her. He lifted the body, holding it against his shoulder like a child, and went forth. He knewthe path so absolutely, he was so strong and light of foot, that hewent without difficulty through the glen, by the loud crying water, bythe points of crag and the curving roots and the drifts of snow, bythe green patches of moss and the trees great and small. He did nothasten nor drag, he did not think. He went like a bronze Talus, madesimply to find, to carry home. 

Known feature after known feature of the place rose before him, passedhim, fell away. Here was the arm of the glen, and here was the pebbledcape and the thorn-tree. The winter water swirled around it, sang ofcold and a hateful power. Here was the mouth of the glen. Here werethe fields which had been green and then golden with ripe corn. Herewere the White Farm roof and chimneys and windows, and blue smoke fromthe chimney going straight up like a wraith to meet blue sky. Beforehim was the open door. 

He had thought of there being only Jenny and the two servant lasses. But in the time he had been gone there had regathered to White Farm, for learning each from each, for consultation, for mere rest and food, a number of the searchers. Jarvis Barrow had returned from thenorthward-stretching moor, Thomas and Willy from the southerly fields. Men who had begun to drag deep places in the stream were here for someprovision. A handful of women, hooded and wrapped, had come fromneighboring farms or from the village. Among them talked Mrs. Macmurdo, who kept the shop, and the hostess of the Jardine Arms. Andthere was here Jock Binning, who, for all his lameness and hiscrutches, could go where he wished. . . . But it was Gilian, crossingupon the stepping-stones, who saw Glenfernie coming by the stream withthe covered form in his arms. She met him; they went up the bank tothe house together. She had uttered one cry, but no more. 

"The Kelpie's Pool, " he had answered. 

Jarvis Barrow came out of the door. "Eh! God help us!"

They laid the form upon a bed. All the houseful crowded about. Therewas no helping that, and as little might be helped Jenny'slamentations and the ejaculations of others. It was White Farmhimself who took away the plaid. It lay there before them all, thedrowned form. The face was very quiet, strangely like Elspeth again, the Elspeth of the springtime. All looked, all saw. 

"Gude guide us!" cried Mrs. Macmurdo. "And I wadna be some at theJudgment Day when come up the beguiled, self-drownit lassies!"

Jock Binning's voice rose from out the craning group. "Aye, and Iken--and I ken wha was the man!"

White Farm turned upon him. He towered, the old man. A winter wrathand grief, an icy, scintillant, arctic passion, marked two there, thelaird of Glenfernie and the elder of the kirk. Gilian's grief stoodhead-high with theirs, but their anger, the old man's disdaining andthe young man's jealousy, was far from her. In Jarvis Barrow's handwas the paper, taken from Elspeth, given him by Glenfernie. He turnedupon the cripple. "Wha, then? Wha, then? Speak out!"

He had that power of command that forced an answer. Jock Binning, crutched and with an elfish face and figure and voice, had pulled downupon himself the office of revelator. The group swayed a little fromhim and he was left facing White Farm and the laird of Glenfernie. Hehad a wailing, chanting, elvish manner of speech. Out streamed thisvoice:

"'Twere the last of June, twa-three days after the laird rode toEdinburgh, and she brought my mither a giftie of plums and sat doonfor a crack with her. By he came and stood and talked. Syne theclouds thickened and the thunder growlit, and he wad walk with herhame through the glen--"

"Wha wad? Wha?"

"Captain Ian Rullock. "

"_Ian Rullock!_"

"Aye, Glenfernie! And after that they never came to my mither's again. But I marked them aft when they didna mark me, in the glen. Aye, and Imarked them ance in the little glen, and there they were loverssurely--gin kisses and clasped arms mak lovers! She wad come byherself to their trysting, and he wad come over the muir and down thecrag-side. It was na my business and I never thocht to tell. But eh!all ill will out, says my mither!"

CHAPTER XVIII

The early sunlight fell soft and fine upon the river Seine and thequays and buildings of Paris. The movement and buzz of people had, inthe brightness, something of the small ecstasy of bees emerging fromthe hive with the winter pall just slipped. Distant bells wereringing, hope enticed the grimmest poverty. Much, after all, might betaken good-naturedly!

A great, ornate coach, belonging to a person of quality, crossed theSeine from the south to the north bank. Three gentlemen, seatedwithin, observed each in his own fashion the soft, shining day. Onewas Scots, one was English, and the owner of the coach, a Frenchman. The first was Ian Rullock. 

"Good weather for your crossing, monsieur!" remarked the person ofquality. He was so markedly of position that the two men whom he hadgraciously offered to bring a mile upon their way, and who also wereyounger men, answered with deference and followed in their speech onlythe lines indicated. 

"It promises fair, sir, " said Ian. "In three days Dunkirk, then smoothseas! Good omens everywhere!"

"You do not voyage under your own name?"

"After to-morrow, sir, I am Robert Bonshaw, a Scots physician. "

"Ah, well, good fortune to you, and to the exalted person you serve!"

The coach, cumbrous and stately, drawn by four white horses, left thebridge and came under old palace walls, and thence by narrow streetsadvanced toward the great house of its owner. Outside was the numerousthrong, the scattering to this side and that of the imperiled foottravelers. The coach stopped. 

"Here is the street you would reach!" said the helpful person ofquality. 

A footman held open the door; the Scot and the Englishman gave properexpression of gratitude to their benefactor, descended to earth, turned again to bow low, and waited bareheaded till the great machinewas once more in motion and monseigneur's wig, countenance, and velvetcoat grew things of the past. Then the two turned into a still andnarrow street overhung by high, ancient structures and roofed withApril sky. 

The one was going from Paris, the other staying. Both were links in along chain of political conspiring. They walked now down the streetthat was dark and old, underfoot old mire and mica-like glistening offresher rain. The Englishman spoke:

"Have you any news from home?"

"None. None for a long while. I had it conveyed to my kindred and toan old friend that I had disappeared from Paris--gone eastward, Heavenknew where--probably Crim Tartary! So my own world at least, as far asI am concerned, will be off the scent. That was in the winter. I havereally heard nothing for months. . . . When the dawn comes up and we areall rich and famed and gay, _my-lorded_ from John o' Groat's House toLand's End--then, Warburton, then--"

"Then?"

"Then we'll be good!" Ian laughed. "Don't you want, sometimes, to begood, Warburton? Wise--and simple. Doesn't it rise before you in thenight with a most unearthly beauty?"

"Oh, I think I am so-so good!" answered the other. "So-so bad, so-sogood. What puts you in this strain?"

"Tell me and I will tell you! And now I'm going to Scotland, into theHighlands, to paint a prince who, when he's king, will, no manner ofdoubt, wear the tartan and make every thane of Glamis thane of Cawdorlikewise!. . . One half the creature's body is an old, childish loyalty, and the other half's ambition. The creature's myself. There are alsobars and circles and splashes of various colors, dark and bright. Sometimes it dreams of wings--wings of an archangel, no less, Warburton! The next moment there seems to be an impotency to produceeven beetle wings!. . . What a weathercock and variorum I am, thou art, he is!"

"We're no worse than other men, " said Warburton, comfortably. "We'reall pretty ignorant, I take it!"

They came to a building, old and not without some lingering ofstrength and grace. It stood in the angle of two streets and receivedsunshine and light as well as cross-tides of sound. The Scot and theEnglishman both lodged here, above a harness-maker and a worker infine woods. They passed into the court and to a stair that once hadknown a constant, worldly-rich traffic up and down. Now it was stilland twilight, after the streets. Both men had affairs to put in order, business on hand. They moved now abstractedly, and when Warburtonreached, upon the first landing, the door of his rooms, he turnedaside from Ian with only a negligent, "We'll sup together and say lastthings then. "

The Scot went on alone to the next landing and his own room. Thesewere not his usual lodgings in Paris. Agent now of high Jacobiteinterests, shuttle sent from conspirers in France to chiefs inScotland, on the eve of a departure in disguise, he had broken oldnest and old relations, and was now as a stranger in a city that heknew well, and where by not a few he was known. The room that heturned into had little sign of old, well-liked occupancy; the servantwho at his call entered from a smaller chamber was not the man to whomhe was used, but a Highlander sent him by a Gordon then in Paris. 

"I am back, Donal!" said Ian, and threw himself into a chair by thetable. "Come, give an account of your errands!"

Donal, middle-aged, faithful, dour and sagacious, and years away fromloch and mountain, gave account. Horses, weapons, clothing, allcorrect for Dr. Robert Bonshaw and his servant, riding under highprotection from Paris to Dunkirk, where a well-captainedmerchant-vessel stayed for them in port. Ian nodded approval. 

"I'm indebted, Donal, to my cousin Gordon!"

Donal let a smile come to within a league of the surface. "Herainself has a wish to hear the eagle scream over Ben Nevis!"

Rullock's hand moved over a paper, checking a row of figures. "Did youmanage to get into my old lodging?"

"Aye. None there. All dusty and bare. But the woman who had the keygave me--since I said I might make a guess where to find you, sir--these letters. They came, she said, two weeks ago. " Donal laidthem upon the table. 

"Ah!" said Ian, "they must have gotten through before I shut off theold passageway. " He took them in his hand. "There's nothing more now, Donal. Go out for your dinner. "

The man went. Ian added another column of figures, then took theletters and with them moved to a window through which streamed the sunof France. The floor was patched with gold; there was warmth as wellas light. He pushed a chair into it, sat down, and opened first thepacket that he knew had come from his uncle. He broke the seal andread two pages of Mr. Touris in a mood of anger. There were rumors--. True it was that Ian had now his own fortune, had it at least until helost it and his life together in some mad, unlawful business! But lethim not look longer to be heir of Archibald Touris! Withdraw at oncefrom ill company, political or other, and return to Scotland, or atleast to England, or take the consequences! The letter bore date thefirst week of December. It had been long in passing from hand to handin a troubled, warring world. Ian Rullock, fathoms deep in thepresent business, held in a web made by many lines of force, boththick and thin, refolded the paper and made to put it into hispocketbook, then bethinking himself, tore it instead into small piecesand, rising, dropped these into a brazier where burned a littlecharcoal. He would carry nothing with his proper name upon it. Comingback to the chair in the sunshine, he sat for a moment with his eyesupon a gray huddle of roofs visible through the window. Then he brokethe seal and unfolded the letter superscribed in Alexander's strongwriting. 

There were hardly six lines. And they did not tell of how discoveryhad been made, nor why, nor when. They said nothing of death norlife--no word of the Kelpie's Pool. They carried, tersely, a directchallenge, the ground Ian Rullock's conception of friendship, aconception tallying nicely with Alexander Jardine's idea of a mortalenmity. Such a fishing-town, known of both, back of such a sea beachin Holland--such a tavern in this place. Meet there--wait there, theone who should reach it first for the other, and--to give all possibleground to delays of letters, travel, arrangements generally--in solate a month as April. "Find me there, or await me there, my one-timefriend, henceforth my foe! I--or Justice herself above me--would teachyou certain things!"

The cartel bore date the 1st of January--later by a month than theBlack Hill letter. It dropped from Ian's hand; he sat with blanknessof mind in the sunlight. Presently he shivered slightly. He leanedhis elbows on his knees and his forehead in his hands and sat still. Alexander! He felt no hot straining toward meeting, toward fighting, Alexander. Perversely enough, after a year of impatient, contemptuousthought in that direction, he had lately felt liking and an ancientstrong respect returning like a tide that was due. And he could notmeet Alexander in April--that was impossible! No private affair couldbe attended to now. 

. . . Elspeth, of whom the letter carried no word, Elspeth from whom hehad not heard since in August he left that countryside, Elspeth whohad agreed with him that love of man and woman was nobody's businessbut their own, Elspeth who, when he would go, had let him go with afine pale refusal to deal in women's tears and talk of injury, who hadsaid, indeed, that she did not repent, much bliss being worth somebale--Elspeth whom he could not be sure that he would see again, butwhom at times before his eyes at night he saw. . . . Immediately upon hisleaving Black Hill she had broken with Glenfernie. She was clear ofhim--the laird could reproach her with nothing!

What had happened? He had told her how, at need, a letter might besent. But one had never come. He himself had never written. Writingwas set in a prickly ring of difficulties and dangers. What hadhappened? Strong, secret inclination toward finding least painfulthings for himself brought his conclusion. Sitting there in thesunshine, his will deceiving him, he determined that it was simplythat Elspeth had at last told Glenfernie that she could not love himbecause she loved another. Probably--persistence being markedly atrait of Old Steadfast's--he had been after her once and again, andshe had turned upon him and said much more than in prudence she shouldhave said! So Alexander would have made his discovery and might, if hepleased, image other trysts than his own in the glen! Certainly he haddone this, and then sat down and penned his challenge!

Elspeth! He was unshakably conscious that Glenfernie would tell nonewhat Elspeth might have been provoked into giving away. Old Steadfast, there was no denying, had that knightliness. Three now knew--no morethan three. If, through some mischance, there had been widerdiscovery, she would have written! The Black Hill letter, too, wouldhave had somewhat there to say. 

Then, behind the challenge, stood old and new relations between IanRullock and Alexander Jardine! It was what Glenfernie might choose toterm the betrayal of friendship--a deep scarification of OldSteadfast's pride, a severing cut given to his too imperialconfidence, poison dropped into the wells of domination, "No!" said totoo much happiness, to any surpassing of him, Ian, in happiness, "No!"to so much reigning!

Ian shook himself, thrust away the doubtful glimmer of a smile. Thatway really did lie hell. . . . 

He came back to a larger if a much perplexed self. He could not meetGlenfernie on that sea beach, fight him there. He did not desire tokill Old Steadfast, though, as the world went, pleasure was to be hadin now and then giving superiority pain. Face to face upon thosesands, some blood shed and honor satisfied, Alexander would bereasonable--being by nature reasonable! Ian shook himself. 

"Now he draws me like a lodestone, and now I feel Lucifer to hisMichael! What old, past mountain of friendship and enmity has comearound, full wheel?"

But it was impossible for him to go to that sea strand in Holland. 

Elspeth! He wondered what she was doing this April day. Perhaps shewalked in the glen. It was colder there than here, but yet the treeswould be budding. He saw her face again, and all its ability to showsubtle terror and subtle joy, and the glancing and the running of thestream between. Elspeth. . . . He loved her again as he sat there, somewhat bowed together in the sunlight, Alexander's challenge uponthe floor by his foot. There came creeping to him an odd feeling oflong ago having loved her--long ago and more than once, many timesmore than once. Name and place alone flickered. There might besomething in Old Steadfast's contention that one lived of old time andall time, only there came breaking in dozing and absent-mindedness!Elspeth--

He saw her standing by him, and it seemed as though she had a basketon her arm, and she looked as she had looked that day of thethunder-storm and the hour in the cave behind the veil of rain. Without warning there welled into his mind broken lines from an oldtale in verse of which he was fond:

 "Me dreamed al this night, pardie, An elf-queen shall my leman be . . . An elf-queen wil I have, I-wis, For in this world no woman is Worthy to be my mate . . . Al other women I forsake And to an elf-queen I me take By dale and eke by down. "

Syllable and tone died. With his hand he brushed from his eyes thevision that he knew to be nothing but a heightened memory. Might, indeed, all women be one woman, one woman be all women, all forms oneform, all times one time, like event fall softly, imperceptibly, uponlike event until there was thickness, until there was made a form ofall recurrent, contributory forms? Events, tendencies, lives--unimaginable continuities! Repetitions and repetitions andrepetitions--and no one able to leave the trodden road that everreturned upon itself--no one able to take one step from the circleinto a new dimension and thence see the form below. . . . 

Ian put his hands over his eyes, shook himself, started up and stoodat the window. Sky, and roofs on roofs, and in the street below toyfigures, pedestrians. "Come back--come back to breathable air! Nowwhat's to be done--what's to be done?" After some moments he turnedand picked up the letter upon the floor and read it twice. In memoryand in imagination he could see the fishing-town, the inn there, thedunes, the ocean beach fretted by the long, incoming wave. Perhapsand most probably, this very bright afternoon, the laird of Glenferniewaited for him there, pacing the sands, perhaps, watching the comersto the inn door. . . . Well, he must watch in vain. Ian Rullock would oneday give him satisfaction, but certainly not now. Vast affairs mightnot be daffed aside for the laird of Glenfernie's convenience! Ianstood staring out of window at those huddled roofs, the challengestill in his hand. Then, slowly, he tore the paper to pieces andcommitted it to the brazier where was already consumed Black Hill'scommunication. 

That evening he supped with Warburton, and the next morning saw himand Donal riding forth from Paris, by St. -Denis, on toward Dunkirk. From this place, four days later, sailed the brig _Cock of the North_, destination the Beauly Firth. Dr. Robert Bonshaw and his manexperienced, despite the prediction of the Frenchman of quality, arough and long voyage. But the _Cock of the North_ weatheredtumultuous sea and wind and came, in the northern spring, to anchor ina great picture of firth and green shore and dark, piled mountains. Dr. Robert Bonshaw and his man, going ashore and into Inverness, foundhospitality there in the house of a certain merchant. Thence, after aday or so, he traveled to the castle of a Highland chief of commandingport. Here occurred a gathering; here letters and asseverationsbrought from France were read, listened to, weighed or taken withoutmuch weighing, so did the Highland desire run one way. An old netadded to itself another mesh. 

Dr. Robert Bonshaw, a very fit, invigorating agent, traveled far andnear through the Highlands this May, this June, this July. It was tohim an interesting, difficult, intensely occupied time; he was farfrom Lowland Scotland and any echoes therefrom, saving alwayspolitical echoes. He had no leisure for his own affairs, saving alwaysthat background consideration that, if the Stewarts really got backthe crown, Ian Rullock was on the road to power and wealth. Thisconsideration was not articulate, but diffused. It interfered not atall with the foreground activities and hard planning--no more than didthe fine Highland air. It only spurred him as did the winy air. Thetime and place were electric; he worked hard, many hours on end, andwhen he sought his bed he dropped at once to needed sleep. From morntill late at night, whether in castle or house or journeying from clanto clan, he was always in company. There was no time for old thoughts, memories, surmises. That was one world and he was now in another. 

Upon the eleventh day of May, the year 1745, was fought in Flandersthe battle of Fontenoy. The Duke of Cumberland, Königsegge theAustrian, and the Dutch Prince of Waldeck had the handling ofsomething under fifty thousand English. Marshal Saxe with Louis XV athis side wielded a somewhat larger number of French. The English andtheir allies were beaten. French spirits rode on high, Frenchintentions widened. 

The Stewart interest felt the blood bound in its veins. The bulk ofthe British army was on the Continent and shaken by Fontenoy; KingGeorge himself tarried in Hanover. Now was the time--now was the timefor the heir of all the Stewarts to put his fortune to the touch--tosail from France, to land in Scotland, to raise his banner and drawhis sword and gather Highland chief and Lowland Jacobite, the while inEngland rose for him and his father English Jacobites and soon, besure, all English Tories! France would send gold and artillery and mento her ancient ally, Scotland. Up at last with the white Stewartbanner! reconquer for the old line and all it meant to its adherentsthe two kingdoms! In the last week of July Prince Charles Edward, somewhat strangely and meagerly attended, landed at Loch Sunart in theHighlands. There he was joined by Camerons, Macdonalds, and Stewarts, and thence he moved, with an ever-increasing Highland _tail_, toPerth. A bold stream joined him here--northern nobles of power, withtheir men. He might now have an army of two thousand. Sir John Cope, sent to oppose him with what British troops there were in Scotland, allowed himself to be circumvented. The Prince, having proclaimed hisfather, still at Rome, James III, King of Great Britain, and producedhis own commission as Regent, marched from Perth to Edinburgh. Thecity capitulated and Charles Edward was presently installed inHolyrood, titularly at home in his father's kingdom, in his ancientpalace, among his loyal subjects, but actually with far the majormoiety of that kingdom yet to gain. 

The gracious act of rewarding must begin. Claim on royal gratitude isever a multitudinous thing! In the general manifoldness, out of theby no means yet huge store of honey Ian Rullock, for mere first rungof his fortune's ladder, received the personally given thanks of hisPrince and a captaincy in the none too rapidly growing army. 

CHAPTER XIX

The castle, defiant, untakable save by long siege and famine, held forKing George by a garrison of a few hundreds, spread itself like a rocklion in a high-lifted rock lair. Bands of Highlanders watched itsgates and accesses, guarding against Hanoverian sallies. From thecastle down stretched Edinburgh, heaped upon its long, spinelike hill, to the palace of Holyrood, and all its tall houses, tall and dark, andall its wynds and closes, and all its strident voices, and all itsmoving folk, seemed to have in mind that palace and the banner beforeit. The note of the having rang jubilation in all its degrees, or witha lower and a muffled sound distaste and fear, or it aimed at a middlestrain neither high nor low, a golden mean to be kept until theremight be seen what motif, after all, was going to prevail! It wouldnever do, thought some, to be at this juncture too clamorous eitherway. But to the unpondering ear the jubilation carried it, as to theeye tartans and white cockades made color, made high light, splashedand starred and redeemed the gray town. There was one thing that couldnot but appeal. A Scots royal line had come into its home nest atHolyrood. Not for many and many and many a year had such a thing asthat happened! If matters went in a certain way Edinburgh mightregain ancient pomp and circumstance. That was a consideration thatevery hour arranged a new plea in the citizen heart. 

Excitement, restless movement, tendency to come together in a crowd, were general, as were ejaculation, nervous laughter, declamation. Theroll of drum, call of trumpet, skirl of pipes, did not lack. CharlesEdward's army encamped itself at Duddingston a little to the east ofthe city. But its units came in numbers into the town. The warlike huediffused itself. Horsemen were frequent, and a continual entering ofnew adherents, men in small or large clusters, marching in from thecountry, asking the way to the Prince. For all the buzzing andthronging, great order prevailed. Women sat or stood at windows, orpassed in and out of dark wynds, or, escorted, picked their way atstreet crossings. Now and then went by a sedan-chair. Many womenshowed in their faces a truly religious fervor, a passionate Jacobiteloyalty, lighting like a flame. Many sewed white cockades. AllScotland, all England, would surely presently want these! Men of allranks, committed to the great venture, moved with a determined gaietyand _élan_. "This is the stage, we are the actors; the piece is agreat piece, the world looks on!" The town of Edinburgh did present agrandiose setting. Suspense, the die yet covered, the greatness of therisk, gave, too, its glamour of height and stateliness. All these menmight see, in some bad moment at night, not only possible battledeath--that was in the counting--but, should the great enterprisefail, scaffolds and hangmen. Many who went up and down were merelythoughtless, ignorant, reckless, or held in a vanity of good fortune, yet to the eye of history all might come into the sweep of greatdrama. Place and time rang and were tense. Flare and sonorousness anda deep vibration of the old massive passions, and through all theoutward air a September sea mist creeping. 

Ian Rullock, walking down the High Street, approaching St. Giles, heard his name spoken from a little knot of well-dressed citizens. Ashe turned his head a gentleman detached himself from the company. Itproved to be Mr. Wotherspoon the advocate, old acquaintance andadviser of Archibald Touris, of Black Hill. 

"Captain Rullock--"

"Mr. Wotherspoon, I am glad to see you!"

Mr. Wotherspoon, old moderate Whig, and the Jacobite officer walkedtogether down the clanging way. The mist was making pallid garlandsfor the tall houses, a trumpet rang at the foot of the street, Macdonald of Glengarry and fifty clansmen, bright tartan and screamingpipes, poured by. 

"Auld Reekie sees again a stirring time!" said the lawyer. 

"I am glad to have met you, sir, " said Rullock. "I fancy that you cantell me home news. I have heard none for a long time. "

"You have been, doubtless, " said Mr. Wotherspoon, "too engaged withgreat, new-time things to be fashed with small, old-time ones. "

"One of our new-time aims, " said Ian, "is to give fresh room to anold-time thing. But we won't let little bolts fly! I am anxious forknowledge. "

Mr. Wotherspoon seemed to ponder it. "I live just here. Perhaps youwill come up to my rooms, out of this Mars' racket?"

"In an hour's time I must wait on Lord George Murray. But I have tillthen. "

They entered a close, and climbed the stair of a tall, tall house, dusky and old. Here, half-way up, was the lawyer's lair. He unlocked adoor and the two came, through a small vestibule, into a good-sized, comfortable, well-furnished room. Rullock glanced at the walls. 

"I was here once or twice, years ago. I remember your books. What anumber you have!"

"I recall, " said Mr. Wotherspoon, "a visit that you paid me with thenow laird of Glenfernie. "

The window to which they moved allowed a glimpse of the colorfulstreet. Mr. Wotherspoon closed it against the invading noise and thetouch of chill in the misty air. He then pushed two chairs to thetable and took from a cupboard a bottle and glasses. 

"My man is gadding, with eyes like saucers--like the rest of us, likethe rest of us, Captain Rullock!" They sat down. "My profession, " saidthe lawyer, "can be made to be narrow and narrowing. On the otherhand, if a man has an aptitude for life, there is much about life tobe learned with a lawyer's spy-glass! A lawyer sees a variety ofhappenings in a mixed world. He quite especially learns how seldomblack and white are found in anything like a pure condition. Athousand thousand blends. Be wise and tolerant--or to be wise betolerant!" He pushed the bottle. 

Ian smiled. "I take that, sir, to mean that you find _God save KingJames!_ not wholly harsh and unmusical--"

"Perhaps not wholly so, " said the lawyer. "I am Whig and Presbyterianand I prefer _God save King George!_ But I do not look for the worldto end, whether for King George or King James. I did not have in mindjust this public occasion. "

His tone was dry. Ian kept his gold-brown eyes upon him. "Tell me whatyou have heard from Black Hill. "

"I was there late in May. Mr. Touris learned at that time that you hadquitted France. "

"May I ask how he learned it?"

"The laird of Glenfernie, who had been in the Low Countries, told him. Apparently Glenfernie had acquaintances, agents, who traced it out forhim that you had sailed from Dunkirk for Beauly Firth, under the nameof Robert Bonshaw. "

"_So he was there, pacing the beach_, " thought Ian. He lifted hisglass and drank Mr. Wotherspoon's very good wine. That gentleman wenton. 

"It was surmised at Black Hill that you were helping on the event--thegreat event, perhaps--that has occurred. Indeed, in July, Mr. Touris, writing to me, mentioned that you had been seen beyond Inverness. Butthe Highlands are deep and you traveled rapidly. Of course, when itwas known that the Prince had landed, your acquaintance assumed yourjoining him and becoming, as you have become, an officer in his army. "He made a little bow. 

Ian inclined his head in return. "All at Black Hill are well, I hope?My aunt--"

"Mrs. Alison is a saint. All earthly grief, I imagine, only quickensher homeward step. "

"What grief has she had, sir, beyond--"

"Beyond?"

"I know that my aunt will grieve for the break that has come betweenmy uncle and myself. I have, too, " said Ian, with deliberation, "beenquarreled with by an old friend. That also may distress her. "

The lawyer appeared to listen to sounds from the street. Rising, hemoved to the window, then returned. "Bonnet lairds coming into town!You are referring now to Glenfernie?"

"Then he has made it common property that he chose to quarrel withme?"

"Oh, chose to--" said Mr. Wotherspoon, reflectively. 

There was a silence. Ian set down his wine-glass, made a movement ofdrawing together, of determination. 

"I am sure that there is something of which I have not fullunderstanding. You will much oblige me by attention to what I now say, Mr. Wotherspoon. It is possible that I may ask you to see that itssubstance reaches Black Hill. " He leaned back in his chair and withhis gold-brown eyes met the lawyer's keen blue ones. "Nothing now canbe injured by telling you that for a year I have acted underresponsibility of having in keeping greater fortunes than my own. Thatkind of thing, none can know better than you, binds a man out of hisown path and his own choices into the path and choices of others. Secrecy was demanded of me. I ceased to write home, and presently Iremoved from old lodgings and purposely blurred indications of where Iwas or might be found. In this way--the warring, troubled timeaiding--it occurred that there practically ceased all communicationbetween me and those of my blood and friendship whose politicalthinking differs from mine. . . . I begin to see that I know littleindeed of what may or may not have occurred in that countryside. Earlyin April, however, there came to my hand in Paris two letters--onefrom my uncle, written before Christmas, one from Alexander Jardine, written a month later. My uncle's contained the information that, lacking my immediate return to this island and the political faith ofhis side of the house, I was no longer his nephew and heir. The lairdof Glenfernie, upon an old quarrel into which I need not enter, choseto send me a challenge simply. _Meet him, on such a sands inHolland_. . . . Well, great affairs have right of way over small ones!Under the circumstances, he might as well have appointed a plain inthe moon! The duel waits. . . . I tell you what I know of home affairs. Ishall be obliged for any information you may have that I have not. "

Mr. Wotherspoon's sharp blue eyes seemed to consider it. He drummed onthe table. "I am a much older man than you, Captain Rullock, and anold adviser of your family. Perhaps I may speak without offense? Thatsubject of quarrel, now, between you and the laird of Glenfernie--"

The other made a movement, impatient and imperious. "It is notlikely, sir, that he divulged that!"

"He? No! But fate--fortune--the unrolling course of things--plainProvidence--whatever you choose to call it--seems at times quite belowor above that reticence which we others so naturally prize andexhibit!"

"You'll oblige me, sir, by not speaking in riddles. "

The irony dropped from Mr. Wotherspoon's tone. He faced the businesssquarely. "Do you mean to say that you do not know of the suicide ofElspeth Barrow?"

The chair opposite made a grating sound, pushed violently back uponthe bare, polished floor. Down the street, through the window, camethe sound of Cluny Macpherson's pipers, playing down from theLawnmarket. Rullock seemed to have thrust his chair back into theshadow. Out of it came presently his voice, low and hoarse:

"No. "

"They found her on Christmas Day--drowned in the Kelpie's Pool. Self-murder--murder also of a child that would have been. "

Again silence. The lawyer found that he must go through with it, having come so far. "It seems that there is a cripple fellow of theneighborhood who had stumbled, unseen, upon your trysts. He told--spokeit all out to the crowd gathered. There was a letter, too, upon herwhich gave a clue. But she never named you and evidently meant not toname you. . . . Poor child! She may have thought herself strong, and thenthings have come over her wave on wave. Her grandfather--that darkupbringing on tenets harsh and wrathful--certainty of disgrace. Pitiful!"

There came a sound from the chair pushed back from the light. Mr. Wotherspoon measured the table with his fingers. 

"It seems that the countryside was searching for her. It was the lairdof Glenfernie who, alone and coming upon some trace, entered theKelpie's Pool and found her there. They say that he carried her, dead, in his arms through the glen to White Farm. "

Some proclamation or other was being made at the Cross of Edinburgh. Atrumpet blew and the street was filled with footsteps. 

"The laird of Glenfernie, " said the lawyer, "has joined, I hear, SirJohn Cope at Dunbar. It is not impossible that you may have speechtogether from opposing battle-lines. " He poured wine. "My bag of newsis empty, Captain Rullock. "

Ian rose from his seat. His face was gray and twisted, his voice, whenhe spoke, hollow, low, and dry. "I must go now to Lord GeorgeMurray. . . . It was all news, Mr. Wotherspoon. I--What are words, anyhow? Give you good day, sir!"

Mr. Wotherspoon, standing in his door, watched him down the stair andforth from the house. "He goes brawly! How much is night, and how muchstreak of dawn?"

 * * * * *

Sir John Cope, King George's general in Scotland, had but a smallarmy. It was necessary in the highest degree that Prince CharlesEdward should meet and defeat this force before it was enlarged, before from England came more and more regular troops. . . . A battlewon meant prestige gained, the coming over of doubting thousands, anecho into England that would bring the definite accession of greatTory names. Cope and his twenty-five hundred men, regulars andvolunteers, approaching Edinburgh from the east, took position nearthe village of Prestonpans. On the morning of the 20th of Septemberout moved to meet him the Prince and Lord George Murray, behind themless than two thousand men. 

By afternoon the two forces confronted each the other; but Cope hadchosen well, the right position. The sea guarded one flank, a deep andwide field ditch full of water the other. In his rear were stonewalls, and before him a wide marsh. The Jacobite strength halted, reconnoitered, must perforce at last come to a standstill beforeCope's natural fortress. There was little artillery, no great numberof horse. Even the bravest of the brave, Highland or Lowland, mightdraw back from the thought of trying to cross that marsh, of meetingthe moat-like ditch under Cope's musket-fire. Sunset came amidperturbation, a sense of check, impending disaster. 

Ian Rullock, acting for the moment as aide-de-camp, had spent the dayon horseback. Released in the late afternoon, lodged in a hut at theedge of the small camp, he used the moment's leisure to climb a smallhill and at its height to throw himself down beside a broken cairn. Heshut his eyes, but after a few moments opened them and gazed upon thecamp of Cope, covering also but a little space, so small were thearmies. His lips parted. 

"Well, Old Steadfast, and what if you are there, waiting?. . . "

The sun sank. A faint red light diffused itself, then faded into browndusk. He rose and went down into the camp. In the brows of many theremight be read depression, uncertainty. But in open places fires hadbeen built, and about several of these Highlanders were dancing to thescreaming of their pipes. Rullock bent his steps to headquarters. Anofficer whom he knew, coming forth, drew him aside in excitement. 

"We've got it--we've got it, Rullock!"

"What? The plan?"

"The way through! Here has come to the Prince the man who owns themarsh! He knows the firm ground. Cope does not know that it is there!Cope thinks that it is all slough! This man swears that he can andwill take us across, one treading behind another. It's settled. Whensleep seems to wrap us, then we'll move!"

That was what was done, and done so perfectly, late at night, Sir JohnCope sleeping, thinking himself safe as in a castle. File after filewound noiselessly, by the one way through the marsh, and upon thefarther side, so near to Cope, formed in the darkness intobattle-lines. . . . Ian Rullock, passing through the marsh, saw inimagination Alexander lying with eyes closed. 

The small force, the Stewart hope, prepared for onslaught. The dawnwas coming, there was a smell of it in the air, far away a cockcrowed. There stood, in the universal dimness, a first and strongestline, a second and weaker, badly armed line. The mass of this armywere Highlanders, alert, strong, accustomed to dawn movements, dreamlike in the heather, along the glen-sides, in the crooked pass. They knew the tactics of surprise. They had claymores and targes, andthe most muskets. But the second line had inadequate provision ofweapons. Many here bore scythes fastened to staves. As they carriedthese over their shoulders Ian, looking back, saw them against thepalest light like Death in replica. 

The two lines hung motionless, on stout ground, now within the defenseto which Cope had trusted, very close to the latter's sleeping camp. There were sentries, but the night was dark, the marsh believed to beunpassable, the crossing carried out with stealthy skill. But now thenight was going. 

In the most uncertain, the faintest light, there seemed to Cope'swatchers, looking that way, a line of bushes not noted the day before. Officers were awakened. A movement ran through the camp like theshiver of water under dawn wind. The light thickened. A trumpet rangwith a startled, emphatic note. Drums rolled. _To arms! To arms!_ KingGeorge's army started up in the dawning. Infantry hastened into ranks, cavalrymen ran to their horses. The line of bushes moved, began tocome forward with great rapidity. 

The Highlanders flung themselves upon Cope's just-forming cavalry. With their claymores they slashed at the faces of horses. The hurtbeasts wheeled, broke for the rear. Their fellows were wounded. Amid awhirlwind of blows, screams, shouts, with a suddenness that appalled, disorder became general. The Highlanders seemed to fight with ademoniac strength and ferocity and after methods of their own. Theyused their claymores, their dirks, their scythes fastened upon poles, against the horses, then, springing up, put long arms about thehorsemen and, regardless of sword or pistol, dragged them down. Theyshouted their Gaelic slogans; their costume, themselves, seemed out ofa fiercer, earlier world. A strangeness overclouded the senses; mistwreaths were everywhere, and an uncertainty as to the numbers ofdemons. . . . The cavalry broke. Officers tried to save the situation, torally the units, to save all from being borne back. But there was nohelping. Befell a panic flight, and at its heels the Highland rushstreamed into and had its way with Cope's infantry. The battle was wonwith a swift and horrible completeness and became a massacre. Not muchquarter was given; much that was horrible was done and seen. Immoderate victory sat and sang to the white-cockaded army. 

Out of the mist-bank before Captain Ian Rullock grew a great horsewith a man upon it of great stature and frame. It came to the Jacobitelike a vision, with a startling and intense reality. He was standingwith his sword drawn; there was a drift of mist, and then there wasthe horse and rider--there was Alexander. 

He looked down at Ian, and his face was not pale but set. He made agesture that seemed full of satisfaction, and would have dismountedand drawn his sword. But there came a dash of maddened horses andtheir riders and a leaping stream of tartaned men. These drove like awedge between; his horse wheeled, would leave no more its fellows; thetide of brute and man bore him away with it. Ian watched all gofighting by, a moving frieze, out of the mist into the mist. 

CHAPTER XX

A triumphant Stewart went back to Holyrood, an exultant army, callingitself, now with some good show of bearing it through, the "royal"army, carried into Edinburgh its confident step and sanguine hue. Victory was with the old line, the magnificent attempt! The erstwhiledoubting throng began, stage by stage, to mount toward enthusiasm. Itwas the quicker done that Charles Edward, or his wisest advisers, putforth a series of judicious civic and public measures. And, now thatCope had fled, King George had in Scotland no regular troops. Everyday there came open accessions to the Prince's strength. The oldStewarts up again became a magnet, drawing more and more the filings. The Prince had presently between five and six thousand troops. Thenorth was his, Edinburgh, the Jacobites scattered through theLowlands. The moderate Whig and Presbyterian might begin to think ofcompounding, of finding virtues in necessity. The irreconcilables feltgreat alarm and saw coming upon them a helplessness. 

But the Stewarts, with French approval behind, aimed at the recoveryof England no less than Scotland. Windsor might well overdazzleHolyrood. This interest had received many and strong protestations ofsupport from a wide swathe of English nobility and gentry. Lift thevictorious army over the border, set it and the young Prince bodilyupon English ground, would not great family after great family rouseits tenants, arm them, join the Prince? So at least it seemed to theflushed Stewart hope. King George was home from Hanover, Britishtroops being brought back from the Continent. Best to fan high thefire of the rising while it might with most ease be fanned--best tomarch as soon as might be into England!

On the 1st of November they marched, three detachments by three roads, and the meeting-place Carlisle. All went most merrily well. On the10th of November began the siege of Carlisle. The Prince had cannonnow, some taken at Prestonpans, some arrived, no great time before, from France, first fruits of French support. The English General Wadewas at Newcastle with a larger army than that of the Jacobites. Butthe siege of Carlisle was not lifted by Wade. After three days cityand castle surrendered. Charles Edward and his army entered England. 

From Carlisle they marched to Penrith--to Kendal, Lancaster, Preston, Manchester--clear, well-conducted marches, the army held well togetherand in hand, here and there handfuls of recruits. But no flood ofloyally-shouting gentry, no bearers of great names drawing the swordfor King James III and a gallant, youthful Regent! Each dawn said theywill come! Each eve said they have not come! One month from leavingEdinburgh found this army of Highland chiefs and their clans, LowlandScots, a few Englishmen, a few Irishmen, and a few Frenchmen, led byskilful enough generals and by a Prince the great-grandson of CharlesI, deep in England, but little advanced in bulk for all that. Oldcavalier England stayed upon its acres. Other times, other manners!And how to know when an old vortex begins to disintegrate and a modeof action becomes antiquated, belated?

Wade was to one side with his army, and now there loomed ahead theDuke of Cumberland and ten thousand English troops. Battle seemedimminent, yet again the Scots force pushed by. The 4th of Decemberfound this strange wedge, of no great mass, but of a tested, rapier-like keenness and hardness, at the town of Derby, with Londonnot a hundred and thirty miles away. And still no English rising forthe rightful King! Instead Whig armies, and a slow Whiggish buzzingbeginning through all the country. 

The Duke of Cumberland and Marshal Wade, two jaws opening for Jacobitedestruction, had between them twenty thousand men. Spies broughtreport of thirty thousand drawn up before London, on Finchley Common. The Prince might have so many lions of the desert in his Highlanders, but multitude will make a net that lions cannot break. At Derby alsothey had news from that Scotland now so dangerously far behind them. Royal Scots had landed from France, the Irish brigade from the samecountry was on the seas, and French regiments besides. Lord JohnDrummond had in Scotland now at least three thousand men and goodpromise of more. The Prince held council with the Duke of Perth, LordGeorge Murray, Lord Nairn, the many chiefs and leading voices. Returnto Scotland, make with these newly gathered troops and with others agreater army, expect aid from France, stand in a gained kingdom theonslaught from Hanoverian England? Or go on--go on toward London?Encounter, defeat, with half his number, the Duke of Cumberland's tenthousand, keep Wade from closing in behind them, meet the FinchleyCommon thousands, come to the enemy's capital of half a million souls?Return where there were friends? Go on where false-promising friendshugged safety? Go on to London, still hoping, trusting still to theglamour and outcry that ran before them, to extraordinary eventscalled miracles? Hot was the debate! But on the 6th of December theJacobite army turned back toward Scotland. 

It began its homeward march long before dawn. Not all nor most hadbeen told the decision. Even the changed direction, eyes uponslow-descending not upon climbing stars, did not at first enlighten. It might mean some détour, the Duke being out-maneuvered. But at lastrose the winter dawn and lit remembered scene after scene. The newsran. The army was in retreat. 

Ian Rullock, riding with a kinsman, Gordon, heard, up and down, anangry lamenting sound. "Little do the clans like turning back!"

"Hark! The chieftains are telling them it is for the best. "

"Is it for the best? I do not like this month or aught that is done init!"

A week later they were at Lancaster; three days after that at Kendal. Here Wade might have fallen upon them, but did not. A day or two andthe main column approached Penrith. The no great amount of artillerywas yet precious. Heavy to drag over heavy roads, the guns andstraining horses were left in the rear. Four companies of Lowlandinfantry, Macdonald of Glengarry and his five hundred Highlanders, afew cavalrymen, and Lord George Murray himself tarried with the guns. The main column disappeared, lost among mountains and hills; thisdetached number had the wild country, the forbidding road, theDecember day to themselves. To get the guns and ammunition-wagonsalong proved a snail-and-tortoise business. Guns and escort fellfarther and farther behind. 

Ian Rullock, acting still as aide, rode from the Prince nearingPenrith to Lord George Murray, now miles to the rear. Why was thedelay? and 'ware the Duke of Cumberland, certainly close at hand! Thedelay was greater, the distance between farther, than the Prince hadsupposed. Rullock rode through the late December afternoon by hugefrozen waves of earth, under a roof of pallid blue, in his ears asmall complaining wind like a wailing child. He rode till nightfall, and only then came to his objective, finding needed rest in thevillage of Shap. Here he sought Lord George Murray, gave informationand was given it in turn, ate, drank, and then turned back through theDecember night to the Prince. 

He rode and the huge winter stars seemed to watch him with at once aglittering intentness and a disdain of his pygmy being. Once he lookedup to them with a gesture of his head. "Are we so far apart and sodifferent?" he asked of Orion. 

He was several miles upon his way to Penrith. Before him appeared acrossroad, noted by him in the afternoon. A great salient of a hilloverhung it, and on the near side a fir wood crept close. He lookedabout him, and as he rode kept his hand upon his pistol. He did notthink to meet an enemy in strength, but there might be lurkers, men ofthe countryside ready to fall upon stragglers from the army that hadpassed that way. He had left behind the crossroad when from in front, around the jut of the hill, came four horsemen. He turned his head. Others had started from the wood. He made to ride on as though he wereof their kindred and cause, but hands were laid upon his bridle. 

"Courier, no doubt--"

All turned into the narrow road. Half an hour's riding brought insight a substantial farm-house and about it the dimly flaring lightsof a considerable camp, both cavalry and infantry. Rullock supposed itto be a detachment of Wade's, though it was possible that the Duke ofCumberland might have thrust advance troops thus far. He wished quiteheartily that something might occur to warn Lord George Murray, theMacdonalds and the Prince's guns, asleep at Shap. For himself, hemight, if he chose, pick out among the glittering constellations ashape like a scaffold. 

When he dismounted he was brought past a bivouac fire and a coming andgoing of men afoot and on horseback, into the farm-house, where two orthree officers sat at table. Questioned, threatened, andre-questioned, he had of course nothing to divulge. The less pressurewas brought in that these troops were in possession of the facts whichthe moment desired. His name and rank he gave, it being idle towithhold them. In the end he was shut alone into a small room of thefarm-house, behind a guarded door. He saw that there was planned anattack upon the detachment that with dawn would move from Shap. Butthis force of Wade's or of the Duke's was itself a detachment andapparently of no great mass. He could only hope that Lord George andthe Macdonalds would move warily and when the shock came be foundequal. All that was beyond his control. In the chill darkness heturned to the consideration of his own affair, which seemed desperateenough. He found, by groping, a bench against the wall. Wrappinghimself in his cloak, he lay down upon this and tried to sleep, butcould not. With all his will he closed off the future, and then asbest he might the immediately environing present. After all, thesearmies--these struggles--these eery ambitions. . . . The feeling of _outof it_ crept over him. It was an unfamiliar perception, impermanent. Yet it might leave a trace to work in the under-consciousness, on afar day to emerge, be revalued and added to. 

This December air! Fire would be good--and with that thought he seemedto catch a gleam through the small-paned, small window, and in amoment through the opening door. He rose from the bench. A man in along cloak entered the room, behind him a soldier bearing a lanternwhich he set upon a shelf above a litter of boards and kegs. Dismissed by a gesture, he went out, shutting the door behind him. The first man dropped his cloak, drew a heavy stool from thethrust-aside lumber, and sat down beneath the lantern. He spoke:

"Of all our many meeting-places, this looks most like the old cave inthe glen!"

Ian moistened his lips. He resumed his seat against the wall. "Iwondered, after Prestonpans, if you went home. "

"Did you?"

"No, you are right. I did not. "

"At all times it is the liar's wont still to lie. Small things orgreat--use or no use!"

"I am a prisoner and unarmed. You are the captor. To insult lies inyour power. "

"That is a jargon that may be dropped between us. Yet I, too, am boundby conventions! Seeing that you are a prisoner, and not my prisoneronly, I cannot give you your sword or pistols, and we cannot fight. . . . The fighting, too, is a convention. I see that, and that it is notadequate. Yet so do I hold you in hatred that I would destroy you inthis poor way also!"

The two sat not eight feet apart. Time was when either, findinghimself in deadly straits, would have seen in the other a surerescuer, or a friend to perish with him. One would have come to theother in a burst of light and warmth. So countless were theassociations between them, so much knowledge, after all, did they haveof each other, that even now, if they hated and contended, it must be, as it were, a contention within an orb. To each hemisphere, repellingthe other, must yet come in lightning flashes the face of the whole. 

Glenfernie, under the lantern-light, looked like the old laird hisfather. "No long time ago, " he said, "'revenge, ' 'vengeance, ' seemedto me words of a low order! It was not so in my boyhood. Then theywere often to me passionate, immediate, personal, and vindicatedwords! But it grew to be that they appeared words of a low order. Itis not so now. As far as that goes I am younger than I was a year ago. I stand in a hot, bright light where they are vindicated. If fate setsyou free again, yet I do not set you free! I shall be after you. Ientered this place to tell you that. "

"Do as you will!" answered Ian. Scorn mounted in his voice. "I shallwithstand the shock of you!"

The net of name and form hardened, grew more iron and closer meshed. Each _I_ contracted, made its carapace thicker. Each _I_ bestrode, like Apollyon, the path of the other. 

"Why should I undertake to defend myself?" said Ian. "I do notundertake to do so! So at least I shall escape the hypocrite! It is inthe nature of man to put down other kings and be king himself!"

"Aye so? The prime difficulty in that is that the others, too, areimmortal. " Glenfernie rising, his great frame seemed to fill thelittle room. "Sooner may the Kelpie's Pool sink into the earth than Iforego to give again to you what you have given! What is now all mywish? It is to seem to you, here and hereafter, the avenger of bloodand fraud! Remember me so!"

He stood looking at the sometime friend with a dark and working face. Then, abruptly turning, he went away. The door of the small roomclosed behind him. Ian heard the bolt driven. 

The night went leadenly by. At last he slept, and was waked bytrumpets blowing. He saw through the window that it was at faintestdawn. Much later the door opened and a man brought him a poorbreakfast. Rullock questioned him, but could gain nothing beyond thestatement that to-day at latest the "rebels" would be wiped from theface of the earth. When he was gone Ian climbed to the small windowthat, even were it open and unguarded, was yet too small for his bodyto pass. But, working with care, he managed to loosen and draw inwardwithout noise one of the round panes. Outside lay a trampledfarm-yard. A few soldiers, apparently invalided, lounged about, butthere was no such throng such as he had passed through when theybrought him here. He supposed that the attack upon the force at Shapmight be in progress. If the Duke of Cumberland's whole power was athand the main column might be set upon. All around him the hills, thefarm inclosure, and these petty walls cut off the outer world. Thehours, the day, limped somehow by. He walked to keep himself warm. Back and forth and to and fro. December--December--December! How coldwas the Kelpie's Pool? Poisoned love--poisoned friendship--ambition inruin--bells ringing for executions! To and fro--to and fro. He hadalways felt life as sensuous, rich, and warm, with garlands andcolors. It had been large and aglow, with a profusion of arabesques ofimagination and emotion. Thought had not lacked, but thought, too, bore a personal, passional cast, and was much interested in a goldenworld of sense. Just this December day the world seemed the ocean-bedof life, where dull creatures moved slowly in cold, thick ooze, andannihilation was much to be desired. . . . The day went by. The same manbrought him supper. There seemed to be triumph in his face. "They'llbe bringing in more prisoners--unless we don't make prisoners!"Nothing more could be gained from that quarter. In the night it beganto rain. He listened to its dash against the window. Black Hill cameinto mind, and the rain against his windows there. He was cold, and hetried, with the regressive sense, to feel himself in that old, warmnest. His Black Hill room rose about him, firelit. The fire lightedthat Italian painting of a city of refuge and a fleeing man, behindwhom ran the avenger of blood. . . . Then it was July, and he was in theglen with Elspeth Barrow. He fought away from the recollection ofthat, for it involved a sickness of the soul. . . . Italy! Think ofItaly. Venice, and a month that he had spent there alone--OldSteadfast being elsewhere. It had been a warm season, warm and rich, sun-kissed and languorous, like the fruit, like the Italian women. . . . Leave out the women, but try to feel again the sun of Venice!

He tried, but the cold of his prison fought with the sun. Thensuddenly sprang clamor without. The uproar increased. He rose, heheard the bolts open, the door open. In came light and voices. "Captain Rullock! We beat them at Clifton! We learned that you werehere! Lord George sent us back for you. . . . "

Three days later Scotch earth was again beneath their feet. Theymarched to Glasgow; they marched to Stirling; they fought the battleof Falkirk and again there was Jacobite victory. And now there was anarmy of eight thousand. . . . And then began a time of poor policy, mistaken moves. And in April befell the battle of Culloden andfar-resounding ruin. 

CHAPTER XXI

The green May rolled around and below the Highland shelter where Ianlay, fugitive, like thousands of others, after Culloden. The Princehad stayed to give an order to his broken army. _Sauve qui peut!_ Thenhe, too, became a fugitive, passing from one fastness to another ofthese glens and the mountains that overtowered them. The Stewart hopewas sunk in the sea of dead hopes. Cumberland, with for the time andplace a great force and with an ugly fury, hunted all who had been inarms against King George. 

Ian Rullock couched high upon a mountain-side, in a shelter of stoneand felled tree built in an angle of crag, screened by a growth ofbirch and oak, made long ago against emergencies. A path, devious andhidden, connected it first with a hut far below, and then, at severalmiles' distance, with the house of a chieftain, now a house of terror, with the chieftain in prison and his sons in hiding, and the womenwatching with hard-beating hearts. Ian, a kinsman of the house, hadbeen given, _faute de mieux_, this old, secret hold, far up, where atleast he could see danger if it approached. Food had been stored forhim here and sheepskins given for bedding. He was so masked bysplintered and fallen pieces of rock that he might, with greatprecautions, kindle a fire. A spring like a fairy cup gave him water. More than one rude comfort had been provided. He had even a book ortwo, caught up from his kinsman's small collection. He had been herefourteen days. 

At first they were days and nights of vastly needed rest. Bitter hadbeen the fatigue, privation, wandering, immediately after Culloden!Now he was rested. 

He was by nature sanguine. When the sun had irretrievably blackenedand gone out he might be expected at least to attempt to gathermaterials and ignite another. He was capable of whistling down the windthose long hopes of fame and fortune that had hung around the Stewartstar. And now he was willing to let go the old half-acknowledged boyishromance and sentiment, the glamour of the imagination that had dressedthe cause in hues not its own. Two years of actual contact with thepresent incarnations of that cause had worn the sentiment threadbare. 

Seated or lying upon the brown earth by the splintered crag, alonesave for the wheeling birds and the sound of wind and water and thesailing clouds, he had time at last for the rise into mind, definitelyshaped and visible, of much that had been slowly brewing and forming. He was conscious of a beginning of a readjustment of ideas. For a longtime now he had been pledged to personal daring, to thought forced tobecome supple and concentrated, to hard, practical planning, physicalhardship and danger. In the midst of this had begun to grow up acriticism of all the enterprises upon which he was engaged. Scope--inmany respects the Jacobite character, generally taken, was amiable andbrave, but its prime exhibit was not scope! Somewhat narrow, somewhatobsolete; Ian's mind now saw Jacobitism in that light. As he satwithout his rock fortress, in the shadow of birch-trees, with lowerhills and glens at his feet, he had a pale vision of Europe, of theworld. Countries and times showed themselves contiguous. "Causes, "dynastic wars, political life, life in other molds and hues, appearedin chords and sequences and strokes of the eye, rather than in the oldway of innumerable, vivid, but faintly connected points. "I begin tosee, " thought Ian, "how things travel together, like with like!" Hisbody was rested, recovered, his mind invigorated. He had had with himfor long days the very elixir of solitude. Relations and associationsthat before had been banked in ignorance came forth and looked at him. "You surely have known us before, though you had forgotten that youknew us!" He found that he was taking delight in these expansions ofmeaning. He thought, "If I can get abroad out of this danger, out ofold circles, I'll roam and study and go to school to wider plans!" Hesuddenly thought, "This kind of thing is what Old Steadfast meant whenhe used to say that I did not see widely enough. " He moved sharply. Ahot and bitter flood seemed to well up within him. "He himself isseeing narrowly now--Alexander Jardine!"

He left the crag and went for a scrambling and somewhat dangerous walkalong the mountain-side. There was peril in leaving that onerock-curtained place. Two days before he had seen what he thought tobe signs of red-coated soldiers in the glen far below. But he mustwalk--he must exercise his body, note old things, not give too muchtime to new perceptions! He breathed the keen, sweet mountain air;with a knife that he had he fell to making a staff from a young oak;he watched the pass below and the shadows of the clouds; he climbedfairly to the mountain-top and had a great view; he sang an old song, not aloud, but under his breath; and at last he must come back withsolitude to his fastness. And here was brooding thought again!

Two more days passed. The man from the hut below in the pass came atdusk with food carefully sent from the chieftain's hall. Redcoats hadgone indeed through the glen, but they could never find the path tothis place! They might return or they might not; they were like thedevil who rose by your side when you were most peaceful! Angus wentdown the mountain-side. The sound of his footstep died away. Ian hadagain Solitude herself. 

Another day and night passed. He watched the sun climb toward noon, and as the day grew warm he heard a step upon the hidden path. With apistol in either hand he moved, as stealthily, as silently as mightbe, to a platform of rock that overhung the way of the intruder. Inanother moment the latter was in sight--one man climbing steadily thepath to the old robber fastness. He saw that it was Glenfernie. No onefollowed him. He came on alone. 

Rullock put by his pistols and, moving to a chair of rock, sat there. The other's great frame rose level with him, stepped upon the rockyfloor. Ian had been growing to feel an anger at solitude. When he sawAlexander he had not been able to check an inner movement of welcome. He felt an old--he even felt a new--affection for the being upon whom, certainly, he had leaned. There flowed in, in an impatient wave, theconsideration that he must hate. . . . 

But Glenfernie hated. Ian rose to face him. 

"So you've found your way to my castle? It is a climb! You had bestsit and rest yourself. I have my sword now, and I will give yousatisfaction. "

Glenfernie nodded. He sat upon a piece of fallen rock. "Yes, I willrest first, thank you! I have searched since dawn, and the mountain issteep. Besides, I want to talk to you. "

Ian brought from his cupboard oat-cake and a flask of brandy. Theother shook his head. 

"I had food at sunrise, and I drank from a spring below. "

"Very good!"

The laird of Glenfernie sat looking down the mountain-sides and overto far hills and moving clouds, much as he used to sit in the crook ofthe old pine outside the broken wall at Glenfernie. There was a trickof posture when he was at certain levels within himself. Ian knew itwell. 

"Perhaps I should tell you, " said Alexander, "that I came alonethrough the pass and that I have been alone for some days. If thereare soldiers near I do not know of them. "

"It is not necessary, " answered Ian. While he spoke he saw in a flashboth that his confidence was profound that it was not necessary, andthat that incapacity to betray that might be predicated of OldSteadfast was confined to but one of the two upon this rock. Theenlightenment stung, then immediately brought out a reaction. "To eachsome specialty in error! I no more than he am monstrous!" There arosea desire to defend himself, to show Old Steadfast certain things. Hespoke. "We are going to fight presently--"

"Yes. "

"That's understood. Now listen to me a little! For long years we weretogether, friends near and warm! You knew that I saw differently fromyou in regard to many things--in regard, for instance, to women. Iremember old discussions. . . . Well, you differed, and sometimes youwere angry. But for all that, friendship never went out with violence!You knew the ancient current that I swam in--that it was narrower, more mixed with earth, than your own! But you were tolerant. You tookme as I was. . . . What has developed was essentially there then, and youknew it. The difference is that at last it touched what you held to beyour own. Then, and not till then, the sinner became _anathema!_"

"In some part you say truth. But my load of inconsistency does notlighten yours of guilt. "

"Perhaps not. We were friends. Five-sixths of me made a fair enoughfriend and comrade. We interlocked. You had gifts and possessions Ihad not. I liked the oak-feeling of you--the great ship in sail! Inturn, I had the key, perhaps, to a few lands of bloom and flavor thatyou lacked. We interchanged and thought that we were each the richer. Five-sixths. . . . Say, then, that the other sixth might be defined asno-friend, or as false friend! Say that it was wilful, impatient ofsuperiorities, proud, vain, willing to hurt, betray, and play thedemon generally! Say that once it gave itself swing it darkened someof the other sixths. . . . Well, it is done! Yet there was gold. Perhaps, laird of Glenfernie, there is still gold in the mine!"

"You are mistaken in your proportions. Gold! You are to me the specterof the Kelpie's Pool!"

Silence held for a minute or two. The clouds, passing between earthand sun, made against the mountain slopes impalpable, dark, fantasticshapes. An eagle wheeled above its nest at the mountain-top. Ian spokeagain. His tone had altered. 

"If I do not decline remorse, I at least decline the leaden cope of ityou would have me wear! There is such a thing as fair play to oneself!Two years ago come August Elspeth Barrow and I agreed to part--"

"Oh, 'agreed'--"

"Have it so! I said that we must part. She acquiesced--and thatwithout the appeals that the stage and literature show us. Oh, doubtless I might have seen a pierced spirit, and did not, and wasbrute beast there! But one thing you have got to believe, and that isthat neither of us knew what was to happen. Even with that, she wasaware of how a letter might be sent, with good hope of reaching me. She was not a weak, ignorant girl. . . . I went away, and within afortnight was deep in that long attempt that ends here. I becameactively an agent for the Prince and his father. A hundred names andtheir fates were in my hands. You can fill in the multitude ofactivities, each seeming small in itself, but the whole preoccupyingevery field. . . . If Elspeth Barrow wrote I never received her letter. When my thought turned in that direction, it saw her well and notnecessarily unhappy. Time passed. For reasons, I ceased to write home, and again for reasons I obliterated paths by which I might be reached. For months I heard nothing, as I said nothing. I was on the very eveof quitting Paris, under careful disguise, to go into Scotland. Camesuddenly your challenge--and still, though I knew that to you at leastour relations must have been discovered, I knew no more than that! Idid not know that she was dead. . . . I could not stay to fight you then. I left you to brand me as you pleased in your mind. "

"I had already branded you. "

"Later, I saw that you had. Perhaps then I did not wonder. InSeptember--almost a year from that Christmas Eve--I yet did not know. Then, in Edinburgh, I came upon Mr. Wotherspoon. He told me. . . . I hadno wicked intent toward Elspeth Barrow--none according to my canon, which has been that of the natural man. We met by accident. We lovedat once and deeply. She had in her an elf queen! But at last the humanmust have darkened and beset her. Had I known of those fears, thosedangers, I might have turned homeward from France and every shiningscheme. . . . "

"Ah no, you would not--"

". . . If I would not, then certainly I should have written to JarvisBarrow and to others, acknowledging my part--"

"Perhaps you would have done that. Perhaps not. You might have foundreasons of obligation for not doing so. 'Loved deeply'! You neverloved her deeply! You have loved nothing deeply save yourself!"

"Perhaps. Yet I think, " said Ian, "that I would have done as much asthat. But Alexander Jardine, of course, would not have taken oneerring step!"

"Have you done now?"

"Yes. "

Glenfernie rose to his feet. He stood against the gulf of air and hisgreat frame seemed enlarged, like the figure of the Brocken. He waslike his father, the old laird, but there glowed an extremer darkanger and power. The old laird had made himself the dream-avenger ofinjuries adopted, not felt at first hand. The present laird knew thewounding, the searing. "All his life my father dreamed of grapplingwith Grierson of Lagg. My Grierson of Lagg stands before me in theguise of a false friend and lover!. . . What do I care for your weighingto a scruple how much the heap of wrong falls short of the uttermost?The dire wrong is there, to me the direst! Had I deep affection foryou once? Now you speak to me of every treacherous morass, every_ignis fatuus_, past and present! The traveler through life does rightto drain the bogs as they arise--put it out of their power to suckdown man, woman, and child! It is not his cause alone. It is thegeneral cause. If there be a God, He approves. Draw your sword and letus fight!"

They fought. The platform of rock was smooth enough for good footing. They had no seconds, unless the shadows upon the hills and themountain eagles answered for such. Ian was the highly trained fencer, adept of the sword. Glenfernie's knowledge was lesser, more casual. But he had his bleak wrath, a passion that did not blind nor overheat, but burned white, that set him, as it were, in a tingling, cracklingarctic air, where the shadows were sharp-edged, the nerves braced andthe will steel-tipped. They fought with determination and long--Iannow to save his own life, Alexander for Revenge, whose man he hadbecome. The clash of blade against blade, the shifting of foot uponthe rock floor, made the dominant sound upon the mountain-side. Thebirds stayed silent in the birch-trees. Self-service, pride, anger, jealousy, hatred--the inner vibrations were heavy. 

The sword of Ian beat down his antagonist's guard, leaped, and gave adeep wound. Alexander's sword fell from his hand. He staggered andvision darkened. He came to his knees, then sank upon the ground. Ianbent over him. He felt his anger ebb. A kind of compunction seizedhim. He thought, "Are you so badly hurt, Old Steadfast?"

Alexander looked at him. His lips moved. "Lo, how the wicked prosper!But do you think that Justice will have it so?" The blood gushed; hesank back in a swoon. 

On this mountain-side, some distance below the fastness, a stone, displaced by a human foot, rolled down the slope with a clatteringsound. The fugitive above heard it, thought, too, that he caught othersounds. He crossed to the nook whence he had view of the way ofapproach. Far down he saw the redcoats, and then, much nearer, comingout from dwarf woods, still King George's men. 

Ian caught up his belt and pistols. He sheathed his sword. "They'llfind you and save you, Glenfernie! I do not think that you will die!"Above him sprang the height of crag, seemingly unscalable. But he hadbeen shown the secret, just possible stair. He mounted it. Masked bybushes, it swung around an abutment and rose by ledge and naturaltunnel, perilous and dizzy, but the one way out to safety. At last, ahundred feet above the old shelter, he dipped over the crag head to asaucer-like depression walled from all redcoat view by the surmountedrock. With a feeling of triumph he plunged through small firs andheather, and, passing the mountain brow, took the way that should leadhim to the next glen. 

CHAPTER XXII

The laird of Glenfernie, rising from the great chair by the table, moved to the window of the room that had been his father's andmother's, the room where both had died. He remembered the wild nightof snow and wind in which his father had left the body. Now it wasAugust, and the light golden upon the grass and the pilgrim cedar. Alexander walked slowly, with a great stick under his hand. Old Branwas dead, but a young Bran stretched himself, wagged his tail, andlooked beseechingly at the master. 

"I'll let you out, " said the latter, "but I am a prisoner; I cannotlet myself out!"

He moved haltingly to the door, opened it, and the dog ran forth. Glenfernie returned to the window. "Prisoner. " The word brought to hisstrongly visualizing mind prisoners and prisons through all Britainthis summer--shackled prisoners, dark prisons, scaffolds. . . . He leanedhis head against the window-frame. 

"O God that my father and my grandfather served--God of old times--ofIsrael in Egypt! I think that I would release them all if Icould--_all but one! Not him!_" He looked at the cedar. "Who was he, in truth, who planted that, perhaps for a remembrance? And he, andall men, had and have some one deep wrong that shall not be brooked!"

He stood in a brown study until there was a tap at the door. "Comein!"

Alice entered, bearing before her a bowl of flowers of all fair huesand shapes. She herself was like a bright, strong, winsome flower. "Tomake your room look bonny!" she said, and placed the bowl upon thetable. To do so she pushed aside the books. "What a withered, snuff-brown lot! Won't you be glad when you are back in the keep withall the books?"

Glenfernie, wrapped in a brown gown, came with his stick back to thegreat chair before the books. "Bonny--they are bonny!" he said andtouched the flowers. "I've set a week from to-day to be dressed andout of this and back to the keep. Another week, and I shall ride BlackAlan. "

"Ah, " said Alice. "You mustn't determine that you can do it allyourself! There will be the doctor and the wound!"

Alexander took her hands and held them. "You are a fine philosopher!Where is Strickland?"

"Helping Aunt Grizel with accounts. Do you want him?"

"When you go. But not for a long while if you will stay. "

Alice regarded him with her mother's shrewdness. "Oh, Glenfernie, forall you've traveled and are so learned, it's not me nor Mr. Strickland, but the moon now that you're wanting! I don't know whatyour moon is, but it's the moon!"

Alexander laughed. "And is not the moon a beautiful thing?"

"The books say that it is cold and almost dead, wrinkled and ashen. But I've got to go, " said Alice, "and I'll send you Mr. Strickland. "

Strickland came presently. "You look much stronger this morning, Glenfernie. I'm glad of that! Shall I read to you, or write?"

"Read, I think. My eyes dazzle still when I try. Some strong oldthing--the Plutarch there. Read the _Brutus_. "

Strickland read. He thought that now Alexander listened, and that nowhe had traveled afar. The minutes passed. The flowers smelled sweetly, murmuring sounds came in the open windows. Bran scratched at the doorand was admitted. Far off, Alice's voice was heard singing. Stricklandread on. The laird of Glenfernie was not at Rome, in the Capitol, byPompey's statue. He walked with Elspeth Barrow the feathery greenglen. 

Davie appeared in the door. "A letter, sir, come post. " He brought itto Glenfernie's outstretched hand. 

"From Edinburgh--from Jamie, " said the latter. 

Strickland laid down his book and moved to the window. Standing there, his eyes upon the great cedar, massive and tall as though it wouldbuild a tower to heaven, his mind left Brutus, Cæsar, and Cassius, andplayed somewhat idly over the British Isles. He was recalled by anexclamation, not loud, but so intense and fierce that it startled likea meteor of the night. He turned. Glenfernie sat still in his greatchair, but his features were changed, his mouth working, his eyesshooting light. Strickland advanced toward him. 

"Not bad news of Jamie!"

"Not of Jamie! From Jamie. " He thrust the letter under the other'seyes. "Read--read it out!"

Strickland read aloud. 

 "Here is authoritative news. Ian Rullock, after lying two months in the tolbooth, has escaped. A gaoler connived, it is supposed, else it would seem impossible. Galbraith tells me he would certainly have been hanged in September. It is thought that he got to Leith and on board a ship. Three cleared that day--for Rotterdam, for Lisbon, and Virginia. "

Alexander took the letter again. "That is all of that import. "Strickland once more felt astonishment. Glenfernie's tone was quiet, almost matter-of-fact. The blood had ebbed from his face; he sat therecollected, a great quiet on the heels of storm. It was impossible notto admire the power that could with such swiftness exercise control. Strickland hesitated. He wished to speak, but did not know how far hemight with wisdom. The laird forestalled him. 

"Sit down! This is to be talked over, for again my course of lifealters. "

Strickland took his chair. He leaned his arm upon the table, his chinupon his hand. He did not look directly at the man opposite, but atthe bowl of flowers between them. 

"When a man has had joy and lost it, what does he do?" Glenfernie'svoice was almost contemplative. 

"One man one thing, and one another, " said Strickland. "After hisnature. "

"No. All go seeking it in the teeth of death and horror. That'suniversal! Joy must be sought. But it may not wear the old face; itmay wear another. "

"I suppose that true joy has one face. "

"When one platonizes--perhaps! I keep to-day to earth, to the cave. Doyou know, " said Alexander, "why I sit here wounded?"

"Of outward facts I do not know any more than is, I think, prettygenerally known through this countryside. "

"As--?"

Strickland looked still at the bowl of flowers. "It is known, I think, that you loved Elspeth Barrow and would have wedded her. And that, while you were from home, the man who called himself, and was calledby you, your nearest friend, stepped before you--made love to her, betrayed her--and left her to bear the shame. . . . I myself know that hekept you in ignorance, and that, away from here, he let you stillwrite to him in friendship and answered in that tone. . . . All know thatshe drowned herself because of him, and that you knew naught until youyourself entered the Kelpie's Pool and found her body and carried herhome. . . . After that you left the country to find and fight IanRullock. Folk know, too, that he evaded you then. You returned. Thencame this insurrection, and news that he was in Scotland with thePretender. You joined the King's forces. Then, after Culloden, youfound the false friend in hiding, in the mountains. The two of youfought, and, as is often the way, the injurer seemed again to win. Youwere dangerously wounded. He fled. Soldiers upon his track found youlying in your blood. You were carried to Inverness. Dickson and I wentto you, brought you at last home. In the mean time came news that theman you fought had been taken by the soldiers. I suppose that we haveall had visions of him, in prison, expecting to suffer with otherconspirators. "

"Yes, I have had visions . . . Outward facts!. . . Do you know the inner, northern ocean, where sleep all the wrecks?"

"As I have watched you since you were a boy, it is improbable that Ishould not have some divining power. In Inverness, too, while you werefevered, you talked and talked. . . . You have walked with Tragedy, felther net and her strong whip. " Strickland lifted his eyes from thebowl, pushed back his chair a little, and looked full at the laird ofGlenfernie. "What then? Rise, Glenfernie, and leave her behind! And ifyou do not now, it will soon be hard for you to do so! Remember, too, that I watched your father--"

"After I find Ian Rullock in Holland or Lisbon or America--"

Strickland made a movement of deep concern. "You have met and foughtthis man. Do you mean so to nourish vengeance--"

"I mean so to aid and vindicate distressed Justice. "

"Is it the way?"

"I think that it is the way. "

Strickland was silent, seeing the uselessness. Glenfernie was one towhom conviction must come from within. A stillness held in the room, broken by the laird in the voice that was growing like his father's. "Nothing lacks now but strength, and I am gaining that--will gain itthe faster now! Travel--travel!. . . All my travel was preparatory tothis. "

"Do you mean, " asked Strickland, "to kill him when you find him?"

"I like your directness. But I do not know--I do not know!. . . I meanto be his following fiend. To have him ever feel me--when he turns hishead ever to see me!"

The other sighed sharply. He thought to himself, "Oh, mind, thyabysses!"

Indeed, Glenfernie looked at this moment stronger. He folded Jamie'sletter and put it by. He drew the bowl of flowers to him and pickedforth a rose. "A week--two at most--and I shall be wholly recovered!"His voice had fiber, decision, even a kind of cheer. 

Strickland thought, "It is his fancied remedy, at which he snatches!"

Glenfernie continued: "We'll set to work to-morrow upon longarrangements! With you to manage here, I will not be missed. " Withoutwaiting for the morrow he took quill and paper and began to figure. 

Strickland watched him. At last he said, "Will you go at once in threeships to Holland, Portugal, and America?"

"Has the onlooker room for irony, while to me it looks so simple? Ishall ship first to the likeliest land. . . . In ten days--in two weeksat most--to Edinburgh--"

Strickland left him figuring and, rising, went to the window. He sawthe great cedar, and in mind the pilgrim who planted it there. All thepilgrims--all the crusaders--all the men in Plutarch; the long friezeof them, the full ocean of them . . . All the self-search, dressed assearch of another. "I, too, I doubt not--I, too!" Buried scenes in hisown life rose before Strickland. Behind him scratched Glenfernie'spen, sounded Glenfernie's voice:

"I am going to see presently if I can walk as far as the keep. In twoor three days I shall ride. There are things that I shall know when Iget to Edinburgh. He would take, if he could, the ship that would landhim at the door of France. "

CHAPTER XXIII

Alexander rode across the moors to the glen head. Two or threesolitary farers that he met gave him eager good day. 

"Are ye getting sae weel, laird? I am glad o' that!"

"Good day, Mr. Jardine! I rejoice to see you recovered. Well, theyhung more of them yesterday!"

"Gude day, Glenfernie! It's a bonny morn, and sweet to be living!"

At noon he looked down on the Kelpie's Pool. The air was sweet andfine, bird sounds came from the purple heather. The great blue arch ofthe sky smiled; even the pool, reflecting day, seemed to haveforgotten cold and dread. But for Glenfernie a dull, cold, sick horroroverspread the place. He and Black Alan stood still upon the moorbrow. Large against the long, clean, horizon sweep, they looked thesun-bathed, stone figures of horse and man, set there long ago, guarding the moor, giving warning of the kelpie. 

"None has been found to warn. There is none but the kelpie waitsfor. . . . But punish--punish!"

He and Black Alan pushed on to the head of the glen. Here was MotherBinning's cot, and here he dismounted, fastening the horse to theash-tree. Mother Binning was outdoors, gathering herbs in her apron. 

 * * * * *

She straightened herself as he stepped toward her. "Eh, laird ofGlenfernie, ye gave me a start! I thought ye came out of the ground bythe ash-tree!. . . Wound is healed, and life runs on to anotherspringtime?"

"Yes, it's another springtime. . . . I do not think that I believe inscrying, Mother Binning. But I'm where I pick up all straws with whichto build me a nest! Sit down and scry for me, will you?"

"I canna scry every day, nor every noon, nor every year. What are youwanting to see, Glenfernie?"

"Oh, just my soul's desire!"

Mother Binning turned to her door. She put down the herbs, thenbrought a pan of water and set it down upon the door-step, and herselfbeside it. "It helps--onything that's still and clear! Wait till theripple's gane, and then dinna speak to me. But gin I see onything, itwill na be sae great a thing as a soul's desire. "

She sat still and he stood still, leaning against the side of herhouse. Mother Binning sat with fixed gaze. Her lips moved. "There'sthe white mist. It's clearing. "

"Tell me if you see a ship. "

"Yes, I see it. . . . "

"Tell me if you see its port. "

"Yes, I see. "

"Describe it--the houses, the country, the dress and look of thepeople--"

Mother Binning did so. 

"That's not Holland--that would be Lisbon. Look at the ship again, Mother. Look at the sailors. Look at the passengers if there are any. Whom do you see?"

"Ah!" said Mother Binning. "There's a braw wrong-doer for you, sittingdrinking Spanish wine!"

"Say his name. "

"It's he that once, when you were a lad, you brought alive from theKelpie's Pool. "

"Thank you, Mother! That's what I wanted. _Scrying!_ Who gives towhom--who gives back to whom? The underneath great I, I suppose. Lefthand giving to right--and no brand-new news! All the same, otherdrifts concurring, I think that he fled by the Lisbon ship!"

Mother Binning pushed aside the pan of water and rubbed her handacross her eyes. She took up her bundle of herbs. "Hoot, Glenfernie!do ye think that's your soul's desire?"

Jock came limping around the house. Alexander could not now abide thesight of this cripple who had spied, and had not shot some fashion ofarrow! He said good-by and loosed Black Alan from the ash-tree androde away. He would not tread the glen. His memory recoiled from it asfrom some Eastern glen of serpents. He and Black Alan went over themoors. And still it was early and he had his body strength back. Herode to Littlefarm. 

Robin Greenlaw was in the field, coat off in the gay, warm weather. He came to Glenfernie's side, and the latter dismounted and sat withhim under a tree. Greenlaw brought a stone jug and tankard and pouredale. 

The laird drank. "That's good, Robin!" He put down the tankard. "Areyou still a poet?"

"If I was so once upon a time, I hope I am so still. At any rate, Istill make verses. And I see poems that I can never write. "

"'Never'--how long a word that is!"

Greenlaw gazed at the workers in the field. "I met Mr. Strickland theother day. He says that you will travel again. "

"'Travel'--yes. "

"The Jardine Arms gets it from the Edinburgh road that Ian Rullockmade a daring escape. "

"He had always ingenuity and a certain sort of physical bravery. "

"So has Lucifer, Milton says. But he's not Lucifer. "

"No. He is weak and small. "

"Well, look Glenfernie! I would not waste my soul chasing him!"

"How dead are you all! You, too, Greenlaw!"

Robin flushed. "No! I hate all that he did that is vile! If all hisescaping leads him to violent death, I shall not find it in me togrieve! But all the same, I would not see you narrowed to thewolf-hunter that will never make the wolf less than the wolf! I don'tknow. I've always thought of you as one who would serve Wisdom andshow us her beauty--"

"To me this is now wisdom--this is now beauty. Poets may stay andmake poetry, but I go after Ian Rullock!"

"Oh, there's poetry in that, too, " said Greenlaw, "because there'snothing in which there isn't poetry! But you're choosing the kindyou're not best in, or so it seems to me. "

Glenfernie rode from Littlefarm homeward. But the next day he andBlack Alan went to Black Hill. Here he saw Mr. Touris alone. Thatgentleman sat with a shrunken and shriveled look. 

"Eh, Glenfernie! I am glad to see that you are yourself again! Well, my sister's son has broken prison. "

"Yes, one prison. "

"God knows they were all mad! But I could not wish to see him in mydreams, hanging dark from the King's gallows!"

"From the King's gallows and for old, mad, Stewart hopes? I find, "said Glenfernie, "that I do not wish that, either. He would have gonefor the lesser thing--and the long true, right vengeance beendelayed!"

"What is that?" asked Mr. Touris, dully. 

"His wrong shall be ever in his mind, and I the painter's brush topaint it there! Give me, O God, the power of genius!"

"Are you going to follow him and kill him?"

"I am going to follow him. At first I thought that I would kill him. But my mind is changing as to that. "

Mr. Touris sighed heavily. "I don't know what is the matter with theworld. . . . One does one's best, but all goes wrong. All kinds of hopesand plans. . . . When I look back to when I was a young man, Iwonder. . . . I set myself an aim in life, to lift me and mine frompoverty. I saved for it, denied for it, was faithful. It came aboutand it's ashes in my mouth! Yet I took it as a trust, and wasfaithful. What does the Bible say, 'Vanity of vanities'? But I saythat the world's made wrong. "

Glenfernie left him at last, wrinkled and shrunken and shriveled, coldon a summer day, plying himself with wine, a serving-man mending thefire upon the hearth. Alexander went to Mrs. Alison's parlor. He foundher deep chair placed in the garden without, and she herself sittingthere, a book in hand, but not read, her form very still, her eyesupon a shaft of light that was making vivid a row of flowers. The bookdropped beside her on the grass; she rose quickly. The last time theyhad met was before Culloden, before Prestonpans. 

She came to him. "You're well, Alexander! Thanks be! Sit down, mydear, sit down!" She would have made him take her chair, but helaughed and brought one for himself from the room. "I bless myancestors for a physical body that will not keep wounds!"

She sank into her chair again and sat in silence, gazing at him. Herclear eyes filled with tears, but she shook them away. At last shespoke: "Oh, I see the other sort of wounds! Alexander! lay hold of thenature that will make them, too, to heal!"

"Saint Alison, " he answered, "look full at what went on. Now tell meif those are wounds easy to heal. And tell me if he were not less thana man who pocketed the injury, who said to the injurer, 'Go inpeace!'"

She looked at him mournfully. "Is it to pocket the injury? Will notall combine--silently, silently--to teach him at last? Less thanman--man--more than man, than to-day's appearing man?. . . I am notwise. For yourself and the ring of your moment you may be judginginevitably, rightly. . . . But with what will you overcome--and inovercoming what will you overcome?"

He made a gesture of impatience. "Oh, friend, once I, too, could bemetaphysical! I cannot now. "

Speech failed between them. They sat with eyes upon the garden, theold tree, the August blue sky, but perhaps they hardly saw these. Atlast she turned. She had a slender, still youthful figure, an oval, lovely, still young face. Now there was a smile upon her lips, and inher eyes a light deep, touching, maternal. 

"Go as you will, hunt him as you will, do what you will! And he, too--Ian! Ian and his sins. Grapes in the wine-press--wheat beneaththe flail--ore in the ardent fire, and over all the clouds of wrath!Suffering and making to suffer--sinning and making to sin. . . . And yetwill the dawn come, and yet will you be reconciled!"

"Not while memory holds!"

"Ah, there is so much to remember! Ian has so much and you have somuch. . . . When the great memory comes you will see. But not now, it isapparent, not now! So go if you will and must, Alexander, with the netand the spear!"

"Did he not sin?"

"Yes. "

"I also sin. But my sin does not match his! God makes use ofinstruments, and He shall make use of me!"

"If He 'shall, ' then He shall. Let us leave talk of this. Where you gomay love and light go, too--and work it out, and work it out!"

He did not stay long in her garden. All Black Hill oppressed him now. The dark crept in upon the light. She saw that it was so. 

"He can be friends now with none. He sees in each one a partisan--hisown or Ian's. " She did not detain him, but when he rose to say good-byhelped him to say it without delay. 

He went, and she paced her garden, thinking of Ian who had done sogreat wrong, and Alexander who cried, "My enemy!" She stayed in thegarden an hour, and then she turned and went to play piquet with thelonely, shriveled man, her brother. 

CHAPTER XXIV

Two days after this Glenfernie rode to White Farm. Jenny Barrow methim with exclamations. 

"Oh, Mr. Alexander! Oh, Glenfernie! And they say that you are amaistas weel as ever--but to me you look twelve years older! Eh, and thiswarld has brought gray into _my_ hair! Father's gane to kirk session, and Gilian's awa'. "

He sat down beside her. Her hands went on paring apples, while hereyes and tongue were busy elsewhere. 

"They say you're gaeing to travel. "

"Yes. I'm starting very soon. "

"It's na _said oot_--but a kind of whisper's been gaeing around. " Shehesitated, then, "Are you gaeing after him, Glenfernie?"

"Yes. "

Jenny put down her knife and apple. She drew a long breath, so thather bosom heaved under her striped gown. A bright color came into hercheeks. She laughed. "Aweel, I wadna spare him if I were you!"

He sat with her longer than he had done with Mrs. Alison. He feltnearer to her. He could be friends with her, while he moved from theother as from a bloodless wraith. Here breathed freely all the strongvindications! He sat, sincere and strong, and sincere and strong wasthe countrywoman beside him. 

"Oh aye!" said Jenny. "He's a villain, and I wad gie him all that hegave of villainy!"

"That is right, " said Alexander, "to look at it simply!" He felt thatthose were his friends who felt in this as did he. 

On the moor, riding homeward, he saw before him Jarvis Barrow. Dismounting, he met the old man beside a cairn, placed there so longago that there was only an elfin story for the deeds it commemorated. 

"Gude day, Glenfernie! So that Hieland traitor did not slay ye?"

"No. "

Jarvis Barrow, white-headed, strong-featured, far yet, it seemed, fromincapacitating old age, took his seat upon a great stone loosened fromthe mass. He leaned upon his staff; his collie lay at his feet. "Manywad say a lang time, with the healing in it of lang time, since afause lover sang in the ear of my granddaughter, in the glen there!"

"Aye, many would say it. "

"I say 'a fause lover. ' But the ane to whom she truly listened is anaulder serpent than he . . . Wae to her!"

"No, no!"

"But I say 'aye!' I am na weak! She that worked evil and looseness, harlotry, strife, and shame, shall she na have her hire? As, Sunday bySunday, I wad ha' set her in kirk, before the congregation, for thestern rebuking of her sin, so, mak no doubt, the Lord pursues her now!Aye, He shakes His wrath before her eyes! Wherever she turns she sees'Fornicatress' writ in flames!"

"No!"

"But aye!"

"Where she was mistaken--where, maybe, she was wilfully blind--shemust learn. Not the learning better, but the old mistake until it islost in knowledge, will clothe itself in suffering! But that is but apart of her! If there is error within, there is also Michael within tomake it of naught! She releases herself. It is horrible to me to seeyou angered against her, for you do not discriminate--and you are yourMichael, but not hers!"

"Adam is speaking--still the woman's lover! I'm not for contendingwith you. She tore my heart working folly in my house, and an illexample, and for herself condemnation!"

"Leave her alone! She has had great unhappiness!" He moved the smallstones of the cairn with his fingers. "I am going away fromGlenfernie. "

"Aye. It was in mind that ye would! You and he were great friends. "

"The greater foes now. "

"I gie ye full understanding there!"

"With my father, those he hated were beyond his touch. So he walkedamong shadows only. But to me this world is a not unknown wood whereroves, alive and insolent, my utter enemy! I can touch him and I willtouch him!"

"Not you, but the Lord Wha abides not evil!. . . How sune will ye begaeing, Glenfernie?"

"As soon as I can ride far. As soon as everything is in order here. Iknow that I am going, but I do not know if I am returning. "

"I haud na with dueling. It's un-Christian. But mony's the ancientgude man that Jehovah used for sword! Aye, and approved the sword thathe used--calling him faithful servant and man after His heart! I am najudging. "

From the moor Glenfernie rode through the village. Folk spoke to him, looked after him; children about the doors called to others, "It's thalaird on Black Alan!" Old and young women, distaff or pan or pot orpitcher in hand, turned head, gazed, spoke to themselves or to oneanother. The Jardine Arms looked out of doors. "He's unco like thaauld laird!" Auld Willy, that was over a hundred, raised a pipingvoice, "Did ye young things remember Gawin Elliot that was hisgreat-grandfather ye'd be saying, 'Ye might think it was Gawin Elliotthat was hangit!'" Mrs. Macmurdo came to her shop door. "Eh, thelaird, wi' all the straw of all that's past alight in his heart!"

Alexander answered the "good days, " but he did not draw rein. He rodeslowly up the steep village street and over the bare waste bit of hilluntil here was the manse, with the kirk beyond it. Coming out of themanse gate was the minister. Glenfernie checked his mare. All aroundspread a bare and lonely hilltop. The manse and the kirk and theminister's figure buttressed each the others with a grim strength. Thewind swept around them and around Glenfernie. 

Mr. M'Nab, standing beside the laird, spoke earnestly. "We rejoice, Glenfernie, that you are about once more! There is the making in youof a grand man, like your father. It would have been down-spiriting ifthat son of Belial had again triumphed in mischief. The weak wouldhave found it so. "

"What is triumph?"

"Ye may well ask that! And yet, " said M'Nab, "I know. It is thewarm-feeling cloak that Good when it hath been naked wraps around it, seeing the spoiler spoiled and the wicked fallen into the pit that hedigged!"

"Aye, the naked Good. "

The minister looked afar, a dark glow and energy in his thin face. "They are in prison, and the scaffolds groan--they who would out withthe Kirk and a Protestant king and in with the French and popery!"

"Your general wrong, " said Glenfernie, "barbed and feathered also fora Scots minister's own inmost nerve! And is not my wrong generallikewise? Who hates and punishes falsity, though it were found in hisown self, acts for the common good!"

"Aye!" said the minister. "But there must be assurance that God callsyou and that you hate the sin and not the sinner!"

"Who assures the assurances? Still it is I!"

Glenfernie rode on. Mr. M'Nab looked after him with a darkling brow. "That was heathenish--!"

Alexander passed kirk and kirkyard. He went home and sat in the roomin the keep, under his hand paper upon which he made figures, diagrams, words, and sentences. When the next day came he did notride, but walked. He walked over the hills, with the kirk spire beforehim lifting toward a vast, blue serenity. Presently he came in sightof the kirkyard, its gravestones and yew-trees. He had met few personsupon the road, and here on the hilltop held to-day a balmy silence andsolitude. As he approached the gate, to which there mounted fiveancient, rounded steps of stone, he saw sitting on one of these awoman with a basket of flowers. Nearer still, he found that it wasGilian Barrow. 

She waited for him to come up to her. He took his place upon thesteps. All around hung still and sunny space. The basket of flowersbetween them was heaped with marigolds, pinks, and pansies. 

"For Elspeth, " said Gilian. 

"It is almost two years. You have ceased to grieve?"

"Ah no! But one learns how to marry grief and gladness. "

"Have you learned that? That is a long lesson. But some are quickerthan others or had learned much beforehand. . . . Where is Elspeth?"

"Oh, she is safe, Glenfernie!"

"I wanted her body safe--safe, warm, in my arms!"

"Spirit and spirit. Meet spirit with spirit!"

"No! I crave and hunger and am cold. Unless I warm myself--unless Iwarm myself--with anger and hatred!"

"I wish it were not so!"

"I had a friend. . . . I warm myself now in the hunt of a foe--in hislook when he sees me!"

Gilian smote her hands together. "So Elspeth would have loved that!So the smothered God in you loves that!"

"It is the God in me that will punish him!"

"Is it--is it, Glenfernie?"

He made a wide gesture of impatience. "Cold--languid--pithless! You, Robin, Strickland, Alison Touris--"

Gilian looked at her basket of marigolds, pinks, and pansies. "Thatword death. . . . I bring these here, but Elspeth is with me everywhere!There is a riddle--there is a strange, huge mistake. She must solveit, she must make that port of all ports--and you and I must makeit. . . . It is a hard, heroic, long adventure!"

"I speak of the pine-tree in the blast, and such as you would give mepansies! I speak of the eagle at the crag-top in the storm, and youoffer butterflies!"

"Ah, then, go and kill her lover and the man who was your friend!"

Glenfernie rose from the step, in his face strong anger and denial. Hestood, seeking for words, looking down upon the seated woman and herflowers. She met him with parted lips and a straight, fearless look. 

"Will you take half the flowers, Glenfernie, and put them forElspeth?"

"No. I cannot go there now!"

"I thought you would not. Now I am Elspeth. I love her. I would giveher gladness--serve her. She says, 'Let him alone! Do you not knowthat his own weird will bring him into dark countries and lightcountries, and where he is to go? Is your own tree to be made thwartand misshapen, that his may be reminded that there is rightness ofgrowth? He is a tree--he is not a stone, nor will he become a stone. There is a law a little larger than your fretfulness that will takecare of him! I like Glenfernie better when he is not a busybody!'"

Alexander stared at her in anger. "Differences where I thought to findlikeness--likenesses where I thought to find differences! He deceivedme, fooled me, played upon me as upon a pipe; took my own--"

"Ha!" said Gilian. "So you are going a-hunting for more reasons thanone?--Elspeth, Elspeth! come out of it!--for Glenfernie, after all, avenges himself!"

Alexander, looking like his father, spoke slowly, with laboringbreath. "Had one asked me, I should have said that you above all mightunderstand. But you, too, betray!" With a sweep of his arms abroad, agesture abrupt and desolate, he turned. He quitted the sunny barespace, the kirkyard and the woman sitting with her basket of marigoldsand pansies. 

But two nights later he came to this place alone. 

The moon was full. It hung like a wonder lantern above the hill andthe kirk; it made the kirkyard cloth of silver. The yews stood unreal, or with a delicate, other reality. It was neither warm nor cold. Themoving air neither struck nor caressed, but there breathed a sense ofcoming and going, unhurried and unperplexed, from far away to faraway. The laird of Glenfernie crossed long grass to where, for ahundred years, had been laid the dead from White Farm. There was amound bare to the sunlight thrown from the moon. He saw the flowersthat Gilian had brought. 

The flowers were colorless in the moonlight--and yet they could be, and were, clothed with a hue of anger from himself. They lay beforehim purple-crimson. They were withered, but suddenly they had sap, life, fullness--but a distasteful, reminding life, a life inopposition! He took them and threw them away. 

Now the mound rested bare. He lay down beside it. He stretched hisarms over it. "Elspeth!"--and "Elspeth!"--and "Elspeth!" But Elspethdid not answer--only the cool sunlight thrown back from the moon. 

CHAPTER XXV

Ian traveled toward a pass through the Pyrenees. Behind him stretcheddifficult, hazardous, slow travel--weeks of it. Behind those weeks laythe voyage to Lisbon, and from Lisbon in a second boat north to Vigo. From Vigo to this day of forested slopes and brawling streams, steadily worsening road, ruder dwellings, more primitive, impoverishedfolk, rolled a time of difficulties small and great, like the mountainpebbles for number. It took will and wit at strain to dissolve themall, and so make way out of Spain into France--through France--toParis, where were friends. 

Spanish travel was difficult at best--Spanish travel with scarcely anygold to travel on found the "best" quite winnowed out. Slow at alltimes, it grew, lacking money, to be like one of those dreams ofretardation. Ian gathered and blew upon his philosophy, and tookmatters at last with some amusement, at times, even, with a sense ofthe enjoyable. 

He was not quite penniless. Those who had helped in his escape fromEdinburgh had provided him gold. But, his voyage paid for, he must buyat Vigo fresh apparel and a horse. When at last he rode eastward andnorthward he was poor enough! Food and lodging must be bought forhimself and his steed. Inns and innkeepers, chance folk applied to forguidance, petty officials in perennially suspicious towns--twentypeople a day stood ready to present a spectral aspect of leech andgold-sucker! He was expert in traveling, but usually he had borne apurse quite like that of Fortunatus. Now he must consider that hemight presently have to sell his horse--and it was not a steed ofRoland's, to bring a great price! He might be compelled to go afootinto France. He might be sufficiently blessed if the millennium didnot find him yet living by his wits in Spain. It was Spanish, thatprospect! Turn what? Ian asked himself. Bull-fighter--fencing-master--gipsy--or brigand? He played with the notion of fencing-master. But hewould have to sell his horse to provide room and equipment, and hemust turn aside to some considerable town. Brigand would be easier, inthese wild forests and rock fortresses that climbed and stood upon thesky-line. Matter enough for perplexity! But the sweep of forest andmountain wall was admirable--admirable the air, the freedom from theEdinburgh prison. Except occasionally, in the midst of someintensification of annoyance, he rode and maneuvered undetected. 

Past happenings might and did come across him in waves. He remembered, he regretted; he pursued a dialectic with various convenient divisionsof himself. But all that would be lost for long times in the generalmiraculous variety of things! On the whole, going through Spain in theautumn weather, even with poverty making mouths alongside, was not asorry business! Zest lived in pitting vigor and wit against mole hillsthreatening an aggregation into mountains! As for time, what was it, anyhow, to matter so much? He owned time and a wide world. 

Delay and delay and delay. In one town the alcalde kept him a week, denying him the road beyond while inquiries were made as to hisidentity or non-identity with some famed outlaw escaping from justice. Further on, his horse fell badly lame and he stayed day after day in amiserable village, lounging under a cork-tree, learning patois. Therewas a girl with great black eyes. He watched her, two or three timesspoke to her. But when she saw how he must haggle over the price offood and lodging she laughed, and returned to the side of a muleteerwith a sash and little bells upon his hat. 

All along the road fell these retardations. Then as the mountainsloomed higher, the spirit of contradiction apparently grew tired andfell behind. For several days he traveled quite easily. "My LadyFortune, " asked Ian, "what is up your sleeve?"

The air stayed smiling and sweet. In a town half mountain, half plain, he made friends at the inn with Don Fernando, son of an ancient, proud, decaying house, poor as poverty. Don Fernando had been inParis, knew by hearsay England, and had heard Scotland mentioned. Spaniard and Scot drank together. The former was drawn into almostlove of Ian. Here was a help against boundless ennui! Ian and hishorse, and the small mail strapped behind the saddle, finally went offwith Don Fernando to spend a week in his old house on the hillsidejust without the town. Here was poverty also, but yet sufficient acresto set a table and pour good wine and to make the horse forget thefamine road behind him. Here were lounging and siesta, rest for bodyand mind, sweet "do well a very little!" Don Fernando would have keptthe guest a second week and then a third. 

But Ian shook his head, laughed, embraced him, promised a return ofgood when the great stream made it possible, and set forth upon hisfurther travel. The horse looked sleek, almost fat. The Scot's jadedwardrobe was cleaned, mended, refreshed. Living with Don Fernando werean elder sister and an ancient cousin who had fallen in love with thebig, handsome Don, traveling so oddly. These had set hand-maidens towork, with the result that Ian felt himself spruce as a newly openedpink. And Don Fernando gave him a traveling-cloak--very fine--a lastyear's gift, it seemed, from a grandee he had obliged. Cold weatherwas approaching and its warmth would be grateful. Ian's great need wasfor money in purse. These new friends had so little of that that hechose not to ask for a loan. After all, he could sell the cloak!

The day was fine, the country mounting as it were by stairs toward themountains. Before him climbed a string of pack-mules. The merchantowning them and their lading traveled with a guard of stout young men. For some hours Ian had the merchant for companion and heard much ofthe woes of the region and the times, the miseries of travel, thecursed inns, bandits licensed and unlicensed, craft, violence, androbbery! The merchant bewailed all life and kept a hawk eye upon histreasure on the Spanish road. At last he and his guard, his mules andmuleteers, turned aside into a skirting way that would bring him to atown visible at no great distance. Left alone, Ian viewed from ahilltop the roofs of this place, with a tower or two starting up likewarning fingers. But his road led on through a mountain pass. 

The earth itself seemed to be climbing. The mountain shapes, littleand big, gathered in herds. Cliffs, ravines, the hoarse song of water, the faces of few human folk, and on these written "Mountains, mountains! Live as we can! Catch who catch can!" After a time the roadwas deprived of even these faces. The Scot thought of home mountains. He thought of the Highlands. Above him and at some distance to theright appeared a distribution of cliffs that reminded him of thathiding-place after Culloden. He looked to see the birchwood, thewheeling eagle. The sun was at noon. Riding in a solitude, he almostdozed in the warm light. The Highlands and the eagle wheeling abovethe crag. . . . Black Hill and Glenfernie and White Farm andAlexander. . . . Life generally, and all the funny little figures runningfull tilt, one against another. . . . 

His horse sprang violently aside, then stood trembling. Forms, someragged, some attired with a violent picturesqueness, had started fromwithout a fissure in the wood and from behind a huge wayside rock. Ianknew them at a glance for those brigands of whom he had heard mentionand warning enough. Don Fernando had once described their practices. 

Resistance was idle. He chose instead a genial patience for histower, and within it keen wits to keep watch. With his horse he wastaken by the fierce, bedizened dozen up a gorge to so complete andsecure a robber hold that Nature, when she made it, must have been inrobber mood. Here were found yet others of the band, with a bedeckedand mustached chief. He was aware that property, not life, answered totheir desires. His horse, his fine cloak, his weapons, the small mailand its contents, with any article of his actual wearing they mightfancy, and the little, little, little money within his purse--allwould be taken. All in the luck! To-day to thee, to-morrow to me. Whatpuzzled him was that evidently more was expected. 

When they condescended to direct speech he could understand theirlanguage well enough. Nor did they indulge in over-brutal handling;they kept a measure and reminded him sufficiently of old England's ownhighwaymen. Of course, like old England's own, they would becomeatrocious if they thought that circumstances indicated it. But theydid not seem inclined to go out of their way to be murderous ortormenting. The only sensible course was to take things good-naturedlyand as all in the song! The worst that might happen would be that hemust proceed to France afoot, without a penny, lacking weapons, DonFernando's cloak--all things, in short, but the bare clothing he stoodin. To make loss as small as possible there were in order suavity, coolness, even gaiety!

And still appeared the perplexing something he could not resolve. Theover-fine cloak, the horse now in good condition, might have somethingto do with it, contrasting as they certainly did with the purse inthe last stages of emaciation. And there seemed a studying of hisgeneral appearance, of his features, even. Two men in especialappeared detailed to do this. At last his ear caught the word"ransom. "

Now there was nobody in Spain knowing enough or caring enough of orfor Ian Rullock to entertain the idea of parting with gold pieces inorder to save his life. Don Fernando might be glad to see him live, but certainly had not the gold pieces! Moreover, it presently leakedfantastically out that the bandits expected a large ransom. He beganto suspect a mistake in identity. That assumption, increasing inweight, became certainty. They looked him all around, they comparednotes, they regarded the fine cloak, the refreshed steed. "English, señor, English?"

"Scots. You do not understand that? Cousin to English. "

"English. We had word of your traveling--with plenty of gold. "

"It is a world of mistakes. I travel, but I have no gold. "

"It is a usual lack of memory of the truth. We find it often. You aretraveling with escort--with another of your nation, your brother, wesuppose. There are servants. You are rich. For some great freak youleave all in the town down there and ride on alone. Foreigners oftenact like madmen. Perhaps you meant to return to the town. Perhaps towait for them in the inn below the pass. You have not gold in yourpurse because there is bountiful gold just behind you. Why hurt thebeautiful truth? Sancho and Pedro here were in the inn-yard lastnight. "

Sancho's hoarse voice emerged from the generality. "It was dusk, butwe saw you plainly enough, we are sure, señor! In your fine cloak, speaking English, discussing with a big tall man who rode in with youand sat down to supper with you and was of your rank and evidently, wethink, your brother or close kinsman!"

The chief nodded. "It is to him that we apply for your ransom. You, señor, shall write the letter, and Sancho and Pedro shall carry itdown. It will be placed, without danger to us, in your brother's hand. We have our ways. . . . Then, in turn, your brother shall ride forth, with a single companion, from the town, and in a clear space that weshall indicate, put the ransom beneath a certain rock, turning hishorse at once and returning the way he came. If the gold is put there, as much as we ask, and according to our conditions, you shall go freeas a bird, señor, though perhaps with as little luggage as a bird. Ifwe do not receive the ransom--why, then, the life of a bird is alittle thing! We shall put you to death. "

Ian combated the profound mistake. What was the use? They did notexpect him to speak truth, but they were convinced that they had thetruth themselves. At last it came, on his part, to a titanicwhimsicalness of assent. At least, assenting, he would not die in theimmediate hour! Stubbornly refuse to do their bidding, and his threadof life would be cut here and now. 

"All events grow to seem unintelligible masks! So why quarrel withone mask more? Pen, ink, and paper?"

All were produced. 

"I must write in English?"

"That is understood, señor. Now this--and this--is what you are towrite in English. "

The captive made a correct guess that not more than one or two of thecaptors could read Spanish, and none at all English. 

"Nevertheless, señor, " said the chief, "you will know that if the goldis not put in that place and after that fashion that I tell you, weshall let you die, and that not easily! So we think that you will notmake English mistakes any more than Spanish ones. "

Ian nodded. He wrote the letter. Sancho put it in his bosom and withPedro disappeared from the dark ravine. The situation relaxed. 

"You shall eat, drink, sleep, and be entirely comfortable, señor, until they return. If they bring the gold you shall pursue your roadat your pleasure even with a piece for yourself, for we are nothing ifnot generous! If they do not bring it, why, then, of course--!"

Ian had long been bedfellow of wild adventure. He thought that he knewthe mood in which it was best met. The mood represented the grist ofmuch subtle effort, comparing, adjustment, and readjustment. Hecultivated it now. The banditti admired courage, coolness, and goodhumor. They had provision of food and wine, the sun still shone warm. The robber hold was set amid dark, gipsy beauty. 

The sun went down, the moon came up. Ian, lying upon shaggy skins, knew well that to-morrow night--the night after at most--he might notsee the sun descend, the moon arise. What then?

Alexander Jardine, sailing from Scotland, came to Lisbon a month afterIan Rullock. He knew the name of the ship that had carried thefugitive, and fortune had it that she was yet in this port, waitingfor her return lading. He found the captain, learned that Ian hadtranshipped north to Vigo. He followed. At Vigo he picked up a furthertrace and began again to follow. He followed across Spain on the longroad to France. He had money, horses, servants when he needed them, skill in travel, a tireless, great frame, a consuming purpose. He mademistakes in roads and rectified them; followed false clues, thenturned squarely from them and obtained another leading. He squanderedupon the great task of dogging Ian, facing Ian, showing Ian, again andagain showing Ian, the wrong that had been done, patience, wealth ofkinds, a discovering and prophetic imagination. He traveled until atlast here was the earth, climbing, climbing, and before him theforested slopes, the mountain walls, the great partition between Spainand France. An eagle would fly over it, and another eagle would followhim, for a nest had been robbed and a friendship destroyed!

As the mountains enlarged he fell in with an Englishman of rank, anobleman given to the study of literature and peoples, amateur on theway to connoisseurship, and now traveling in Spain. He journeyed _enprince_ with his secretary and his physician, servants andpack-horses, and, in addition, for at least this part of Spain, anarmed escort furnished by the authorities, at his proper cost, againstjust those banditti dangers that haunted this strip of the globe. Thisnoble found in the laird of Glenfernie a chance-met gentleman worthcultivating and detaining at his side as long as might be. They hadbeen together three or four days when at eve they came to the largestinn of a town set at a short distance from the mountain pass throughwhich ran their further road. Here, at dusk, they dismounted in theinn-yard, about them a staring, commenting crowd. Presently they wentto supper together. The Englishman meant to tarry a while in this townto observe certain antiquities. He might stay a week. He urged thathis companion of the last few days stay as well. But the laird ofGlenfernie could not. 

"I have an errand, you see. I am to find something. I must go on. "

"Two days, then. You say yourself that your horses need rest. "

"They do. . . . I will stay two days. "

But when morning came the secretary and the physician alone appearedat table. The nobleman lay abed with a touch of fever. The physicianreported that the trouble was slight--fatigue and a chill taken. Acouple of days' repose and his lordship would be himself again. 

Glenfernie walked through the town. Returning to the inn, he foundthat the Englishman had asked for him. For an hour or two he talked orlistened, sitting by the nobleman's bed. Leaving him at last, he wentbelow to the inn's great room, half open to the courtyard and all thecome and go of the place. It was late afternoon. He sat by a tableplaced before the window, and the river seemed to flow by him, and nowhe looked at it from a rocky island, and now he looked elsewhere. Theroom grew ruddy from the setting sun. An inn servant entered andbusied himself about the place. After him came an aged woman, halfgipsy, it seemed. She approached the seat by the window. Her wornmantle, her wide sleeve, seemed to touch the deep stone sill. She wasgone like a moth. Glenfernie's eye discovered a folded paper lying inthe window. It had not been there five minutes earlier. Now it laybefore him like a sudden outgrowth from the stone. He put out a handand took it up. The woman was gone, the serving-man was gone. Outsideflowed the river. Alexander unfolded the paper. It was addressed to_Señor Nobody_. It lay upon his knee, and it was Ian's hand. His lipsmoved, his vision blurred. Then came steadiness and he read. 

What he read was a statement, at once tense and whimsical, of thepredicament of the writer. The latter, recognizing the confusion ofthought among his captors, wrote because he must, but did not trulyexpect any aid from Señor Nobody. The writing would, however, prolonglife for two days, perhaps for three. If at the end of that timeransom were not forthcoming death would forthcome. Release wouldfollow ransom. But Señor Nobody truly could not be expected to takeinterest! Most conceivably the stranger's lot must remain thestranger's lot. In that case pardon for the annoyance! If, miraculously, the bearer did find Señor Nobody--if Señor Nobody readthis letter--if strangers were not strangers to Señor Nobody--if goldand mercy lay alike in Señor Nobody's keeping--then so and so must bedone. Followed three or four lines of explicit directions. Did all theabove come about, then truly would the undersigned, living, andpursuing his journey into France, and making return to Señor Nobodywhen he might, rest the latter's slave! Followed the signature, _IanRullock_. 

Alexander sat by the window, in the rocky island, and the Spanishriver flowed by. It was dusk. Then came lights, and the Englishsecretary and physician, with servants to lay the table and bringsupper. Glenfernie ate and drank with the two men. His lordship wasreported better, would doubtless be up to-morrow. The talk fell uponGreece, to which country the nobleman was, in the end, bound. Greekart, Greek literature, Greek myth. Here the secretary proved scholarand enthusiast, a liker especially of the byways of myth. He andAlexander voyaged here and there among them. "And you remember, too, "said the secretary, "the Cranes of Ibycus--"

They rose at last from table. Secretary and physician must return totheir patron. "I am going to hunt bed and sleep, " said Glenfernie. "To-morrow, if his lordship is recovered, we'll go see that church. "

In the rude, small bedchamber he found his Spanish servant. Presentlyhe would dismiss him, but first, "Tell me, Gil, of the banditti inthese mountains. "

Gil told. The foreigner who employed him asked questions, referredintelligently from answer to answer, and at last had in hand a compactbody of information. He bade Gil good night. Ways of banditti in anyage or place were much the same!

The room was small, with a rude and narrow bed. There was a window, small, too, but open to the night. Pouring through this there entereda vagrant procession of sound, with, in the interstices, a silencethat had its own voice. As the night deepened the procession thinned, at last died away. 

When he undressed he had taken the letter to Señor Nobody and put itupon the table. Now, lying still and straight upon the bed in the darkroom, there seemed a blacker darkness where it lay, four feet fromhim, a little above the level of his eyes. There it was, a square, acube, of Egyptian night, hard, fierce, black, impenetrable. 

For a long time he kept a fixed gaze upon it. Beyond and above itglimmered the window. The larger square at last drew his eyes. He layanother long while, very still, with the window before him. Lying so, thought at last grew quiet, hushed, subdued. Very quietly, verysweetly, like one long gone, loved in the past, returning home, thereslipped into view, borne upon the stream of consciousness, an old moodof stillness, repose, dawn-light by which the underneath of things wasseen. Once it had come not infrequently, then blackness and hardnesshad whelmed it and it came no more. He had almost forgotten the feelof it. 

Presently it would go. . . . It did so, finding at this time a climatein which it could not long live. But it was powerfully a modifier. . . . Glenfernie, dropping his eyes from the window, found the square thatwas the letter, a square of iron gray. 

A part of the night he lay still upon the narrow bed, a part he spentin slow walking up and down the narrow room, a part he stoodmotionless by the window. The dawn was faintly in the sky when at lasthe took from beneath the pillow his purse and a belt filled with goldpieces and sat down to count them over and compare the total with thefigures upon a piece of paper. This done, he dressed, the light nowgray around him. The letter to Señor Nobody lay yet upon the table. Atlast, dressed, he took it up and put it in the purse with the gold. Leaving the room, he waked his servant where he lay and gave himdirections. A faint yellow light gleamed in the lowest east. 

He waited an hour, then went to the room where slept the secretary andthe physician. They were both up and dressing. The physician had beento his patron's room. "Yes, his lordship was better--was awake--meantafter a while to rise. " Glenfernie would send in a request. Somethinghad occurred which made him very desirous to see his lordship. If hemight have a few minutes--? The secretary agreed to make the inquiry, went and returned with the desired invitation. Glenfernie followed himto the nobleman's chamber and was greeted with geniality. Seated bythe Englishman's bed, he made his explanation and request. He had somuch gold with him--he showed the contents of the belt and purse--andhe had funds with an agent in Paris and again funds in Amsterdam. Herewere letters of indication. With a total unexpectedness there had cometo him in this town a call that he could not ignore. He could notexplain the nature of it, but a man of honor would feel it imperative. But it would take nicely all his gold and so many pieces besides. Heasked the loan of these, together with an additional amount sufficientto bring him through to Paris. Once there he could make repayment. Inthe mean time his personal note and word--The Englishman made notrouble at all. 

"I'll take your countenance and bearing, Mr. Jardine. But I'll makecondition that we do travel together, after all, as far, at least, asTours, where I mean to stop awhile. "

"I agree to that, " said Glenfernie. 

The secretary counted out for him the needed gold. In the narrow roomin which he had slept he put this with his own in a bag. He put withit no writing. There was nothing but the bare gold. Carrying it withhim, he went out to find the horses saddled and waiting. With Gilbehind him, he went from the inn and out of the town. The letter toSeñor Nobody had given explicit enough direction. Clear of allbuildings, he drew rein and took bearings. Here was the stream, thestump of a burned mill, the mountain-going road, narrower and rougherthan the way of main travel. He followed this road; the horses fellinto a plodding deliberateness of pace. The sunshine streamed warmaround, but there was little human life here to feel its rays. Aftera time there came emergence into a bare, houseless, almost treelessplain or plateau. The narrow, little-traveled road went on upon theedge of this, but a bridle-path led into and across the bareness. Alexander followed it. Before him, across the waste, sprang cliffswith forest at their feet. But the waste was wide, and in the sun theyshowed like nothing more than a burnished, distant wall. His pathwould turn before he reached them. The plain's name might have beenSolitariness. It lay naked of anything more than small scatteredstones and bushes. There upgrew before him the tree to which he wasbound. A solitary, twisted oak it shot out of the plain, itsprotruding roots holding stones in their grasp. Around was shelterlessand bare, but the heightening wall of cliff seemed to be watching. Alexander rode nearer, dismounted, left Gil with the two horses, and, the bag of gold in his hand, walked to the tree. Here was the stoneshaped like a closed hand. He put the ransom between the stone fingersand the stone palm. There was no word with it. Señor Nobody had noname. He turned and strode back to the horses, mounted, and with Gilrode from the naked, sunny plain. 

CHAPTER XXVI

The Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle lay a year in the future. Yet in Paris, under certain conditions and auspices, Scot or Englishman might dwellin security enough. The Jacobite remnant, foe to the Britishgovernment, found France its best harbor. A quietly moving Scotslaird, not Jacobite, yet might be lumped by the generality with thoseforfeited Scots gentlemen who, having lost all in a cause urged andsupported by France, now, without scruple, took from King Louis apension that put food in their mouths, coats on their backs, roofsover their heads. Alexander Jardine, knowing the city, finding quietlodgings in a quiet street, established himself in Paris. It waswinter now, cold, bright weather. 

In old days he had possessed not a few acquaintances in this city. Acircle of thinkers, writers, painters, had powerfully attracted him. Circumstances brought him now again into relation with one or two ofthis group. He did not seek them as formerly he had done. But neithercould he be said to avoid companionship when it came his way. It wasnot his wish to become singular or solitary. But he was much alone, and while he waited for Ian he wandered in the rich Paris of old, packed life. Street and Seine-side and market knew him; he stood inchurches, and before old altarpieces smoked by candles. Booksellersremarked him. Where he might he heard music; sometimes he would go tothe play. He carried books to his lodging. He sat late at night overvolumes new and old. The lamp burned dim, the fire sank; he put asidereading and knowledge gained through reading, and sat, sunk deep intoa dim desert within himself; at last got to bed and fell to sleep andto dreams that fatigued, that took him nowhere. When the next day washere he wandered again through the streets. 

One of his old acquaintances he saw oftener than he did others. Thiswas a scholar, a writer, an encyclopedist of to-morrow who liked thebig Scot and to be in his company. One day, chance met, they leanedtogether upon the parapet of a bridge, and watched the crossingthrong. "One's own particles in transit! Can you grasp that, Deschamps?"

"I have heard it advanced. No. It is hard to hold. "

"It is like a mighty serpent. You would think you had it and then itis gone. . . . If one could hold it it would transform the world. "

"Yes, it would. At what are you staring?"

"The serpent is gone. I thought that I saw one whom I do not hold tobe art and part with me. " He gazed after a crossing horseman. "No!There was merely a trick of him. It is some other. "

"The man for whom you are waiting?"

"Yes. "

Deschamps returned to the subject of a moment before. "It is likelythat language bewrays much more than we think it does. I say 'theman. ' You echo it. And I am 'man. ' And you are 'man. ' 'Man'--'Man'!Every instant it is said. Yet the identity that we state we neverassume!"

"I said that we could not hold the serpent. "

Ten days afterward he did see Ian. The latter, after a slow anddifficult progress through France, came afoot into Paris. He sought, and was glad enough to find, an old acquaintance and sometimefellow-conspirator--Warburton. 

"Blessed friendship!" he said, and warmed himself by Warburton's fire. Something within him winced, and would, if it could, have put forwarda different phrase. 

Warburton poured wine for him. "Now tell your tale! For months thoseof us who remained in Paris have heard nothing but Trojan woes!"

Ian told. Culloden and after--Edinburgh--Lisbon--Vigo--travel inSpain--Señor Nobody--

"That was a curious adventure! And you don't know the ransomer'sname?"

"Not I! Señor Nobody he rests. "

"Well, and after that?"

Ian related his wanderings from the Pyrenees up to Paris. Scotland, Spain, and France, the artist in him painted pictures forWarburton--painted with old ableness and abandon, and, Warburtonthought, with a new subtlety. The friend hugged his knees and enjoyedit like a well-done play. Here was Rullock's ancient spirit, grownmore richly appealing! Trouble at least had not downed him. Warburton, who in the past year had been thrown in contact with a number whom ithad downed, and who had suffered depression thereby, felt gratitude toIan Rullock for being larger, not smaller, than usual. 

At last, the fire still burning, Ian warmed and refreshed, theywheeled from retrospect into the present. Warburton revealed howthoroughly shattered were Stewart hopes. 

"I begin to see, Rullock, that we've simply passed those things by. Wecan't go back to that state of mind and affairs. "

"I don't want to go back. "

"I like to hear you say that. I hear so much whining the other way!Well, as a movement it's over. . . . And the dead are dead, and thescarred and impoverished will have to pick themselves up. "

"Quite so. Is there any immediate helping hand?"

"King Louis gives a pension. It's not much, but it keeps one fromstarving. And as for you, I've in keeping a packet for you fromEngland. It reached me through Goodworth, the India merchant. I've anotion that your family will manage to put in your hand some annualamount. Of course your own fortune is sequestered and you can returnneither to England nor to Scotland. "

"My aunt may have had faith that I was living. She would do all thatshe could to help. . . . No, I'll not go back. "

"Your chance would lie in some post here. Take up old acquaintanceswhere they have power, and recommend yourself to new ones with power. Great ladies in especial, " said Warburton. 

"We haven't passed that by?"

"Not yet, Rullock, not yet!"

Ian dreamed over the fire. At last he stretched his arms. "Let us gosleep, Warburton! I have come miles. . . . "

"Yes, it is late. Oh, one thing more! Alexander Jardine is in Paris. "

"Alexander!"

"I don't know what he is doing here. In with the writing, studyingcrew, I suppose. I came upon him by accident, near the Sorbonne. Hedid not see me and I did not speak. "

"I'll not avoid him!"

"I remember your telling me that you had quarreled. That was the eveof your leaving Paris in the springtime, before the Prince went toScotland. You haven't made it up?"

"No. I suppose we'll never make it up. "

"What was it over?"

"I can't tell you that. . . . It had a double thread. Did he come toParis, I wonder, because he guessed that I would bring up here?" Herose and stood staring down into the fire. "I think that he did so. Well, if he means to follow me through the world, let him follow! Andnow no more to-night, Warburton! I want sleep--sleep--sleep!"

The next day and the next and the next began a new French life. He hadluck, or he had the large momentum of a personality not negligible, anorb covered with a fine network of enchanter's symbols. The packetfrom England held money, with an engagement to forward a like sumtwice a year. It was not a great sum, but such as it was he did not inthe least scorn it. It had come, after all, from ArchibaldTouris--but Ian knew the influence behind that. 

Warburton presented his name to the Minister who dispensed KingLouis's fund for Scots gentlemen concerned in the late attempt, losersof all, and now destitute in France. So much would come out of that!The two together waited upon monseigneur in whose coach they had oncecrossed the Seine. He had blood ties with Stewart kings of yesterday, and in addition to that evidenced a queer, romantic fondness for lostcauses, and a willingness to ferry across rivers those who had beenengaged in them. Now he displayed toward the Englishman and the Scot akind of eery, distant graciousness. Ah yes! he would speak here andthere of Monsieur Ian Rullock--he would speak to the King. If therewere things going _ces messieurs_ might as well have some good ofthem! Out of old acquaintances in Paris Ian gathered not a few whowere in position to further new fortunes. Some of these were men andsome were women. He took a lodging, neither so good nor so bad. Warburton found him a servant. He obtained fine clothes, necessaryworking-garb where one pushed one's fortune among fine folk. The moreuncertain and hazardous looked his fortunes the more he walked andspoke as though he were a golden favorite of the woman with the wheel. 

All this moved rapidly. He had not been in Paris a week ere again, asmany times before, he had the stage all set for Success to walk forthupon it! But it had come December--December--December, and he lookedforward to that month's passing. 

He had not seen Alexander. Then, in the middle of the month he foundhimself one evening in a peacock cluster of fine folk, at thetheater--a famous actress to be viewed in a comedy grown the rage. Theplay was nearly over when he saw Alexander in the pit, turned from thestage, gazing steadily upon him. Ian placed himself where he mightstill see him, and returned the gaze. 

Going out when the play was over, the two met face to face in thelighted space between the doors. Each was in company of others--Ianwith a courtier, decked and somewhat loudly laughing group, Glenferniewith a painter of landscape, Deschamps, and an Oriental, member ofsome mission to the West. Meeting so, they stopped short. Theirnostrils dilated, there seemed to come a stirring over their bodies. Inwardly they felt a painful constriction, a contraction to somethinghard, intent, and fanged. This was the more strongly felt byAlexander, but Ian felt it, too. Did Glenfernie mean to dog himthrough life--think that he would be let to do so? Alone in a forest, very far back, they might, at this point, have flown at each other'sthroat. But they had felled many forests since the day when just thatwas possible. . . . The thing conventionally in order for such a momentas the present was to act as though that annihilation which eachwished upon the other had been achieved. All that they had sharedsince the day when first they met, boys on a heath in Scotland, shouldbe instantaneously blotted out. Two strangers, jostled face to face ina playhouse, should turn without sign that there had ever been thatheath. So, symbolically, annihilation might be secured! For a momenteach sought for the blank eyes, the unmoved stone face. 

As from a compartment above sifted down a dry light with great powerof lighting. It came into Alexander's mind, into that, too, of Ian. . . . How absurd was the human animal! All this saying the opposite left thetruth intact. They were not strangers, each was quite securely seatedin the other. Self-annihilation--self-oblivion!. . . All these farcicalhigh horses!. . . Men went to see comedies and did not see their owncomedy. 

The laird of Glenfernie and Ian Rullock each very slightly and coldlyacknowledged the other's presence. No words passed. But the slowamenity of life bent by a fraction the head of each, just parted thelips of each. Then Alexander turned with an abrupt movement of hisgreat body and with his companions was swallowed by the crowd. 

On his bed that night, lying straight with his hands upon his breast, he had for the space of one deep breath an overmastering sense of thesuaveness of reality. Crudity, angularity, harshness, seemed tovanish, to dissolve. He knew dry beds of ancient torrents that were along and somewhat wide wilderness of mere broken rock, stone piece bystone piece, and only the more jagged edges lost and only the surfaceworn by the action, through ages, of water. It was as though such abed grew beneath his eyes meadow smooth--smoother than that--smooth asair, air that lost nothing by yielding--smooth as ether that, yieldingall, yielded nothing. . . . The moment went, but left its memory. As themoment was large so was its memory. 

He fought against it with tribes of memories, lower and dwarfish, butmyriads strong. The bells from some convent rang, the December starsblazed beyond his window, he put out his arms to the December cold. 

Ian, despite that moment in the playhouse, looked for the arrival of asecond challenge from Glenfernie. For an instant it might be that theyhad seen that things couldn't be so separate, after all! That therewas, as it were, some universal cement. But instants passed, and, indubitably, the world was a broken field! Enmity still existed, full-veined. It would be like this Alexander, who had overshot anotherAlexander, to send challenge after challenge, never to rest satisfiedwith one crossing of weapons, with blood drawn once! Or if there wasno challenge, no formal duel, still there would be duel. He wouldpursue--he would cry, "Turn!"--there would be perpetuity of encounter. To the world's end there was to be the face of menace, of oldreproach--the arrows dropped of pain of many sorts. "In short, vengeance, " said Ian. "Vengeance deep as China! When he used to denyhimself revenge in small things it was all piling up for this!. . . WhatI did slipped the leash for him! Well, aren't we evened?"

What he looked for came, brought by Deschamps. The two met in a fieldoutside Paris, with seconds, with all the conventionally correctparaphernalia. The setting differed from that of their lonely fight ona Highland mountain-side. But again Ian, still the better swordsman, wounded Alexander. This time he gave--willed perhaps to give--a slighthurt. 

"That is nothing!" said Glenfernie. "Continue--" But the seconds, coming between them, would not have it so. It was understood thattheir principals had met before, and upon the same count. Blood hadbeen drawn. It was France--and mere ugly tooth-and-claw business notin favor. Blood had flowed--now part!

"'Must' drives then to-day, " said Alexander. "But it is Decemberstill, Ian Rullock!"

"Turn the world so, if you will, Glenfernie!" answered the other. "Andyet there is June somewhere!"

They left the field. Alexander, going home in a hired coach withDeschamps, sat in silence, looking out of the window. His arm wasbandaged and held in a sling. 

"They breed determined foes in Scotland, " said Deschamps. 

"That Scotland is in me, " Glenfernie answered. "That Scotland and thatDecember. "

Three days later he wandered alone in Paris, came at last to old stonesteps leading down to the river, in an unpopulous quarter. A few boatslay fastened to piles, but the landing-place hung deserted in thewinter sunlight. There lacked not a week of Christmas. But the seasonhad been mild. To-day was not cold, and stiller than still. Glenfernie, his cloak about him, sat upon the river steps and watchedthe stream. It went by, and still it stood there before him. It camefrom afar, and it went to afar, and still it shone where his handmight touch it. It turned like a wheel, from the gulf to the heightand around again. He followed its round--ocean and climbing vapor, cloud, rain, and far mountain springs, descent and the mother sea. Themind, expanding, ceased to examine radius by radius, but held thewhole wheel. Alexander sat in inner quiet, forgetting December. 

Turning from that contemplation, he yet remained still, looking now atthe sunshine on the steps. . . . There seemed to reach him, within andfrom within, rays of color and fragrance, the soul of spice pinks, marigolds, and pansies. . . . Then, within and from within, Elspeth waswith him. 

Dead! She was not dead. . . . Of all idle words--!

It was not as a shade--it was not as a memory, or not as the poorthings that were called memory! But she came in the authority andintegrity of herself, that was also, most dearly, most marvelously, himself as well--permeative, penetrative, real, a subtle breath namedElspeth! So subtle, so wide and deep, elastic, universal, with nohorizons that he could see. . . . To and fro played the tides ofknowledge. 

Elspeth all along--sunshines and shadows--Elspeth a wide, livinglife--not crushed into the two moments upon which he had brooded--notthe momentary Elspeth who had walked the glen with him, not themomentary Elspeth lifted from the Kelpie's Pool, borne in his arms, cold, rigid, drowned, a long, long way! But Elspeth, integral, vibrant, living--Elspeth of centillions of moments--Elspeth abeautiful power moving strongly in abundant space. . . . 

His form stayed moveless upon the river steps while the wave ofrealization played. 

The experience linked itself with that of the other night when thestony bed of existence, broken, harsh, irregular, had suddenlydissolved into connections myriad wide, deep, and fine. . . . He hadprated with philosophers of oneness. Then what he had prated of hadbeen true! There was a great difference between talking of andtouching truth. . . . 

But he could not hold the touch. The wings flagged, he fell into thejungle of words. His body turned upon the steps. The caves and dens ofhis being began to echo with cries and counter-cries. 

Hurt? Had she not been hurt at all? But she _was_ hurt--poisoned, ruined, drawn to death! Had she long and wide and living power to healher own harm? Still was it not there--he would have it there!

Ian Rullock! With a long, inward, violent recoil Alexander shrank intothe old caves of himself. All, the magic web of color and fragrancedwindled, came to be a willow basket filled with White Farm flowersplaced upon the kirkyard steps. 

Ian Rullock had stolen her--Ian, not Alexander, had been her lover, kissed her, clasped her, there in the glen! Ian, the Judas offriendship--thief of a comrade's bliss--cheat, murderer, mocker, andinjurer!

The wave of oneness fled. 

Glenfernie, looking like the old laird his father, his cloak wrappedaround him, feeling the December air, left the river steps, wanderedaway through Paris. 

But when he was alone with the night he tried to recover the wave. Ithad been so wonderful. Even the faint, faint echo, the ghostlyafterglow, were exquisite; were worth more than anything he yet hadowned. He tried to recover the earlier part of the wave, separating itfrom the later flood that had seemed critical of righteous wrath, justpunishment. But it would not come back on those terms. . . . But yet hewanted it, wanted it, longed for it even while he warred against it. 

CHAPTER XXVII

That was one December. The year made twelve steps and here wasDecember again. With it came to Ian a proffer from the nobleman of thecoach across the Seine. Some ancient business, whether of soul orsense, carried him to Rome. Monsieur Ian Rullock--said to be for themoment banished from a certain paradise--might find it in his interestto come with him--say as traveling companion. Ian found it so. Monseigneur was starting at once. Good! let us start. 

Ian despatched his servant to the lodging known to be occupied by thelaird of Glenfernie. The man had a note to deliver. Alexander took itand read:

 GLENFERNIE, --I am quitting Paris with the Duc de ----, for Rome. --IAN RULLOCK. 

The man gone, Alexander put fire to the missive and burned it, afterwhich he walked up and down, up and down the wide, bare room. Whensome time had passed he came back to chair and table, inkwell and pen, and a half-written letter. The quill drove on:

 . . . None could do better by the estate than you--not I nor any other. So I beg of you to stay, dear Strickland, who have stayed by us so long!

There followed a page of business detail--inquiries--expressedwishes. Glenfernie paused. Before him, propped against a volume of oldlore, stood a small picture;--Orestes asleep in the grove of theFuries. He sat leaning back in his chair, regarding it. He had foundit and purchased it months before, and still he studied it. His eyesfell to the page; he wrote on:

 You ask no questions, and yet I know that you question. Well, I will tell you--knowing that you will strain out and give to others only what should be given. . . . He has been, and I have been, in Paris a year. He and I have fought three times--fought, that is, as men call fighting. Once upon that mountain-side at home, twice here. Now he is going--and I am going--to Rome. Shall I fight him again--with metal digged from the earth, fashioned and sharpened in some red-lighted shop of the earth? I am not sure that I shall--rather, I think that I shall not. . . . Is there ever a place where a kind of growth does not go on? There is a moonrise in me that tells me that that fighting is to be scorned. But what shall I do, seeing that he is my foe?. . . Ah, I do not know--save haunt him, save bring and bring again my inner man, to clinch and wrestle with and throw, if may be, his inner man. And to see that he knows that I do this--that it tells back upon him--through and through tells back!. . . It has been a strange year. Now and then I am aware of curious far tides, effects from some giant orb of being. But I go on. . . . For my daily life in Paris--here it is, your open page!. . . You see, I still seek knowledge, for all your gibe that I sought darkness. And now, as I go to Rome--

He wrote on, changing now to details as to communication, placing ofmoneys, and such matters. At length came references to the last homenews, expressions of trust and affection. He signed his name, folded, superscribed and sealed the letter, then sat on, studying the picturebefore him. 

Monseigneur, with gold, with fine horses, with an eery, swooping, steadiness of direction, journeyed fast. He and his travelingcompanion reached Rome early in February. There was a villa, therewere attendants, there was the Frenchman's especial circle, set withbizarre jewels, princes of the Church, Italian nobles of hisacquaintance, exiles, a charlatan of immense note, certain ladies. Heonly asked of his guest, Monsieur Rullock, that he help him toentertain the whole chaplet, giving to his residence in Rome a certainsplendid virility. 

February showed skies like sapphire. There drew on carnival week. Masks and a wildness of riot--childish, too--

Ian leaned against the broken base of an ancient statue, set in thevilla garden, at a point that gave a famous view. Around, thealmond-trees were in bloom. The marble Diana had gazed hence for somany years, had seen so much that might make the dewy greenwoodforgotten! It was mid-afternoon and flooding light. Here Rome basked, half-asleep in a dream of sense; here the ant city worked and worked. 

Ian stood between tides, behind him a forenoon, before him an eveningof carnival participation. In the morning he had been with a stream ofpersons; presently, with the declining sun, would be with another. Here was an hour or two of pause, time of day for rest withhalf-closed eyes. He looked over the pale rose wave of the almonds, hesaw Peter's dome and St. Angelo. He was conscious of a fatigue of hispowers, a melancholy that they gave him no more than they did. "How itis all tinsel and falsetto!. . . I want a clean, cold, searchingwave--desert and night--not life all choked with wax tapers andharlequins! I want something. . . . I don't know what I want. I only knowI haven't got it!"

His arm moved upon the base of the statue. He looked up at the whiteform with the arrow in its hands. "Self-containment. . . . What, goddess, you would call chastity all around?. . . All the spilled self somehowcentered. But just that is difficult--difficult--more difficult thananything Hercules attempted. Oh me!" He sat down beneath the cypressthat stood behind the statue and rested his head within his hands. From Rome, on all sides, broke into the still light trumpets andbell-ringing, pipes and drums, shout and singing. It sounded like athousand giant cicadæ. A group of masks went through the garden, bythe Diana figure. They threw pine cones and confetti at the gold-brownforeigner seated there. One wore an ass's head, another was dressed asa demon with horns and tail, a third rolled as Bacchus, a fourth, fifth, and sixth were his mænads. All went wildly by, the clamor ofthe city swelled. 

This was first day of carnival. Succeeding days, succeeding nights, mounted each a stage to heights of folly. Starred all through wasinnocent merrymaking, license held in leash. But the gross, thewhirling, and the sinister elements came continuously and morestrongly into play. Measured sound grew racket, camaraderie turnedinto impudence. Came at last pandemonium. All without Rome--Campagnaand mountains--were in Rome. Peasant men and women slept, when theyslept, in and beneath carts and huge wine-wagons camped and parked instone forests of imperial ruins. Artisan, mechanic, and merchant Romelightened toil and went upon the hunt for pleasure, dropping servilityin the first ditch. Foreigners, artists, men from everywhere, roved, gazed, and listened, shared. The great made displays, some withbeauty, some of a perverted and monstrous taste. The lords of theChurch nodded, looked sleepily or alertly benevolent. At times allalike turned mere populace. Courtesans thronged, the robber and theassassin found their prey. All men and women who might entertain, everso coarsely, ever so poorly, were here at market. Mummers and players, musicians, dancers, jugglers, gipsies, and fortune-tellers floatedthick as May-flies. Voices, voices, and every musical instrument--butall set in a certain range, and that not the deep nor the sweet. So itseemed, and yet, doubtless, by searching might have been found thedeep and the sweet. Certainly the air of heaven was sweet, and it wentin and between. 

All who might or who chose went masked. So few did not choose thatstreet and piazza seemed filled with all orders of being and momentsof time. Terrible, grotesque, fantastic, pleasing, went the rout, andnow the hugest crowd was here and now it was there, and now there weremoments of even diffusion. At night the lights were in multitude, andin multitude the flaring and strange decorations. Day and night swungprocessions, stood spectacles, huge symbolic movements and attitudes, grown obscure and molded to the letter, now mere stage effects. Dayby day through carnival week the noise increased, restraint lessened. 

At times Ian was in company with monseigneur and those who came to thevilla; at times he sought or was sought by others that he knew inRome, fared into carnival with them. Much more rarely he dipped intothe swirl alone. 

The saturnalia drew toward its close. Ash Wednesday, like a greatgray-sailed ship, was seen coming large into port. The noise grewwild, license general. All available oil must be poured into the fireof the last day of pleasures. Ian was to have been with monseigneur'sparty gathered to view a pageant lit by torches of wax, then to drinkwine, then, in choice masks, to break in upon a dance of nymphs, whirlaway with black or brown eyes. . . . It was the program, but at the lasthe evaded it, slipped from the villa, chose solitary going. Why, hedid not know, save that he felt aching satiety. 

Here in the streets were half-lights, afterglow from the sunken sunand smoky torches. The latter increased in number, the oil-lamps, great and small, were lit, the tapers of various qualities andthicknesses. Where there were open spaces vast heaps of seasoned woodnow flaming caused processions of light and shadow among ruins, against old triumphal arches, against churches and dwellings old, half-old, and new, lived in, chanted in still, intact and usable. Above was star-sown night, but Rome lay under a kobold roof of her ownlighting. Noise held grating sway, mere restless motion enthroned withher. Worlds of drunken grasshoppers in endless scorched plains! Themasks seemed now demoniac, less beauty than ugliness. 

Ian found himself on the Quirinal, in the great ragged space dominatedby the Colossi. Here burned a bonfire huge enough to make Plutonianday, and here upon the fringes of that light he encountered a carnivalbrawl, and became presently involved in it. He wore a domino stripedblack and silver, and a small black mask, a black hat with wide brimand a long, curling silver feather. He was tall, broad-shouldered, noticeable. . . . The quarrel had started among unmasked peasants, thenhad swooped in a numerous band dressed as ravens. Light-fingeredgentry, inconspicuously clad, aided in provoking misunderstanding thatshould shake for them the orchard trees. A company of wine-bibberswith monstrous, leering masks, staggering from a side-street, fellinto the whirlpool. With vociferation and blows the whole pulled hereand there, the original cause of the falling out buried now in a hostof new causes. Ian, caught in an eddy, turned to make way out of it. Apeasant woman, there with a group from some rock village, received achance buffet, so heavy that she cried out, staggered, then, pushedagainst in the mêlée, fell upon the earth. The raven crew threatenedtrampling. "_Jesù Maria!_" she cried, and tried to raise herself, butcould not. Ian, very near her, took a step farther in and, stooping, lifted her. But now the ravens chose to fall foul of him. The womanwas presently gone, and her peasant fellows. . . . He was beating off adrunken Comus crew, with some of active ill-will. His dress wasrich--he was not Roman, evidently--the surge had foamed and draggedacross from the bonfire and the open place to the dark mouth of a poorstreet. Many a thing besides light-hearted gaieties happened incarnival season. 

He became aware that a friendly person had come up, was with himbeating off raven, gorgon, and satyr. He saw that this person was verybig, and caught an old, oft-noted trick in the swing of his arm. To-night, in carnival time, when there was trouble, it seemed quitenatural and with a touch of home that Old Steadfast should loom forth. 

A clang of music, shouting, and an oncoming array of lights helped todaunt band of ravens and drunken masks. A procession of fishermen withnets and monsters of the sea approached, went by. The attackers mergedin the throng that attended or followed, went away with innocentshouts and songs. A second push followed the first, a great crowd ofmasks and spectators bound for a piazza through which was to pass oneof the final large pageants. This wave carried with it Ian andAlexander. On such a night, where every sea was tumult, oneindication, one propelling touch, was as good as another. The two wenton in company. Alexander was not masked. Ian was, but that did notto-night hide him from the other. They came into the flaringly lightedplace. Around stood old ruins, piers, broken arches and columns, andamong these modern houses. For the better viewing of the spectaclebanks of seats had been built, tier upon tier rising high, proppedagainst what had been ancient bath or temple. The crowd surged tothese, filling every stretch and cranny not yet seized upon. Thereissued that the tiers were packed; dark, curving, mounting rows wherefoot touched shoulder. The piazza turned amphitheater. 

Still, in this carnival night, Ian and Alexander found themselvestogether. They were sitting side by side, a third of the way betweenpavement and the topmost row. They sat still, broodingly, in a cloudof things rememberable, no distinct images, but all their common past, good and bad, and the progress from one to the other, making as itwere one chord, or a mist of one color. They did not reason about thismomentary oneness, but took it as it came. It was carnival season. 

Yet the cloud dripped honey, the color was clear and not unrestful, the chord sweet and resounding. 

The pageant, fantastic, towering, red and purple lighted, passed by. The throng upon the seats moved, rose, struck heavily with their feet, going down the narrow ways. Many torches had been extinguished, manythat were carried had gone on, following the last triumphal car. Herewere semi-darkness, great noise and confusion--weight, too, pressingupon ground that long ago had been honeycombed; where the crypt of athree-hundred-year-old church touched through an archway old priestpaths beneath a vanished temple, that in turn gave into a mixed ruinof dungeons and cellars opening at last to day or night upon ahillside at some distance from the place of raised benches. Now, thecrowd pressing thickly, the earth crust at one point trembled, cracked, gave way. Scaffolding and throng came with groans and criesinto a very cavern. Those that were left above, high on narrow, overswaying platforms, with shouts of terror pushed back from the pitmouth, managed with accidents, injuries enough, to get to firmerearth. Then began, among the braver sort, rescue of those who had gonedown with soil and timbers. What with the darkness and the confusedand sunken ruin, this was difficult enough. 

Ian and Alexander, unhurt, clambered down the standing part and by thelight of congregated and improvised torches helped in that rescue, andhelped strongly. Many were pinned beneath wood, smothered by thecaving earth. The rent was wide and in places the ruin afire. Groans, cries, appeals shook the hearts of the carnival crowd. All would nowhave helped, but it was not possible for many. There must be strengthto descend into the pit and work there. 

A beam pinned a man more than near a creeping flame. The two Scotsbeat out that fire. Glenfernie heaved away the beam, Ian drew out theman, badly hurt, moaning of wife and child. Glenfernie lifted him, mounted with him, over heaped debris, by uncertain ledge and step, until other arms, outstretched, could take him. Turning back, he tookfrom Ian a woman's form, lifted it forth. Down again, the two workedon. Others were with them, there was made a one-minded ring, follyforgot. 

At last it seemed that all were rescued. A few men only moved now inthe hollow, peering here and there. The fire had taken headway; thegulf, it was evident, would presently be filled with flame. The heatbeat back those at the rim. "Come out! Come out, every one!" Therescuers began to clamber forth. 

Came down a roaring pile of red-lit timbers, with smoke and sparks. Itblocked the way for Alexander and Ian. Turning, here threatened apillar of choking murk, red-tongued. Behind them was a gaping, narrowarchway. Involuntary recoil before that stinging push of smoke broughtthem in under this. They were in a passageway, but when again theywould have made forth and across to the side of the pit, and so, byclimbing, out of it, they found that they could not. Before them laynow a mere field of fire, and the blowing air drove a biting smokeagainst them. 

"Move back, until this burns itself out! The earth gave into some kindof underground room. This is a passage. "

It stretched black behind them. Glenfernie caught up a thick, arm-longpiece of lighted wood that would answer for brand. They worked througha long vaulted tunnel, turned at right angles, and came into whattheir torch showed to have been an ancient chapel. In a niche stood abroken statue, on the wall spread a painting of St. Christopher inmidstream. 

"Shall we go on? There must be a way out of this maze. "

"If the torch will last us through. "

They passed out of the chapel into a place where of old the dead hadbeen buried. They moved between massy pillars, by the shelves of stonewhere the bones lay in the dust. It seemed a great enough hall. At theend of this they discovered an upward-going stair, but it was old andbroken, and when they mounted it they found that it ended flat againstthick stone, roof to it, pavement, perhaps, to some old church. Theysaw by a difference in the flags where had been space, the stairopening into the hollow of the church; but now was only stone, solidand thick. They struck against it, but it was moveless, and in thechurch, if church there were above, none in the dead night to hearthem. They came down the stair, and through a small, half-blockeddoorway stumbled into a labyrinth of passages and narrow chambers. They found old pieces of wood--what had been a wine-cask, what mighthave had other uses. They broke these into torch lengths, lighting onefrom another as that burned down. These underways did not seem whollyneglected, buried, and forgotten. There lacked any total blocking ordemolition, and there was air. But intricacy and uncertainty reigned. 

The mood of the amphitheater when they had sat side by side claimedthem still. There had been a reversion or a coming into fresh spacewhere quarrel faded like a shadow before light. The light was agolden, hazy one, made up of myriads of sublimed memories, associations, judgments, conclusions. Nothing defined emerged from it;it was simply somewhat golden, somewhat warm light, as from a sun wellunder the horizon--a kind of dreamy well-being as of old Together, unquestioning Acceptance. Suddenly aroused, each might have cried, "For the moment--it was for a moment only!" Then, for the moment, there was return, with addition. It came like a winged force from thebounds of doing or undoing. While it lasted it imposed upon themquieted minds, withdrew any seeming need for question. They sought foregress from this place where their bodies moved, explanation of thismaterial labyrinth. But they did not seek explanation of this mood, fallen among pride and anger, wrong and revenge. It came from atlarge, with the power of largeness. They were back, "for the moment, "in a simplicity of ancient, firm companionship. 

They spoke scarcely at all. It had been a habit of old, in their muchadventuring together, to do so in long silences. Alexander had set thepace there, Ian learning to follow. . . . It was as if this were anadventure of, say, five years ago, and it was as if it were a dreamadventure. Or it was as if some part of themselves, quietly and with ahidden will separating itself, had sailed away from the huge storm andcloud and red lightnings. . . . What they did say had wholly and only todo with immediate exigencies. Behind, in pure feeling, was the unity. 

Down in this underground place the air began to come more freshly. 

"Look at the flame, " said Ian. "It is bending. "

They had left behind rooms and passages lined with unbroken masonry. Here were newer chambers and excavations, softer walled. 

"They have been opening from this side. That was dug not so long ago. "

Another minute and they came into a ragged, cavern-like space filledwith fresh night air. Presently they were forth upon a low hillside, and at their feet Tiber mirrored the stars. Rome lay around. Thecarnival lights yet flared, the carnival noise beat, beat. This was adeserted strip, an islet between restless seas. 

Ian and Alexander stood upon trodden earth and grass, about them theyet encumbering ruins of an ancient building, pillars and architravesand capitals, broken friezes and headless caryatids. Here was theriver, here the ancient street. They breathed in the air, they lookedat the sky, but then at Rome. Somewhere a trumpet was fiercely crying. Like an impatient hand, like a spurred foot, it tore the magician'sfabric of the past few hours. 

Ian laughed. "We had best rub our eyes!" To the fine hearing there wasa catch of the breath, a small dancing hope in his laughter. "_Or, Glenfernie, shall we dream on?_"

But the other opened his eyes upon things like the Kelpie's Pool andthe old room in the keep where a figure like himself read letters thatlied. He saw in many places a figure like himself, injured and fooled, stuck full of poisoned arrows. The figure grew as he watched it, untilit overloomed him, until he was passionately its partisan. He said noword, but he flung the smoking torch yet held in hand among the ruins, and, leaving Ian and his black and silver, plunged down the slope tothe old, old street along which now poured a wave of carnival. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

The laird of Glenfernie lay in the flowering grass, beneath apine-tree, rising lonely from the Roman Campagna. The grass flowed formiles, a multitudinous green speculating upon other colors, here andthere clearly donning a gold, an amethyst, a blue. The pine-treelooked afar to other pine-trees. Each seemed solitary. Yet all had theoneness of the great stage, and if it could comprehend the stage mightswim with its little solitariness into a wider uniqueness. In thedistance lay Rome. He could see St. Peter's dome. But around streamedthe ocean of grass and the ocean of air. Lifted from the one, bathedin the other, strewed afar, appeared the wreckage of an older Rome. There was no moving in Rome or its Campagna without moving amongtime-cleansed bones and vestiges. Rome and its Campagna were likeSargasso Seas and held the hulks of what had been great galleons. Theair swam above endless grass, endless minute flowers. In longperspective traveled the arches of an Aqueduct. 

He lay in the shadow of a broken tomb. It was midspring. The blandstillness of this world was grateful to him, after long inner storm. He lay motionless, not far from the skirts of Contemplation. 

The long line of the Aqueduct, arch after arch, succession fixed, sequence which the gaze made unitary, toled on his thought. He wasregarding span after span of imagery held together, a very wide anddeep landscape of numerous sequences, more planes than one. He wasseeing, around the cells, the shadowy force lines of the organ, aroundthe organ the luminous mist of the organism. He passed calmly from onegreat landscape to another. 

Rome. To-day and yesterday and the day before, and to-morrow. The"to-morrow" put in the life, guaranteeing an endless present, endlessbreathing. He saw Rome the giant, the stone and earth of her, the vastanimal life of her, the vast passional, the mental clutch andhammer-blow. The spiritual Rome? He sought it--it must be there. Atlast, among the far arches, it rose, a light, a leaven, an ether. . . . Rome. 

If there were boundaries in this ocean of air they were gauze-thin andfloating. He looked here and there, into landscapes Rome led to. Likeand like, and synthesis of syntheses! Images, finding that of whichthey were images, lost their grotesqueness or meaninglessness of line, their quality of caricature, lost unripeness, lost the dull annoy ofriddles never meant to be answered. . . . He had a great fund of images, material so full that it must begin to build higher. Building highermeant arrival in a fluid world where all aggregates were penetrable. 

He lay still among the grasses, and it was as though he lay also amidthe wide, simple, first growths of a larger, more potent living. Nowand again, through years, he had been aware of approaches, alwaysmomentary, to this condition, to a country that lay behind time andspace, cause and effect, as he ordinarily knew them. The lightningwent--but always left something transforming. And then for three yearsall gleams stopped, a leaden wall that they could not pierce rearingitself. 

Latterly they had begun to return. . . . The proud will might riseagainst them, but they came. Then it must be so, he would have said ofanother, that the will was divided. Part of it must still have keptits seat before the door whence the lights came, stayed there with itsface in its hands, waiting its season. And a part that had said nomust be coming to say yes, going and taking its place beside the otherby the door. And together they were strong enough to bring thegleaming back, watching the propitious moment. But still there was theopposed will, and it was strong. . . . When the light came it sought outold traces of itself, and these became revivified. Then all joinedtogether to make a flood against the abundant darkness. A day likethis joined itself through likeness to others on the other side of thethree years, and also to moments of the months just passed andpassing. Union was made with a sleepless night in an inn of Spain, with the hours after his encounter with Ian in the Paris theater, withthat time he sat upon the river steps and saw that the dead wereliving and the prisoners free, with the hour in the amphitheater andafter, in carnival. 

He saw and heard, felt and tasted, life in greater lengths andbreadths. He comprehended more of the pattern. The tones andsemi-tones fell into the long scale. Such moments brought alwayselevation, deep satisfaction. . . . More of the will particles traveledfrom below to the center by the door. 

The soul turned the mind and directed it upon Alexander Jardine's ownhistory. It spread like a landscape, like a continent viewed from theair, and here it sang with attainment and here it had not attained;and here it was light, and here there were darknesses; right-doinghere and wrong-doing there and every shade between. He saw that therewas right- and wrong-doing quite outside of conventional standards. 

Where were frontiers? The edges of the continent were merely spectral. Where did others end and he begin, or he end and others begin? He sawthat his history was very wide and very deep and very high. Throughhim faintly, by nerve paths in the making, traveled the touch ofoneness. 

Alexander Jardine--Elspeth Barrow--Ian Rullock. And all others--andall others. 

There swam upon him another great perspective. He saw Christ in light, Buddha in light. The glorified--the unified. _Union. _

Alexander Jardine--Elspeth Barrow--Ian Rullock. And all others--andall others. _For we are members, one of another. _

The feathered, flowered grass, miles of it, and the sea of air. . . . Bydegrees the level of consciousness sank. The splendid, steadfastmoment could not be long sustained. Consciousness drew difficultbreath in the pure ether, it felt weight, it sank. Alexander movedagainst the old tomb, turned, and buried his face in his arms. Thecompleter moment went by, here was the torn self again. But he stroveto find footing on the thickening impressions of all such moments. 

Moving back to Rome, along the old way where had marched all thelegions, by the ruins, under the blue sky, he had a sense of goingwith Cæsar's legions, step by step, targe by targe, and then of hisfootstep halting, turning out, breaking rhythm. . . . From this it wassuddenly a winter night and at Glenfernie, and he sat by the fire inhis father's death-room. His father spoke to him from the bed and hewent to his side and listened to dying words, distilled from a widegarden that had relaxed into bitterness, growths, and trails of idealhatred. . . . _What was it, setting one's foot upon an adder?. . . What wasthe adder?_

He entered the city. His lodging was above the workroom and shop of arecoverer of ancient coins and intaglios, skilful cleanser and menderof these and merchant to whom would buy. The man was artist besides, maker of strange drawings whom few ever understood or bought. 

Glenfernie liked him--an elderly, fine, thin, hook-nosed, dark-eyed, subtle-lipped, little-speaking personage. No great custom came to theshop in front; the owner of it might work all day in the room behind, with only two or three peals of a small silvery summoning bell. Thelodger acquired the habit of sitting for perhaps an hour out of eachtwenty-four in this workroom. He might study at the window gem or coinand the finish of old designs, or he might lift and look at sheetafter sheet of the man's drawings, or watch him at his work, or havewith him some talk. 

The drawings had a fascination for him. "What did you mean behind thisoutward meaning? Now here I see this, and I see that, but here I don'tpenetrate. " The man laid down his mending a broken Eros and came andstood by the table and spoke. Glenfernie listened, the wood proppingelbow, the hand propping chin, the eyes upon the drawing. Or he leanedback in the great visitor's chair and looked instead at the draftsman. They were strange drawings, and the draftsman's models were notmaterially visible. 

To-day Glenfernie came from the noise of Rome without into this room. His host was sitting before a drawing-board. Alexander stood andlooked. 

"Are you trying to bring the world of the plane up a dimension? Thenyou work from an idea above the world of the solid?"

"_Si. _ Up a dimension. "

"What are these forms?"

"I am dreaming the new eye, the new ear, the new hand. "

Glenfernie watched the moving and the resting hand. Later in the dayhe returned to the room. 

"It has been a fertile season, " said the artist. "Look!"

At the top of a sheet of paper was written large in Latin, LOVE ISBLIND. Beneath stood a figure filled with eyes. "It is the samething, " said the man. 

The next day, at sunset, going up to his room after restless wanderingin this city, he found there from Ian another intimation of thelatter's movements:

 GLENFERNIE, --I am going northward. There will be a month spent at monseigneur's villa upon the Lake of Como. Then France again. --IAN RULLOCK. 

Alexander laid the paper upon the table before him, and now he staredat it, and now he gazed at space beyond, and where he gazed seemeddark and empty. It was deep night when finally he dipped quill intoink and wrote:

 IAN RULLOCK, --Stay or go as you will! I do not follow you now as I did before. I come to see the crudeness, the barrenness, of that. But within--oh, are you not my enemy still? I ask Justice that, and what can she do but echo back my words? "Within" is a universe. --ALEXANDER JARDINE. 

Five days later he knew that Ian with the Frenchman in whose companyhe was had departed Rome. On that morning he went again without thecity and lay among the grasses. But the sky to-day was closed, and alldead Rome that had been proud or violent or a lover of self seemed tomove around him multitudinous. He fought the shapes down, but the seain storm then turned sluggish, dead and weary. . . . What was he going todo? Scotland? Was he going back to Scotland? The glen, the moor, WhiteFarm and the kirk, Black Hill and his own house--all seemed cold andwithout tint, gray, small, and withered, and yet oppressive. All thatwould be importunate, officious. He cried out, "O my God, I wanthealing!" For a long time he lay there still, then, rising, wentwandering by arches and broken columns, choked doorways, graved slabssunken in fairy jungles. Into his mind came a journey years beforewhen he had just brushed a desert. The East, the Out-of-Europe, calledto him now. 

CHAPTER XXIX

Ian guided the boat to the water steps. Above, over the wall, streamedroses, a great, soundless fall of them, reflected, mass and color, inthe lake. Above the roses sprang deep trees, shade behind shade, andhere sang nightingales. Facing him sat the Milanese song-bird, thesinger Antonia Castinelli. She had the throat of the nightingale andthe beauty of the velvety open rose. 

"Why land?" she said. "Why climb the steps to the chatter in thevilla?"

"Why indeed?"

"They are not singing! They are talking. There is deep, sweet shadowaround that point. "

The boat turned glidingly. Now it was under tall rock, parapeted withtrees. 

"Let Giovanni have the boat. Come and sit beside me! You are too faraway for singing together. "

Old Giovanni at the helm, boatman upon this lake since youth, usedlong since to murmuring words, to touching hands, stayed brown andwrinkled and silent and unspeculative as a walnut. Perhaps his mindwas sunk in his own stone hut behind vine leaves. The two under therose-and-white-fringed canopy leaned toward each other. 

"Tell me of your strange, foreign land! Have you rosesthere--roses--roses? And nightingales that sing out your heart underthe moon?"

"I will tell you of the heather, the lark, and the mavis. "

She listened. "Oh, it does not taste as tastes this lake! Give mepain! Tell me of women you have loved. . . . Oh, hear! The nightingalesstop singing. "

"Do you ever listen to the silence?"

"Of course . . . When a friend dies--or I go to Mass--and sometimes whenI am singing very passionately. But this lake--"

She began to sing. The contralto throbbed, painted, told, broughtdelight and melancholy. He sat with his hand loosened from hers, hiseyes upon the lake's blue-green depths. At last she stopped. 

"Oh--h!. . . Let us go back to the talking shore and the chatteringvilla! Somebody else is singing--somebody or something! I hearsilence--I hear it in the silence. . . . Some things I can sing against, and some things I can't. "

They went underneath the wall of roses. Her arm, sleeved as with mist, touched his; her low, wide brow and great liquid eyes were at hisshoulder, at his breast. "O foreigner--and yet not at all foreign!Tell me your English words for roses--walls of roses--and music thatnever ceases in the night--and pleasing, pleasing, pleasing love!"

The boat came to the water steps. The two left it, climbing betweenflowers. Down to them came a wave of laughter and hand-clapping. 

"Celestina recites--but I do not think she does it so well!. . . Thatis my window--see, where the roses mount!"

The company, flowing forth, caught them upon the terrace. "Lo, thetruants!"

But that night, instead of climbing where the roses climbed, he took aboat from the number moored by the steps and rowed himself across thelake to a piece of shore, bare of houses, lifting by steep slope andcrag into the mountain masses. He fastened the boat and climbed here. The moon was round, the night merely a paler day. He went up among lowtrees and bushes until he came to naked rock. He climbed here as faras he might, found some manner of platform, and threw himself down, below him the lake, around him the mountains. 

He lay still until the expended energy was replaced. At last the mindmoved and, apprentice-bound to feeling, began again a hot and heavyand bitter work, laid aside at times and then renewed. It was upon thevindication to himself of Ian Rullock. 

It was made to work hard. . . . Its old task used to be to keep asleepupon the subject. But now for a considerable time this had been itstask. Old feeling, old egoism, awakened up and down, drove it hard! Ithad to make bricks without straw. It had to fetch and carry from theends of the earth. 

Emotion, when it must rest, provided for it a dull place oflistlessness and discontent. But the taskmaster now would have it upat all hours, fashioning reasons and justifications. The soonest foundstraw in the fields lay in the faults of others--of the world ingeneral and Alexander Jardine in particular. Feeling got its anodynein gloating over these. It had the pounce of a panther for such abitter berry, such a weed, such a shameful form. It did not alwaysgloat, but it always held up and said, _Who could be weaker here--moreopen to question?_ It made constant, sore comparison. 

The lake gleamed below him, the herded mountains slept in a graysilver light. How many were the faults of the laird of Glenfernie!Faults! He looked at the dark old plains of the moon. That was a lightword! He saw Alexander pitted and scarred. 

Pride! That had always been in the core of Glenfernie. That has beenhis old fortress, walled and moated against trespass. Pride so highthat it was careless--that its possessor could seem peaceable andhumble. . . . But find the quick and touch it--and you saw! What was hiswas his. What he deemed to be his, whether it was so or not! Touch himthere and out jumped jealousy, hate, and implacableness--and all thetime one had been thinking of him as a kind of seer!

Ian turned upon the rock above Como. And Glenfernie was ignorant! Theseer had seen very little, after all. His touch had not been preciselypermeative when it came to the world, Ian Rullock. If liking meantunderstanding, there had not been much understanding--which leftliking but a word. If liking was a degree of love, where then had beenlove, where the friend at all? After all, and all the time, Glenfernie's notion of friendship was a sieve. The notion that he hadheld up as though it were the North Star!

The world, Ian Rullock, could not be so contemned. . . . 

He felt with heat and pain the truth of that. It was a wrong thatGlenfernie should not understand! The world, Ian Rullock, might beincomplete, imperfect--might have taken, more than once, wrong turns, left its path, so to speak, in the heavens. But what of the world, Alexander Jardine? Had it no memories? He brooded over what thesememories might be--must be; he tried to taste and handle that other'sfaults in time and space. But he could not plunge into Alexander'sdepths of wrath. As he could not, he made himself contemptuous of allthat--of Old Steadfast's power of reaction!

A star shot across the moon-filled night, so large a meteor that itmade light even against that silver. A mass within Ian made a slowturn, with effort, with thrilling, changed its inclination. He sawthat disdain, that it was shallow and streaked with ebony. He movedwith a kind of groan. "Was there--is there--wickedness?. . . What, OGod, is wickedness?"

He pressed the rock with his hand--sat up. The old taskmaster, alarmed, gathered his forces. "I say that it is just that--pride, vengefulness, hard misunderstanding!"

A voice within him answered. "Even so, is it not still yourself?"

He stared after the meteor track. There was a conception here that hehad not dreamed of. 

It seemed best to keep still upon the rock. He sat in inner wonder. There was a sense of purity, of a fresh coolness not physical, ofawe. He was in presence of something comprehensive, immortal. 

"Is it myself? Then let it pour out and make of naught the old poisonof myself!"

The perception could not hold. It flagged and sank, echoing down intothe caves. He sat still and felt the old taskmaster stir. But thistime he found strength to resist. There resulted, not the divinenovelty and largeness of that one moment, but a kind of dim and baredesert waste of wide extent. And as it ate up all width, so it seemedtimeless. Across this, like a person, unheralded, came and went twolines from "Richard III"

 Clarence is come--false, fleeting, perjured Clarence, That stabbed me in the field by Tewksbury. 

It went and left awareness of the desert. "False--fleeting--perjured. . . . "

He saw himself as in mirrors. 

The desert ached and became a place of thorns and briers andbewilderment. Then rose, like Antæus, the taskmaster. "_And what ofall that--if I like life so?_"

Sense of the villa and the roses and the nightingales in thecoverts--sense of wide, mobile sweeps and flowing currents inwashing, indrawing, pleasure-crafts great and small--desire and desire fordesire--lust for sweetness, lust for salt--the rose to be plucked, thegrapes to be eaten--and all for self, all for Ian. . . . 

He started up from the rock above Como, and turned to descend to theboat. That within him that set itself to make thin cloud of thetaskmaster pulled him back as by the hair of the head and cast himdown upon the rocky floor. 

He lay still, half upon his face buried in the bend of his arm. Hefelt misery. 

"My soul is sick--a beggar--like to become an outcast!"

How long he lay here now he did not know. The nadir of night waspassed, but there was cold and voidness, an abyss. He felt as onefallen from a great height long ago. "There is no help here! Let meonly go to an eternal sleep--"

A wind began. In the east the sky grew whiter than elsewhere. Therecame a sword-blow from an unseen hand, ripping and tearing veils. _Elspeth--Elspeth Barrow!_

In a bitterness as of myrrh he came into touch with cleanness, purity, wholeness. Henceforth there was invisible light. Its first action wasnot to show him scorchingly the night of Egypt, but with the quietnessof the whitening east to bring a larger understanding of Elspeth. 

CHAPTER XXX

The caravan, having spent three days in a town the edge of the desert, set forth in the afternoon. The caravan was a considerable one. Threehundred camels, more than a hundred asses, went heavily laden. Twentymen rode excellent horses; ten, poorer steeds; the company of othersmounted with the merchandise or, staff in hand, strode beside. In safestretches occurred a long stringing out, with lagging at the rear; instretches where robber bands or other dangers might be apprehendedthings became compact. Besides traders and their employ, there rode orwalked a handful of chance folk who had occasion for the desert or forplaces beyond it. These paid some much, some little, but all somethingfor the advantage of this convoy. The traders did not look to lose, whoever went with them. Altogether, several hundred men journeyed incompany. 

The elected chief of the caravan was a tall Arab, Zeyn al-Din. Twelveof the camels were his; he was a merchant of spices, of wrought stuff, girdles, and gems--a man of forty, bold and with scope. He rode a finehorse and kept usually at the head of the caravan. But now and againhe went up and down, seeing to things. Then there was talking, loudor low, between the head man and units of the march. 

Starting from its home city, this caravan had been for two days ingood spirits. Then had become to creep in disaster, not excessive, butpersistent. One thing and another befell, and at last a stealingsickness, none knew what, attacking both beast and man. They had madethe town at the edge of the desert. Physicians were found and resttaken. Recuperation and trading proceeded amicably together. The dayof departure wheeling round, the noontide prayer was made with anespecial fervor and attention. Then from the _caravanserai_ forthstepped the camels. 

The sun descending, the caravan threw a giant shadow upon the sand. Ridge and wave of sterile earth broke it, confused it, made it anunintelligible, ragged, moving, and monstrous shade. The sun was redand huge. As it lowered to the desert rim Zeyn al-Din gave the orderfor the seven-hour halt. The orb touched the sand; prayer carpets werespread. 

Night of stars unnumbered, the ineffable tent, arched the desert. Thecaravan, a small thing in the world, lay at rest. The meal was over. Here was coolness after heat, repose after toil. The fires that hadbeen kindled from scrub and waste lessened, died away. Zeyn al-Dinappointed the guards for the night, went himself the rounds. 

Where one of the fires had burned he found certain of those men whowere not merchants nor servants of merchants, yet traveled with thecaravan. Here were Hassan the Scribe, and Ali the Wanderer, and thedervish Abdallah, and others. Here was the big Christian from someoutlandish far-away country, who had dwelt for the better part of ayear in the city whence the caravan started, who had money and a wishto reach the city toward which the caravan journeyed. In the firstcity he had become, it seemed, well liked by Yusuf the Physician, thatwas the man that Zeyn al-Din most admired in life. It was Yusuf whohad recommended the Christian to Zeyn, who did not like infidelsojourners with caravans. Zeyn himself was liberal and did not so muchmind, but he had had experience with troubles created along the wayand in the column itself. The more ignorant or the stiffer sortthought it unpleasing to Allah. But Zeyn al-Din would do anythingreally that Yusuf the Physician wanted. So in the end the bigChristian came along. Zeyn, interpreting fealty to Yusuf to mean carein some measure for this infidel's well-being, began at once with afew minutes' riding each day beside him. These insensibly expanded tomore than a few. He presently liked the infidel. "He is a man!" saidZeyn and that was the praise that he considered highest. The bigChristian rode strongly a strong horse; he did not fret over smalltroubles nor apparently fear great ones; he did not say, "This is myway, " and infer that it was better than others; he liked the redcamel, the white, and the brown. "Who dances with the sand is notstifled, " said Zeyn. 

Now he found the Christian with Hassan, listening at ease, stretchedupon the sand, to Ali the Wanderer. The head man, welcomed, listened, too, to Ali bringing his story to a close. "That is good, Ali theWanderer! Just where grows the tree from which one gathers thatfruit?"

"It can't be told unless you already know, " said Ali. 

"Allah my refuge! Then I would not be asking you!" answered Zeyn. "Ishould have shaken the tree and gathered the diamonds, rubies, andemeralds, and been off with them!"

"You did not hear what was said. Ibn the Happy found that they couldnot be taken from the tree. He had tried what you propose. He brokeoff a great number and ran away with them. But they turned to blackdust in his bosom. He put them all down, and when he looked back hesaw them still shining on the tree. "

"What did Ibn the Happy do?"

"He climbed into the tree and lived there. "

In the distance jackals were barking. "I like nothing better thanlistening to stories, " said Zeyn al-Din. "But, Allah! Just now thereare more important things to do! Yusuf the Red, I name you watcherhere until moonrise. Then waken Melec, who already sleeps there!"

His eyes touched in passing the big Christian. "Oh yes, you would be agood watcher, " thought Zeyn. "But there's a folly in this caravan!Wait till good fortune has a steadier foot!"

But good fortune continued a wavering, evanishing thing. Deep in thenight, from behind a stiffened wave of earth, rose and dashed amounted band of Bedouin robbers. Yusuf the Red and other watchers hadand gave some warning. Zeyn al-Din's voice was presently heard like atrumpet. The caravan repelled the robbers. But five of its number werelost, some camels and mules driven off. The Bedouins departing withwild cries, there were left confusion and bewailing, slowlystraightening, slowly sinking. The caravan, with a pang, recognizedthat ill luck was a traveler with it. 

The dead received burial; the wounded were looked to, at last hoisted, groaning, upon the camels, among the merchandise. Unrested, bemoaningloss, the trading company made their morning start three hours behindthe set time. For stars in the sky, there was the yellow light and thesun at a bound, strewing heat. In the mêlée the robbers had thrustlance or knife into several of the water-skins. Yet there was, it washeld, provision enough. The caravan went on. At midday the Bedouinsreturned, reinforced. Zeyn al-Din and his mustered force beat themoff. No loss of goods or life, but much of time! The caravan went on, that with laden beasts must move at best much like a tortoise. Thatnight the rest was shortened. Two hours after midnight and the stringsof camels were moving again, the asses and mules so monstrouslymisshapen with bales of goods, the horses and horsemen and thoseafoot. At dawn, not these Bedouins, but another roving band, harassedthem. Time was running like water from a cracked pitcher. 

This day they cleared the robber bands. There spread before them, around them, clean desert. Then returned that sickness. 

"_O Zeyn al-Din, what could we expect who travel with him who deniesAllah?_"

The stricken caravan crept under the blaze across the red waste. Camels fell and died. Their burdens were lifted from them and added tothe packs of others; their bodies were left to light and heat andmoving air. . . . It grew that an enchantment seemed to hold the feet ofthe caravan. Evils came upon them, sickness of men and beasts. And nowit was seen that there was indeed little water. 

"O Zeyn al-Din, rid us of this infidel!"

"The infidel is in you!" answered Zeyn al-Din. "Much speaking makesfor thirst and impedes motion. Let us cross this desert. "

"O Zeyn al-Din, if you be no right head man we shall choose another!"

"Choose!" said Zeyn al-Din, and went to the head of a camel who wouldnot rise from the sand. 

Ill luck clung and clung. Twelve hours and there began to be cabals. These grew to factions. The larger of these swallowed the small fry, swelled and mounted, took the shape of practically the whole caravan. "Zeyn al-Din, if you do not harken to us it will be the worse for you!Drive away the Christian dog!"

"Abu al-Salam, are you the chief, or I?--Now, companions, listen!These are the reasons in nature for our troubles--"

But no! It was the noon halt. The desert swam in light and silence. The great majority of the traders and their company undertook to playdivining, judging, determining Allah. The big Christian stood overagainst them and looked at them, his arms folded. 

"It is no such great matter!. . . Very good then! What do you want meto do?"

"Turn your head and your eyes from us, and go to what fate Allahparcels out to you!"

There arose a buzzing. "Better we slay him here and now! So Allah willknow our side!"

Zeyn al-Din stepped forth. "This is the friend of my friend and I ampledged. Slay, and you will have two to slay! O Allah! what a thing itis to stare at the west when the riders are in the east!"

"Zeyn al-Din, we have chosen for head man Abu al-Salam. "

"Allah with you! I should say you had chosen well. I have twelvecamels, " said Zeyn al-Din. "I make another caravan! Mansur, Omar, andMelec, draw you forth my camels and mules!"

With a weaker man there might have been interference, stoppage. ButZeyn's mass and force acquired clear space for his own movements. Hemade his caravan. He had with him so many men. Three of these stood byhim; the others cowered into the great caravan, into the shadow of Abual-Salam. 

Zeyn threw a withering look. "Oh, precious is the skin!"

The big infidel came to him. "Zeyn al-Din, I do not want all thisperil for me. I have ridden away alone before to-day. Now I shall goin that direction, and I shall find a garden. "

"Perhaps we shall find it, " said Zeyn. "Does any other go with mycaravan?"

It seemed that Ali the Wanderer went, and the dervish Abdallah. . . . There was more ado, but at last the caravan parted. . . . The great one, the long string of beads, drew with slow toil across the waste, alongthe old track. The very small one, the tiny string of beads, departedat right angles. Space grew between them. The dervish Abdallah turnedupon his camel. 

"It seems that we part. But, O Allah! around 'We part' is drawn 'Weare together!'"

Zeyn al-Din made a gesture of assent. "O I shall meet in bazaars Abual-Salam! 'Ha! Zeyn al-Din!'--'Ha! Abu al-Salam!'"

The sun sank lower. The vastly larger caravan drew away, drew away, over the desert rim. Between the two was now a sea of desert waves. Where the great string of camels, the asses, the riders, the men couldbe seen, all were like little figures cut from dark paper, drawn bysome invisible finger, slowly, slowly across a wide floor. Before longthere were only dots, far in the distance. Around Zeyn al-Din'scaravan swept a great solitude. 

"Halt!" said Zeyn. "Now they observe us no longer, and this is what wedo!"

All the merchant lading was taken from the camels. The bales of wealthstrewed the sand. "Wealth is a comfortable garment, " said Zeyn, "butlife is a richer yet! That which gathers wealth is wealth. Now weshall go thrice as fast as Abu al-Salam!"

"Far over there, " said Ali the Wanderer, and nodded his head towardthe quarter, "is the small oasis called the Garland. "

"I have heard of it, though I have not been there, " answered Zeyn. "Well, we shall not rest to-night; we shall ride!"

They rode in the desert beneath the stars, going fast, camels andhorses, unencumbered by bales and packs unwieldy and heavy. But therewere guarded, as though they were a train of the costliestmerchandise, the shrunken water-skins. . . . 

The laird of Glenfernie, riding in silence by Zeyn al-Din, whom he hadthanked once with emphasis, and then had accepted as he himself wasaccepted, looked now at the desert and now at the stars and now atpast things. A year and more--he had been a year and more in the East. If you had it in you to grow, the East was good growing-ground. . . . Helooked toward the stars beneath which lay Scotland. 

The night passed. The yellow dawn came up, the sun and the heat ofday. And they must still press on. . . . At last the horses could not dothat. At eve they shot the horses, having no water for them. They wenton upon camels. Great suffering came upon them. They went stoically, the Arabs and the Scot. The eternal waste, the sand, the arrows of thesun. . . . The most of the camels died. Day and night and morn, and, almost dead themselves, the men saw upon the verge the palms of thedesert oasis called the Garland. 

 * * * * *

Seven men dwelt seven days in the Garland. Uninhabited it stood, aspring, date-palms, lesser verdure, a few birds and small beasts andwinged insects. It was an emerald set in ashy gold. 

The dervish Abdallah sat in contemplation under a palm. Ali theWanderer lay and dreamed. Zeyn al-Din and his men, Mansur, Omar, andMelec, were as active as time and place admitted. The camels tastedrich repose. Day went by in dry light, in a pleasant rustling andwaving of palm fronds. Night sprang in starshine, wonderful soft lampsorbed in a blue vault. Presently was born and grew a white moon. 

Alexander Jardine, standing at the edge of the emerald, watched it. Hecould not sleep. The first nights in the Garland he with the othershad slept profoundly. But now there was recuperation, strength again. Around swept the circle of the desert. Above him he saw Canopus. 

He ceased to look directly at the moon, or the desert, or Canopus. Hestretched himself upon the clear sand and was back in the inner vastthat searched for the upper vast. Since the grasses of the Campagnathere had been a long search, and his bark had encountered many awind, head winds and favoring winds, and had beaten from coast tocoast. 

"O God, for the open, divine sea and Wisdom the compass--"

He lay beneath the palm; he put his arm over his eyes. For an hour hehad been whelmed in an old sense, bitter and stately, of the woe, thebroken knowledge, the ailing and the pain of the world. All theworld. . . . That other caravan, where was it?. . . Where were allcaravans? And all the bewilderment and all the false hopes and all thefool's paradises. All the crying in the night. Children. . . . 

Little by little he recognized that he was seeing it as panorama. . . . None saw a panorama until one was out of the plane of itscomponents--out of the immediate plane. Gotten out as all must getout, by the struggling Thought, which, the thing done, uses itseyes. . . . 

He looked at his past. He did not beat his breast nor cry out inrepentance, but he saw with a kind of wonder the plains of darkness. Oh, the deserts, and the slow-moving caravans in them!

He lay very still beneath the palm. All the world. . . . _All. _

"_All is myself. _"

"Ian? Myself--myself--myself!"

He heard a step upon the sand--the putting by of a branch. The SufiAbdallah stood beside him. Alexander made a movement. 

"Lie still, " said the other, "I will sit here, for sweet is thenight. " He took his place, white-robed, a gleaming upon the sand. Silent almost always, it was nothing that he should sit silent now, quiet, moveless, gone away apparently among the stars. 

The moments dropped, each a larger round. Glenfernie moved, sat up. 

"I've felt you and your calm in our caravaning. Let me see if myArabic will carry me here!--What have you that I have not and that Ilong for?"

"I have nought that you have not. "

"But you see the having, and I do not. "

"You are beginning to see. "

The wind breathed in the oasis palms. The earth turned, seeking thesun for her every chamber, the earth made pilgrimage around the sun, eying point after point of that excellence, the earth journeyed withthe sun, held by the invisible cords. 

"I wish new sight--I wish new touch--I wish comprehension!"

"You are beginning to have it. "

"I have more than I had. . . . Yes, I know it--"

"There is birth. . . . Then comes the joy of birth. At last comes theknowledge of why there is joy. Strive to be fully born. "

"And if I were so--?"

"Then life alters and there is strong embrace. "

A great stillness lay upon the oasis and the desert around. Men andbeasts were sleeping, only these two waking, just here, just now. After a moment the dervish spoke again. "The holder-back is the senseof disunity. Sit fast and gather yourself to yourself. . . . Then willyou find how large is your brood!"

He rose, stood a moment above Glenfernie, then went away. The man whomhe left sat on, struck from within by fresh shafts. Perception nowcame in this way, with inner beam. How huge was the landscape that itlighted up!. . . Alexander sat still. He bent his head--there was asense, extending to the physical, of a broken shell, of escape, freedom. . . . He found that he was weeping. He lay upon the sand, andthe tears came as they might from a young boy. When they were past, when he lifted himself again, the morning star was in the sky. 

CHAPTER XXXI

Strickland, in the deep summer glen, saw before him the feather ofsmoke from Mother Binning's cot. The singing stream ran clearly, thesky arched blue above. The air held calm and fine, filled as it werewith golden points. He met a white hen and her brood, he heard theslow drone of Mother Binning's wheel. She sat in the doorway, an oldwise wife, active still. 

"Eh, mon, and it's you!--Wish, and afttimes ye'll get!" She pushed herwheel aside. "I've had a feeling a' the day!"

Strickland leaned against her ash-tree. "It's high summer, Mother--oneof the poised, blissful days. "

"Aye. I've a feeling. . . . Hae ye ony news at the House?"

"Alice sings beautifully this summer. Jamie is marrying down inEngland--beauty and worth he says, and they say. "

"Miss Alice doesna marry?"

"She's not the marrying kind, she says. "

"Eh, then! She's bonny and gude, juist the same! Did ye come by WhiteFarm?"

"Yes. Jarvis Barrow fails. He sits under his fir-tree, with his Biblebeside him and his eyes on the hills. Littlefarm manages now for WhiteFarm. "

"Robin's sunny and keen. But he aye irked Jarvis with his profanesangs. " She drew out the adjective with a humorous downward drag ofher lip. 

Strickland smiled. "The old man's softer now. You see that by theplaces at which his Bible opens. "

"Oh aye! We're journeyers--rock and tree and Kelpie's Pool with therest of us. "

She seemed to catch her own speech and look at it. "That's a word Ihae been wanting the morn!--The Kelpie's Pool, with the moor sae greenand purple around it. " She sat bent forward, her wrinkled hands in herlap, her eyes, rather wide, fixed upon the ash-tree. 

"We have not heard from the laird, " said Strickland, "this long time. "

"The laird--now there! What ye want further comes when the mindstrains and then waits! I see in one ring the day and Glenfernie andyonder water. Wherever the laird be, he thinks to-day of Scotland. "

"I wish that he would think to returning, " said Strickland. He hadbeen leaning against the doorpost. Now he straightened himself. "Iwill go on as far as the pool. "

Mother Binning loosed her hands. "Did ye have that thought when yeleft hame?"

"No, I believe not. "

"Gae on, then! The day's bonny, and the Lord's gude has a wide ring!"

Strickland walking on, left the stream and the glen head. Now he wasupon the moor. It dipped and rose like a Titan wave of a Titan sea. Its long, long unbroken crest, clean line against clean space, brought a sense of quiet, distance, might. Here solitude was at home. Now Strickland moved, and now he stood and watched the quiet. Turningat last a shoulder of the moor, he saw at some distance below him thepool, like a small mirror. He descended toward it, without noise overthe springy earth. 

A horse appeared between him and the water. Strickland felt a mostinvoluntary startling and thrill--then half laughed to think that hehad feared that he saw the water-steed, the kelpie. The horse wasfastened to a stake that once had been the bole of an ancient willow. It grazed around--somewhere would be a master. . . . PresentlyStrickland's eye found the latter--a man lying upon the moorside, justabove the water. Again with a shock and thrill--though not like thefirst--it came to him who it was. 

The laird of Glenfernie lay very still, his eyes upon the Kelpie'sPool. His old tutor, long his friend, quiet and stanch, gazed unseen. When he had moved a few feet an outcropping of rock hid his form, buthis eyes could still dwell upon the pool and the man its visitor. Heturned to go away, then he stood still. 

"What if he means a closer going yet?" Strickland settled back againstthe rock. "He would loose his horse first--he would not leave itfastened here. If he does that then I will go down to him. "

Glenfernie lay still. There was no wind to-day. The reeds stoodstraight, the willow leaves slept, the water stayed like dusky glass. The air, pure and light, hung at rest in the ether. Minutes went by, an hour. He might, Strickland thought, have lain there a long time. Atlast he sat up, rose, began to walk around the pool. He went around itthrice. Then again he sat down, his arms upon his knees, watching thedusk water. He did not go nor sit like one overwrought or frenzied ordespairing. His great frame, his bearing, the air of him, hadquietude, but not listlessness; there seemed at once calm andintensity as of a still center that had flung off the storm. Timeflowed. Thought Strickland:

"He is as far as I am from death in that water. I'll cease to spy. "

He moved away, moss and ling muffling step, gained and dipped behindthe shoulder of the moor. The horse grazed on. The laird sat still, his arms upon his knees, his head a little lifted, his eyes crossingthe Kelpie's Pool to the wave-line against the sky. 

Strickland went to where the moor path ran by the outermost trees ofthe glen head. Here he sat down beneath an oak and waited. Anotherhour passed; then he heard the horse's hoofs. He rose and metGlenfernie home-returning. 

"It is good to see you, Strickland!"

"I found you yonder by the Kelpie's Pool. Then I came here andwaited. "

"I have spent hours there. . . . They were not unhappy. They were not atall unhappy. "

They moved together along the moor track, the horse following. 

"I am glad and glad again that you have come--"

"I have been coming a good while. But there were preventions. "

"We have heard nothing direct for almost a year. "

"Then my letters did not reach you. I wrote, but knew that they mightnot. There is the smoke from Mother Binning's cot. " He stood still towatch the mounting feather. "I remember when first I saw that, asix-year-old, climbing the glen with my father, carried on hisshoulder when I was tired. I thought it was a hut in a fairy-tale. . . . So it is!"

To Strickland the remarkable thing lay in the lack of strain, thesimplicity and fullness. Glenfernie was unfeignedly glad to see him, glad to see home shapes and colors. The blue feather among the treeshad simply pleased him as it could not please a heart fastened to rageand sorrow. The stream of memories that it had beckoned--many others, it must be, besides that of the six-year-old's visit--seemed to havewashed itself clear, to have disintegrated, dissolved venom andstinging. Strickland, pondering even while he talked, found the wordhe wanted: "Comprehensiveness. . . . He always tended to that. "

Said Glenfernie, "I've had another birth, Strickland, and all thingsare the same and yet not the same. " He gave it as an explanation, butthen left it. They were going the moorland way to Glenfernie House. Hewas looking from side to side, recovering old landscape in sweep andin detail. Bit by bit, as they came to it, Strickland gave him thecountry news. At last there was the house before them, among the firsand oaks, topping the crag. They came into the wood at the base of thehill. The stream--the trees--above, the broken, ancient wall, theroofs of the new house that was not so new, the old, outstanding keep. The whole rested, mellowed, lifted, still, against a serene and azuresky. Alexander stood and gazed. 

"The keep. The pine still knots and clings there by the school-room. Do you remember, Strickland, a day when you set me to read 'The Cranesof Ibycus'?"

"I remember. "

"Life within life, and sky above sky!--I hear Bran!"

 * * * * *

They mounted the hill. It seemed to run before them that the laird hadcome home. Bran and Davie and the men and maids and Alice, a bonnywoman, and Mrs. Grizel, very little withered, exclaimed and ran. Tibbie Ross was there that day, and Black Alan neighed from his stall. Even the waving trees--even the flowers in the garden--Home, and itstaste and fragrance--its dear, close emanations. . . . 

That evening at supper Mrs. Grizel made a remark. She leaned back inher chair and looked at Glenfernie. "I never thought you like yourmother before! Oh aye! there's your father, too, and a kind of grandman he was, for all that he saw things dark. But will you look, Mr. Strickland, and see Margaret--"

Much later, from his own room, Strickland, gazing forth, saw light inthe keep. Alexander would be sitting there among the books and everyancient memorial. Strickland felt a touch of doubt and apprehension. Suppose that to-morrow should find not this Alexander, at once old andnew, but only the Alexander who had ridden from Glenfernie, who hadshipped to Lisbon, nearly three years ago? To-day's deep satisfactiononly a dream! Strickland shook off the fear. 

"He breathed lasting growth. . . . O Christ! the help for all in wingedmen!"

He turned to his bed. Lying awake he went in imagination to thedesert, to the Eastern places, that in few words the laird hadpainted. 

And in the morning he found still the old-new Alexander. He saw thatthe new had always been in the old, the oak in the acorn. . . . There wasa great, sane naturalness in the alteration, in the advance. Strickland caught glimpses of larger orders. 

"_I will make thee ruler over many things. _"

The day was deep and bright. The laird fell at once into the oldroutine. For none at Glenfernie was there restlessness; there was onlyache gone, and a feeling of fulfilling. Mrs. Grizel pattered to andfro. Alice sang like a lark, gathering pansy seed from her garden. Phemie and Eppie sang. The men whistled at their work. Daviediscoursed to himself. But Tibbie Ross was wild to get away early andto the village with the news. By the foot of the hill she began tomeet wayfarers. 

"Oh, aye, this is the real weather! Did ye know--"

Alexander did not leave home that day. In their old work-room helistened to Strickland's account of his stewardship. 

"Strickland, I love you!" he said, when it was all given. 

He wrote to Jamie; he sat in the garden seat built against the gardenwall and watched Alice as she moved from plant to plant. 

"You do not say much, " thought Alice, "but I like you--I like you--Ilike you!"

In the afternoon Strickland met him coming from the little greenbeyond the school-room. 

"I have been out through the wall, under the old pine. I seemed tohold many things in the palm of the hand. . . . I believe that you knowwhat it is to make essences. "

After bedtime Strickland saw again the light in the keep. But he hadceased to fear. "Oh All-Being, how rich and stately and various andsurprising you are!" In the morning, outside in the court, he foundBlack Alan saddled. 

"The laird will be riding to Black Hill, " said Tam Dickson. 

CHAPTER XXXII

Mr. Archibald Touris put out a wrinkled hand to his wine-glass. "Youhave been in warm countries. I envy you! I wish that I could getwarm. "

"Black Hill is looking finely. All the young trees--"

"Yes. I took pride in planting. --But what for--what for--what for?" Heshivered. "Glenfernie, please close that window!"

Alexander, coming back, stood above the master of Black Hill. "Willyou tell me, sir, where Ian is now?"

Mr. Touris twitched back a little in his chair. "Don't you know? Ithought perhaps that you did. "

"I ceased to follow him two years ago. I dived into the East, and Ihave been long where you do not hear from the West. "

The other fingered his wine-glass. "Well, I haven't heard myself, forquite a while. . . . You would think that he might come back to Englandnow. But he can't. Doubtless he would never wish to come again toBlack Hill. But England, now. . . . But they are ferocious yet againstevery head great and small of the attempt. And I am told there areaggravating circumstances. He had worn the King's coat. He was amongthe plotters and instigators. He broke prison. Impossible to showmercy!" Mr. Touris twitched again. "That's a phrase like a gravestone!If the Almighty uses it, then of course he can't be Almighty. . . . Well, the moral is that none named Ian Rullock can come again to Scotland orEngland. "

"Have you knowledge that he wishes to do so?"

Mr. Touris moved again. "I don't know. . . . I told you that we hadn'theard. But--"

He stopped and sat staring into his wine-glass. Alexander read on asby starlight: "_But I did hear--through old channels. And there isdanger of his trying to return. _"

The master of Black Hill put the wine to his lips. "And so you havebeen everywhere?"

"No. But in places where I had not been before. "

"The East India has ways of gathering information. Through Goodworth Ican get at a good deal when I want to. . . . There is Wotherspoon, also. I am practically certain that Ian is in France. "

"When did he write?"

"Alison has a letter maybe twice a year. One's overdue now. "

"How does he write?"

"They are very short. He doesn't touch on old things--except, perhaps, back into boyhood. She likes to get them. When you see her, don'tspeak of anything save his staying in France, as he ought to. " Hedragged toward him a jar of snuff. "There are informers and seekersout everywhere. Do you remember a man in Edinburgh named Gleig?"

"Yes. "

"Well, he's one of them. And for some reason he has a personal enmitytoward Ian. So, you see--"

He lapsed into silence, a small, aging, chilly, wrinkled, troubledman. Then with suddenness a wintry red crept into his cheek, abrightness into his eyes. "You've changed so, Glenfernie, you'vecheated me! You are his foe yourself. Perhaps even--"

"Perhaps even--?"

The other gave a shriveled response to the smile. "No. I certainly didnot mean that. " He took his head in his hands and sighed. "What aworld it is! As I go down the hill I wish sometimes that I hadAlison's eyes. . . . Well, tell me about yourself. "

"The one thing that I want to tell you just now, Black Hill, is that Iam not any longer bloodhound at the heels of Ian. What was done isdone. Let us go on to better things. So at last will be unknit whatwas done. "

Black Hill both seemed and did not seem to pay attention. The man whosat before him was big and straight and gave forth warmth and light. He needed warmth and light; he needed a big tree to lean against. Hevaguely hoped that Glenfernie was home to stay. He rubbed his handsand drank more wine. 

"No one has known for a long time where you were. . . . Goodworth has anagent in Paris who says that Ian tried once to find out that. "

"To find out where I was?"

"Yes. "

Alexander gazed out of window, beyond the terrace and the old treesto the long hill, purple with heath, sunny and clear atop. 

A servant came to the door. "Mrs. Alison has returned, sir. "

Glenfernie rose. "I will go find her then. --I will ride over often ifI may. "

"I wish you would!" said Black Hill. "I was sorry about that quarrelwith your father. "

The old laird's son walked down the matted corridor. The drawing-roomdoor stood open; he saw one panel of the tall screen covered withpagodas, palms, and macaws. Further on was the room, clean andfragrant, known as Mrs. Alison's room. This door, too, was wide. Hestood by his old friend. They put hands into hands; eyes met, eyesheld in a long look. 

She said, "O God, I praise Thee!"

They sat within the garden door, on one side the clear, still room, onthe other the green and growing things, the great tree loved by birds. The place was like a cloister. He stayed with her an hour, and in allthat time there was not a great deal said with the outer tongue. Buteach grew more happy, deeper and stronger. 

He talked to her of the Roman Campagna, of the East and the desert. . . . 

As the hour closed he spoke directly of Ian. "That is myself now, asElspeth is myself now. I falter, I fail, but I go on to profounderOneness. "

"Christ is born, then he grows up. "

"May I see Ian's last letters?"

She put them in his hands. "They are very short. They speak almostalways of external things. "

He read, then sat musing, his eyes upon the tree. "This last one--Youanswered that it was not known where I was?"

"Yes. But he says here at the last, 'I feel it somewhere that he is onhis way to Scotland. '"

"I'll have to think it out. "

"Every letter is objective like this. But for all that, I divine, inthe dark, a ferment. . . . As you see, we have not heard for months. "

The laird of Glenfernie rode at last from Black Hill. It wasafternoon, white drifts of clouds in the sky, light and shadow movingupon field and moor and distant, framing mountains. He rode byLittlefarm and he called at the house gate for Robin Greenlaw. Itseemed that the latter was away in White Farm fields. The laird mightmeet him riding home. A mile farther on he saw the gray horse crossingthe stream. 

Glenfernie and Greenlaw, meeting, left each the saddle, went near toembracing, sat at last by a stone wall in the late sunshine, and felta tide of liking, stronger, not weaker, than that of old days. 

"You are looking after White Farm?"

"Yes. The old man fails. Jenny has become a cripple. Gilian and I arethe rulers. "

"Or servers?"

"It amounts to the same. . . . Gilian has a splendid soul. "

"The poems, Robin. Do you make them yet?"

"Oh yes! Now and then. All this helps. . . . And you, Glenfernie, I couldmake a poem of you!"

The laird laughed. "I suppose you could of all men. . . . Gilian and youdo not marry?"

"We are not the marrying kind. But I shouldn't love beauty inside if Ididn't love Gilian. . . . I see that something big has come to you, Glenfernie, and made itself at home. You'll be wanting it taken as amatter of course, and I take it that way. . . . No matter what you haveseen, is not this vale fair?"

"Fair as fair! Loved because of child and boy and man. . . . Robin, something beyond all years as we count them can be put intomoments. . . . A moment can be as sizable as a sun. "

"I believe it. We are all treading toward the land of wonders. "

When he parted from Robin it was nearly sunset. He did not mean tostop to-day at White Farm, but he turned Black Alan in that direction. He would ride by the house and the shining stream with thestepping-stones. Coming beneath the bank thick with willow and aspen, he checked the horse and sat looking at the long, low house. It heldthere in a sunset stillness, a sunset glory, a dream of dawn. Hedismounted, left the horse, and climbed to the strip of green beforethe place. None seemed about, all seemed within. Here was the fir-treewith the bench around--so old a tree, watching life so long!. . . Now hesaw that Jarvis Barrow sat here. But the old man was asleep. He satwith closed eyes, and his Bible was under his hand. Beside him, talland fair, wide-browed, gray-eyed, stood Gilian. Her head was turnedtoward the fringed bank; when she saw Alexander she put her fingeragainst her lips. He made a gesture of understanding and went nonearer. For a moment he stood regarding all, then drew back intoshadow of willow and aspen, descended the bank, and, mounting BlackAlan, rode home through the purple light. 

CHAPTER XXXIII

The countryside, the village--the Jardine Arms--Mrs. Macmurdo in hershop to all who entered--talked of the laird's homecoming. "He's astrange sort!"

"Some do say he's been to America and found a gold-mine. "

"Na! He's just been journeying around in himself. "

"I am na spekalative. He's contentit, and sae am I. It's a mairnatural warld than ye think. "

"Three year syne when he went away, he lookit like ane o' thae figureso' tragedy--"

"Aweel, then, he's swallowed himself and digested it. "

"I ca' it fair miracle! The Lord touched him in the night. "

"Do ye haud that he'll gang to kirk the morn?"

"I dinna precisely ken. He micht, and he micht not. "

He went, entering with Mrs. Grizel, Alice, and Strickland, sitting inthe House pew. How many kirks he thought of, sitting there--whatcathedrals, chapels; what rude, earnest places; what temples, mosques, caves, ancient groves; what fanes; what worshiped gods! One, one!Temple and image, worshiped and worshiper. Self helping self. "O mySelf, daily and deeply help myself!"

The little white stone building--the earnest, strenuous, narrow man inthe pulpit, the Scots congregation--old, old, familiar, with an innerodor not unpungent, not unliked! Life Everlasting--EverlastingLife. . . . 

"_That ye may have life and have it more abundantly. _"

White Farm sat in the White Farm place. Jarvis Barrow was there. Buthe did not sit erect as of yore; he leaned upon his staff. Jenny wasmissed. Lame now, she stayed at home and watched the passing, andtalked to herself or talked to others. Gilian sat beside the old man. Behind were Menie and Merran, Thomas and Willy. Glenfernie's eyesdwelt quietly upon Jarvis and his granddaughter. When he willed hecould see Elspeth beside Gilian. 

The prayers, the sermon, the hymns. . . . All through the world-body thestraining toward the larger thing, the enveloping Person! As he satthere he felt blood-warmth, touch, with every foot that sought hold, with every hand that reached. He saw the backward-falling, and he sawthat they did not fall forever, that they caught and held and climbedagain. He saw that because he had done that, time and time again donethat. 

Mr. M'Nab preached a courageous, if harsh, sermon. The old words ofcommination! They were not empty--but in among them, fine as ether, now ran a gloss. . . . The sermon ended, the final psalm was sung. 

 "When Zion's bondage God turned back, As men that dreamed were we. Then filled with laughter was our mouth. Our tongue with melody--"

But the Scots congregation went out, to the eye sober, stern, andstaid. Glenfernie spoke to Jarvis Barrow. He meant to do no more thangive a word of greeting. But the old man put forth an emaciated handand held him. 

"Is it the auld laird? My eyes are na gude. --Eh, laird, I remember thesermons of your grandfather, Gawin Elliot! Aye, aye! he was a lionagainst sinners! I hae seen them cringe!. . . It is the auld laird, Gilian?"

"No, Grandfather. You remember that the old laird was William. This isMr. Alexander. "

"He that was always aff somewhere alane?" White Farm drew his mindtogether. "I see now! You're right. I remember. "

"I am coming to White Farm to-morrow, Mr. Barrow. "

"Come then. . . . Is Grierson slain?"

"He's away in past time, " said Gilian. "Grandfather, here's Willy tohelp you. --Don't say anything more to him now, Glenfernie. "

The next day he rode to White Farm. Jenny, through the window, saw himcoming, but Jarvis Barrow, old bodily habits changing, lay sleeping onhis own bed. Nor was Gilian at hand. The laird sat and talked withJenny in the clean, spare living-room. All the story of her cripplingwas to be told, and a packed chest of country happenings gone over. Jenny had a happy, voluble half-hour. At last, the immediate bagexhausted, she began to cast her mind in a wider circle. Her wordscame at a slower pace, at last halted. She sat in silence, an applered in her cheeks. She eyed askance the man over against her, and atlast burst forth:

"Gilian said I should na speir--but, eh, Glenfernie, I wad gie mairthan a bawbee to ken what you did to him!"

"Nothing. "

"Naething?"

"Nothing that you would call anything. "

Jenny sat with open mouth. "They said you'd changed, even to lookat--and sae you have!--_Naething!_"

Jarvis Barrow entered the room, and with him came Gilian. The old manfailed, failed. Now he knew Glenfernie and spoke to him of to-day andof yesterday--and now he addressed him as though he were his father, the old laird, or even his grandfather. And after a few minutes hesaid that he would go out to the fir-tree. Alexander helped him there. Gilian took the Bible and placed it beside him. 

"Open at eleventh Isaiah, " he said. "'_And there shall come forth arod out of the stem of Jesse, and a Branch shall grow out of hisroots--_'"

Gilian opened the book. "You read, " and she sat down beside him. 

"I wish to talk to you, " said Alexander to her. "When--?"

"I am going to town to-morrow afternoon. I'll walk back over themoor. "

When he came upon the moor next day it was bathed by a sun half-waydown the western quarter. The colors of it were lit, the vast slopeshad alike tenderness and majesty. He moved over the moor; then he satdown by a furze-bush and waited. Gilian came at last, sat down nearhim in the dry, sweet growth. She put her arms over her knees; sheheld her head back and drank the ineffable rich compassion of the sky. She spoke at last. 

"Oh, laird, life's a marvel!"

"I feel the soul now, " he said, "of marigolds and pansies. That is thedifference to me. "

"What shall you do? Stay here and grow--or travel again and grow?"

"I do not yet know. . . . It depends. "

"It depends on Ian, does it not?"

"Yes. . . . Now you speak as Gilian and now you speak as Elspeth. "

"That is the marvel of the world. . . . That Person whom we call Beinghas also a long name. --My name, her name, your name, his name, itsname, all names! Side by side, one over another, one throughanother. . . . Who comes out but just that Person?"

They sat and watched the orb that itself, with its members theplanets, went a great journey. Gilian began to talk about Elspeth. Shetalked with quietness, with depth, insight, and love, sitting there onthe golden moor. Elspeth--childhood and girlhood and womanhood. Thesister of Elspeth spoke simply, but the sifted words came from apoet's granary. She made pictures, she made melodies for Alexander. Glints of vision, fugitive strains of music, echoes of a quaint andsubtle mirth, something elemental, faylike--that was Elspeth. Andlightning in the south in summer, just shown, swiftly withdrawn--powerand passion--sudden similitudes with great love-women of oldstory--that also was Elspeth. And a crying and calling for the Starthat gathers all stars--that likewise was Elspeth. Such and such didElspeth show herself to Gilian. And that half-year that they knewabout of grief and madness--it was not scanted nor its misery denied!It, too, was, or had been, of Elspeth. Deep through ages, again andagain, something like that might have worked forth. But it was not allnor most of that nature--had not been and would not be--would notbe--would not be. The sister of Elspeth spoke with pure, convincedpassion as to that. Who denied the dark? There were the dark and thelight, and the million million tones of each! And there was theeternal space where differences trembled into harmony. 

With the sunset they moved over the great, clean slope to where it randown to fields and trees. Before them was White Farm, below them theglistening stream, coral and gold between and around thestepping-stones. They parted here, Gilian going on to the house, thelaird turning again over the moor. 

He passed the village; he came by the white kirk and the yew-trees andthe kirkyard. All were lifted upon the hilltop, all wore the color ofsunset and the color of dawn. The laird of Glenfernie moved beside thekirkyard wall. He seemed to hold in his hand marigolds, pinks, andpansies. He saw a green mound, and he seemed to put the flowers there, out of old custom and tenderness. But no longer did he feel thatElspeth was beneath the mound. A wide tapering cloud, golden-feathered, like a wing of glory, stretched half across the sky. He looked at it;he looked at that in which it rested. His lips moved, he spoke aloud. 

"_O Death! where is thy sting? O grave! where is thy victory?_"

CHAPTER XXXIV

Days and weeks went by. Autumn came and stepped in russet towardwinter. Yet it was not cold and the mists and winds delayed. Thehomecoming of the laird of Glenfernie slipped into received fact--afact rather large, acceptable, bringing into the neighborhoodsituation of things in general a perceptible amount of expansion anddepth, but settling now, for the general run, into comfortableevery-day. They were used--until these late years--to seeing a lairdof Glenfernie about. When he was not there it was a missed part of thelandscape. When he was in presence Nature showed herself correctlyfilled out. This laird was like and not like the old lairds. Big likethe one before him in outward frame and seeming, there were certainlyinner differences. Dale and village pondered these differences. Itcame at last to a judgment that this Glenfernie was larger and kinder. The neighborhood considered that he would make a good home body, andif he was a scholar, sitting late in the old keep over great books, that harmed no one, redounded, indeed, to the dale's credit. His verywanderings might so redound now that they were over. "That's the lairdof Glenfernie, " the dale might say to strangers. 

It was dim, gray, late November weather. There poured rain, shriekeda wind. Then the sky cleared and the air stilled. There came threewonderful days, one after the other, and between them wonderful nightswith a waxing moon. Alexander, riding home from Littlefarm, foundwaiting for him in the court Peter Lindsay, of Black Hill. This was atrusted man. 

"I hae a bit letter frae Mistress Alison, laird. " Giving it to him, Peter came close, his eye upon the approaching stable-boy. "Dinna lookat it here, but when ye're alone. I'll bide and tak the answer. "

Alexander nodded, turned, and crossed to the keep. Within its ancient, deep entrance he broke seal and opened the paper superscribed by Mrs. Alison. Within was not her handwriting. There ran but two lines, in ahand with which he was well acquainted:

"_Will you meet one that you know in the cave to-night four hoursafter moonrise?_"

He went back to the messenger. "The answer is, 'Yes. ' Say just that, Peter Lindsay. "

The day went by. He worked with Strickland. The latter thought him alittle absent, but the accounts were checked and decisions made. Atthe supper-table he was more quiet than usual. 

"Full moon to-night, " said Alice. "What does it look like, Alexander, when it shines in Rome and when it comes up right out of the desert?"

"It lights the ruins and it is pale day in the desert. What makes youthink to-night of Rome and the desert?"

"I do not know. I see the rim now out of window. "

The moon climbed. It shone with an intense silver behind leaflessboughs and behind the dark-clad boughs of firs. It came above thetrees. The night hung windless and deeply clear. A fire burned uponthe hearth of the room in the keep. Alexander sat before it and he satvery still, and vast pictures came to the inner eye, and to the innerear meanings of old words. . . . 

He rose at last, took a cloak, and went down the stone stair into anight cold, still, and bright. The path by the school-house, thehand's-breadth of silvered earth, the broken, silvered wall, the pine, the rough descent. . . . He went through the dark wood where the shiningfell broken like a shattered mirror. Beyond held open country until hecame to the glen mouth. The moon was high. He heard faint sounds ofthe far night-time, and his own step upon the silver earth. He came tothe glen and the sound of water streaming to the sea. 

How well he knew this place! Thick trees spread arms above, rock thatleaned darkened the narrow path. But his foot knew where to tread. Insome more open span down poured the twice-broken light; then camedarkness. There was a great checkering of light and darkness and theslumbrous sound of water. The path grew steeper and rougher. He wasapproaching the middle of the place. 

At last he came to the cave mouth and the leafless briers thatcurtained it. Just before it was reached, the moonbeams struck throughclear air. There was a silver lightness. A form moved from where ithad rested against the rock. Ian's voice spoke. 

"Alexander?"

"Yes, it is I. "

"The night is so still. I heard you coming a long way off. I havelighted a fire in the cave. "

They entered it--the old boyhood haunt. All the air was moted for themwith memories. Ian had made the fire and had laid fagots for mending. The flame played and murmured and reddened the walls. The roof washigh, and at one place the light smoke made hidden exit. It was deadnight. Even in the daytime the glen was a solitary place. 

Alexander put down his cloak. He looked about the place, then, squarely turning, looked at Ian. Long time had passed since they hadspoken each to other in Rome. Now they stood in that ancient hauntwhere the very making of the fire sang of the old always-done, never-to-be-omitted, here in the cave. The light was sufficient foreach to study the other's face. Alexander spoke:

"You have changed. "

"And you. Let us sit down. There is much that I want to say. "

They sat, and again it was as they used to do, with the fire betweenthem, but out of plane, so that they might fully view each other. Thecave kept stillness. Subtly and silently its walls became penetrable. They crumbled, dissolved. Around now was space and the two were men. 

Ian looked worn, with a lined face. But the old brown-gold splendor, though dusked over, drew yet. No one might feel him negligible. Andsomething was there, quivering in the dusk. . . . He and Alexander restedwithout speech--or rather about them whirled inaudible speech--intuitions, divinations. At last words formed themselves. Ian spoke:

"I came from France on the chance that you were here. . . . For a longtime I have been driven, driven, by one with a scourge. Then thatchanged to a longing. At last I resolved. . . . The driving waswithin--as within as longing and determination. I have heard AuntAlison say that every myth, all world stories, are but symbols, figures, of what goes on within. Well, I have found out about theFuries, and about some other myths. "

"Yes. They tried to tell inner things. "

"I came here to say that I wronged folk from whom a man within mecannot part. One is dead, and I have to seek her along another road. But you are living, breathing there! I made myself your foe, and now Iwish that I could unmake what I made. . . . I was and am a sinfulsoul. . . . It is for you to say if it is anything to you, what Iconfess. " He rose from the fire and moved once or twice the length ofthe place. At last he came and stood before the other. "It is nowonder if it be not given, " he said. "But I ask your forgiveness, Alexander!"

"Well, I give it to you, " said Alexander. His face worked. He got tohis feet and went to Ian. He put his hands upon the other's shoulders. "_Old Saracen!_" he said. 

Ian shook. With the dropping of Alexander's hands he went back a step;he sat down and hid his head in his arms. 

Said Alexander: "You did thus and thus, obeying inner weakness, calling it all the time strength. And do I not know that I, too, mademyself a shadow going after shadows? My own make of selfishness, arrogance, and hatred. . . . Let us do better, you and I!" He mended thefire. "By understanding the past may be altered. Already it is alteredwith you and me. . . . I was here the other day. I stayed a long time. There seemed two boys in the cave and there seemed a girl beside them. The three felt with and understood and were one another. " He came andknelt beside Ian. "Let us forge a stronger friendship!"

Ian, face to the rock, was weeping, weeping. Alexander knelt besidehim, lay beside him, arm over heaving shoulders. Old Steadfast--OldSaracen--and Elspeth Barrow, also, and around and through, pulsing, cohering, interpenetrating, healing, a sense of something greater. . . . 

It passed--the torrent force, long pent, aching against its barriers. Ian lay still, at last sat up. 

"Come outside, " said Alexander, "into the cold and the air. "

They left the cave for the moonlight night. They leaned against therock, and about them hung the sleeping trees. The crag was silvered, the stream ran with a deep under-sound. The air struck pure and cold. The large stars shone down through all the flooding radiance of themoon. The familiar place, the strange place, the old-new place. . . . Atlast Ian spoke, "Have you been to the Kelpie's Pool?"

"Yes. The day I came home I lay for hours beside it. "

"I was there to-night. I came here from there. "

"It is with us. But far beside it is also with us!"

"The carnival at Rome. When I left Rome I went to the Lake of Como. Iwant to tell you of a night there--and of nights and days later, elsewhere--"

"Come within, as we used to do, and talk the heart out. "

They went back to the fire. It played and sang. The minutes, poignant, full, went by. 

"So at last prison and scaffold risks ceased to count. I took whatdisguise I could and came. "

"All at Black Hill know?"

"Yes. But they are not betrayers. I do not show myself and am notcalled by my name. I am Señor Nobody. "

"Señor Nobody. "

"When I broke Edinburgh gaol I fled to France through Spain. There inthe mountains I fell among brigands. I had to find ransom. SeñorNobody provided it. I never saw him nor do I know his name. . . . Alexander!"

"Aye. "

"Was it you?"

"Aye. I hated while I gave. . . . But I don't hate now. I don't hatemyself. Ian!"

The fire played, the fire sang. 

Alexander spoke: "Now your bodily danger again--You've put your headinto the lion's mouth!"

"That lion weighs nothing here. "

"I am glad that you came. But now I wish to see you go!"

"Yes, I must go. "

"Is it back to France?"

"Yes--or to America. I do not know. I have thought of that. But here, first, I thought that I should go to White Farm. "

"It would add risk. I do not think that it is needed. "

"Jarvis Barrow--"

"The old man lies abed and his wits wander. He would hardly know you, I think--would not understand. Leave him now, except as you find himwithin. "

"Her sister?"

"I will tell Gilian. That is a wide and wise spirit. She willunderstand. "

"Then it is come and gone--"

"Disappear as you appeared! None here wants your peril, and the griefsand evils were you taken. "

"I expected to go back. The brig _Seawing_ brought me. It sails in aweek's time. "

"You must be upon it, then. "

"Yes, I suppose so. " He drew a long, impatient breath. "Let us leaveall that! Sufficient to the day--I wander and wander, and there arestones and thorns--and Circe, too!. . . You have the steady light, but Ihave not! The wind blows it--it flickers!"

"Ah, I know flickering, too!"

"Is there a great Señor Somebody? Sometimes I feel it--and then thereis only the wild ass in the desert! The dust blinds and the miresticks. "

"Ah, Old Saracen--"

The other pushed the embers together. "This cave--this glen. . . . Do youremember that time we were in Amsterdam and each dreamed one night thesame dream?"

"I remember. "

The fire was sinking for the night. The moon was down in the westernsky. Around and around the cave and the glen and the night the innerear heard, as it were, a long, faint, wordless cry for help. Alexanderbrooded, brooded, his eyes upon the lessening flame. At last, with asudden movement, he rose. "I smell the morning air. Let us be going!"

The two covered the embers and left the cave. The moon stood above thewestern rim of the glen, the sound of the water was deep and full, frost hung in the air, the trees great and small stood quiet, in awinter dream. Ian and Alexander climbed the glen-side, avoiding MotherBinning's cot. Now they were in open country, moving toward BlackHill. 

The walk was not a short one. Daybreak was just behind the east whenthey came to the long heath-grown hill that faced the house, thepurple ridge where as boys they had met. They climbed it, and in theeast was light. Beneath them, among the trees, Black Hill showed roofand chimney. Then up the path toward them came Peter Lindsay. 

He seemed to come in haste and a kind of fear. When he saw the two hethrew up his hands, then violently gestured to them to go back upontheir path, drop beneath the hilltop. They obeyed, and he came to themhimself, panting, sweat upon him for all the chill night. "Mr. Ian--Laird! Sogers at the house--"

"Ah!"

"Twelve of them. They rade in an hour syne. The lieutenant swearsye're there, Mr. Ian, and they search the house. Didna ye see thelights? Mrs. Alison tauld me to gae warn ye--"

CHAPTER XXXV

The soldiers, having fruitlessly searched Black Hill, for the presentset up quarters there, and searched the neighborhood. They gave a widecast to that word. It seemed to include all this part of Scotland. Before long they appeared, not unforeseen, at Glenfernie. 

The lieutenant was a wiry, wide-nostriled man, determined to pleasesuperiors and win promotion. He had now men at the Jardine Arms noless than men at Black Hill. Face to face with the laird of Glenferniein the latter's hall, he explained his errand. 

"Yes, " said Glenfernie. "I saw you coming up the hill. Will you takewine?"

"To your health, sir!"

"To your health!"

The lieutenant set down the glass and wiped his lips. "I have orders, Mr. Jardine, which I may not disobey. "

"Exactly so, Lieutenant. "

"My duty, therefore, brings me in at your door--though of course I maysay that you and your household are hardly under suspicion ofharboring a proscribed rebel! A good Whig"--he bowed stiffly--"avolunteer serving with the Duke in the late trouble, and, last butnot least, a personal enemy of the man we seek--"

"The catalogue is ample!" said Glenfernie. "But still, having yourorders to make no exception, you must search my house. It is at yourservice. I will show you from room to room. "

Lieutenant and soldiers and laird went through the place, high and lowand up and down. "Perfunctory!" said the lieutenant twice. "But wemust do as we are told!"

"Yes, " said the laird. "This is my sister's garden. The small buildingthere is an old school-room. "

They met Alice walking in the garden, in the winter sunshine. Strickland, too, joined them here. Presentations over, the lieutenantagain repeated his story. 

"Perfunctory, of course, here--perfunctory! The only trace that wethink we have we found in a glen near you. There is a cave there thatI understand he used to haunt. We found ashes, still warm, where hadbeen a fire. Pity is, the ground is so frozen no footstep shows!"

"You are making escape difficult, " said Strickland. 

"I flatter myself that we'll get him between here and the sea! I amgoing presently, " said the lieutenant, "to a place called White Farm. But I am given to understand that there are good reasons--saving thelady's presence--why he'll find no shelter there. "

"Over yonder is the old keep, " said Glenfernie. "When that is passed, I think you will have seen everything. "

They left Strickland and Alice and went to the keep. Their footstepsand those of the soldiers behind them rang upon the stone stairs. 

"Above is the room, " said the laird of Glenfernie, "where as a boy Iused to play at alchemy. I built a furnace. I had an intention ofmaking lead into gold. I keep old treasures there still, and it isstill my dear old lair--though with a difference as I travel on, though with a difference, Lieutenant, as we travel on!"

They came into the room, quiet, filled with books and old apparatus, with a burning fire, with sunlight and shadow dappling floor and wall. "Well, he would hardly hide here!" said the lieutenant. 

"Not by received canons, " answered Glenfernie. 

The lieutenant spoke to the soldiers. "Go about and look beneath andbehind matters. There are no closets?"

"There are only these presses built against the stone. " The lairdopened them as he spoke. "You see--blank space!" He moved toward acorner. "This structure is my ancient furnace of which I spoke. Istill keep it fuel-filled for firing. " As he spoke he opened a sizabledoor. 

The lieutenant, stooping, saw the piled wood. "I don't know much ofalchemy, " he said. "I've never had time to get around to those things. It's bringing out sleeping values isn't it?"

"Something like that. " He shut the furnace door, and they stoodwatching the soldiers search the room. In no long time this stood acompleted process. 

"Perfunctory!" said again the lieutenant. "Now men, we'll to WhiteFarm!"

"There is food and drink for them below, on this chilly day, " saidthe laird, "and perhaps in the hall you'll drink another glass ofwine?"

All went down the stairs and out of the keep. Another half-hour andthe detail, lieutenant and men, mounted and rode away. Glenfernie andStrickland watched them down the winding road, clear of the hill, outupon the highway. 

Alexander went back alone to the keep that, also, from its widenedloopholes, might watch the searchers ride away. He mounted the stair;he came into his old room. Ian stood beside the table. The sizablefurnace door hung open, the screen of heaped wood was disarranged. 

"It was a good notion, that recess behind my old furnace!" saidGlenfernie. "You took no harm beyond some cobwebs and ashes?"

"None, Señor Nobody, " said Ian. 

That day went by. The laird and Strickland talked together in lowvoices in the old school-room. Davie, too, appeared there once, and anold, trusted stableman. At sunset came Robin Greenlaw, and stayed anhour. The stars shone out, around drew a high, windy crystal night. 

Mrs. Grizel went to bed. Alexander, with Alice and Strickland, sat bythe fire in the hall. There was much that the laird wished to say thathe said. They spoke in low voices, leaning toward the burning logs, the light playing over their faces, the light laughing upon old armor, crossed weapons, upon the walls. Alice, a bonny woman with sense andcourage, sat beside Glenfernie. Strickland, from his corner, saw howmuch she looked like her mother; how much, to-night, Alexander lookedlike her. 

They talked until late. They came to agreement, quiet, moved, butthorough. Glenfernie rose. He took Alice in his arms and kissed herthrice. Moisture was in the eyes of both. 

"Sleep, dear, sleep! So we understand, things grow easy!"

"I think that you are right, and that is a long way to comfort, " saidAlice. "Good night, good night, Alexander!"

When she was gone the two men talked yet a little longer, over thedying fire. Then they, too, wished each other good night. Stricklandwent to his room, but Alexander left the house and crossed themoon-filled night to the keep. It was now he and Ian. 

There was no strain. "Old Steadfast" and "Old Saracen, " and a longpilgrimage together, and every difference granted, yet, in thebackground, a vast, an oceanic unity. . . . Ian rose from the settle. Heand the laird of Glenfernie sat by the table and with pen and papermade a diagram of escape. They bent to the task in hand, and when itwas done, and a few more words had been said, they turned to thepallets which Davie had spread on either side of the hearth. The moonand the low fire made a strange half-light in the room. The two laystill, addressed to sleep. They spoke and answered but once. 

Said Ian: "I felt just then the waves of the sea!--The waves of thesea and the roads of France. . . . The waves and roads of the days andnights and months and years. I there and you here. There is an ether, doubtless, that links, but I don't tread it firmly. . . . Be sure I'llturn to you, call to you, often, over the long roads, from out of thetrough of the waves! _Señor Nobody! Señor Nobody!_" He laughed, butwith a catch of the breath. "Good night!"

"Good night, Old Saracen!" said Alexander. 

Morn came. That day Glenfernie House heard still that all that regionwas searched. The day went by, short, gray, with flurries of snow. Byafternoon it settled to a great, down-drifting pall of white. It wasfalling thick and fast when Alexander Jardine and Ian Rullock passedthrough the broken wall beyond the school-room. The pine branches werewhitening, the narrow, rugged path ran a zigzag of white. 

Strickland had parted from them at the wall, and yet Strickland seemedto be upon the path, following Glenfernie. Ian wore a dress ofStrickland's, a hat and cloak that the countryside knew. He andStrickland were nearly of a height. Keeping silence and moving througha dimness of the descending day and the shaken veil of the snow, almost any chance-met neighbor would have said, in passing, "Good day, Mr. Strickland!"

The path led into the wood. Trees rose about them, phantoms in thesnowstorm. The snow fell in large flakes, straight, undriven by wind. Footprints made transient shapes. The snow obliterated them as in thedesert moving sand obliterated. Ian and Alexander, leaving the wood, took a way that led by field and moor to Littlefarm. 

The earth seemed a Solitary, with no child nor lover of hers abroad. The day declined, the snow fell. Ian and Alexander moved on, hardlyspeaking. The outer landscape rolled dimmed, softened, withdrawn. Theinner world moved among its own contours. The day flowed towardnight, as the night would flow toward day. 

They came to the foot of the moor that stretched between White Farmand Littlefarm. 

"There is a woman standing by that tree, " said Ian. 

"Yes. It is Gilian. "

They moved toward her. Tall, fair, wide-browed and gray-eyed, sheleaned against the oak stem and seemed to be at home here, too. Thewide falling snow, the mystic light and quietness, were hers formantle. As they approached she stirred. 

"Good day, Glenfernie!--Good day, Ian Rullock!--Glenfernie, you cannotgo this way! Soldiers are at Littlefarm. "

"Did Robin--"

"He got word to me an hour since. They are chance-fallen, the secondtime. They will get no news and soon be gone. He trusted me to giveyou warning. He says wait for him at the cot that was old Skene's. Itstands empty and folk say that it is haunted and go round about. " Sheleft the tree and took the path with them. "It lies between us andWhite Farm. This snow is friendly. It covers marks--it keeps folkwithin-doors--nor does it mean to fall too long or too heavily. "

They moved together through the falling snow. 

It was a mile to old Skene's cot. They walked it almost insilence--upon Ian's part in silence. The snow fell; it covered theirfootprints. All outlines showed vague and looming. The three seemedthree vital points moving in a world dissolving or a world forming. 

The empty cot rose before them, the thatch whitened, the door-stonewhitened. Glenfernie pushed the door. It opened; they found a clean, bare place, twilight now, still, with the falling snow without. 

Gilian spoke. "I'll go on now to White Farm. Robin will come. In nolong time you'll be upon the farther road. . . . Now I will say Fare youwell!"

Alexander took her hands. "Farewell, Gilian!"

Gray eyes met gray eyes. "Be it short time or be it long time--soonhome to Glenfernie, or long, long gone--farewell, and God bless you, Glenfernie!"

"And you, Gilian!"

She turned to Ian. "Ian Rullock--farewell, too, and God bless you, too!"

She was gone. They watched through the door her form moving amidfalling snow. The veil between thickened; she vanished; there wereonly the white particles of the dissolving or the forming world. Thetwo kept silence. 

Twilight deepened, night came, the snow ceased to fall for a time, then began again, but less thickly. One hour went by, two, three. Thencame Robin Greenlaw and Peter Lindsay, riding, and with them horsesfor the two who waited at Skene's cot. 

Four men rode through the December night. At dawn they neared the sea. The snow fell no longer. When the purple bars came into the east theysaw in the first light the huddled roofs of a small seaport. Beyondlay gray water, with shipping in the harbor. 

At a crossroads the party divided. Robin Greenlaw and Peter Lindsaytook a way that should lead them far aside from this port, and thenwith circuitousness home. Before they reached it they would separate, coming singly into their own dale, back to Black Hill, back toLittlefarm. The laird of Glenfernie and Littlefarm, dismounting, moving aside, talked together for a few moments. Ian gave PeterLindsay a message for Mrs. Alison. . . . Good-bys were said. Greenlawremounted; he and Peter Lindsay moved slowly from the two bound to theport. A dip of the earth presently hid them. Alexander and Ian wereleft in the gray dawn. 

"Alexander, I know the safe house and the safe man and the safe ship. Why should you run further danger? Let us say good-by now!"

"No, not now. "

"You have come to the edge of Scotland. Say farewell here, and dangersaved, rather than on the water stairs in a little while--"

"No. I will go farther, Ian. There is Mackenzie's house, over there. "

They rode through the winter dawn to the house at the edge of theport, where lived a quiet man and wife, under obligations to theJardines. There visited them now the laird of Glenfernie and hissecretary, Mr. Strickland. 

The latter, it seemed, was not well--kept his room that day. The lairdof Glenfernie went about, indeed, but never once went near thewaterside. . . . And yet, at eve, the master of the _Seawing_, riding inthe harbor, took the resolution to sail by cockcrow. 

The sun went down with red and gold, in a winter splendor. Dark nightfollowed, but, late, there rose a moon. Alexander and Ian, coming downto the harbor edge at a specified place, found there the waiting boatwith two rowers. It hung before them on the just-lit water. "Now, OldSteadfast, farewell!" said Ian. 

"I am going a little farther. Step in, man!"

The boat drove across, under the moon, to the _Seawing_. The twomounted the brig's side and, touching deck, found the captain, knownto Ian, who had sailed before upon the _Seawing_, and known sinceyesterday to Glenfernie. The captain welcomed them, his onlypassengers, using not their own names, but others that had beenchosen. In the cabin, under the swinging lantern, there followed a fewwords as to weather, ports, and sailing. The tide served, the_Seawing_ would be forth in an hour. The captain, work calling, leftthem in the small lighted place. 

"The boat is waiting. Now, Old Steadfast--Señor Nobody--"

"Old Saracen, we used to say that we'd go one day to India--"

"Yes--"

"Well, let us go!"

"_Us_--"

"Why not?"

They stood with the table between them. Alexander's hands moved towardIan's. They took hands; there followed a strong, a convulsivepressure. 

"We sin in differing ways and at differing times, " said Alexander, "but we all sin. And we all struggle with it and through it andonward! And there must be some kind of star upon our heights. Well, let us work toward it together, Old Saracen!"

They went out of the cabin and upon the deck. The boat that hadbrought them was gone. They saw it in the moonlight, half-way back tothe quay. On the _Seawing_, sailors were lifting anchor. They stoodand watched. The moon was paling; there came the scent of morning; farupon the shore a cock crew. The _Seawing's_ crew were making sail. Outand up went her pinions, filled with a steady and favoring wind. Shethrilled; she moved; she left the harbor for a new voyage, freshwonder of the eternal world.