Shoulder to shoulder

"'Spy or not spy, a right fair maid. By my soul I shall catch her dead or alive.'

"A pistol shot or two rang out as Fiona dashed back into the darkness of the wood, and a bullet whizzed closely past her ear.

"For the first time now since she had departed, the danger of her situation rose up before her mind. What a fearful thing it would be to fall into the clutches of these reckless and lawless men! Fear lent speed to her feet, and she flew on, hardly knowing or caring whither. Her pursuer, coming straight from the firelight, could at first see but indistinctly; but he soon recovered sight, and ran like a deer after the figure in front. The wood was now more open, and this added to the chance of her being caught. It was, indeed, a race for life.

"And now she sees the wood again but a little way ahead, and increases her speed. If she can once get into the shade of the trees, she thinks she will be safe.

"The increase in speed was but a last spurt, however, and now she feels her strength fast failing her. She stops and presses a hand to her brow.

"'God give me strength!" she mutters.

Next moment she has turned on her pursuer like a tigress at bay.

"'Stand!' he cries, 'or I'll dirk you.'

"'Come a yard nearer,' she shouts, 'and you are a dead man!'

"But dirk in hand he rushes in.

"The girl's claymore gleams for a moment in the uncertain light; then comes a dull thud.

"The man falls heavily on his face.

"Killed or wounded she stops not to see, but goes hurrying on, and next minute she is safe within the shadows of the friendly wood.

"On she walks now, but cautiously, and has the good luck soon to reach the road once more, only two Scots miles from Inverness.

"But the town she must avoid. There is greater danger there than in the darkling forest.

"The moon has sunk, but the stars are very bright, for the sky has cleared. And far in the east and south she espies a glare in the sky.

"'That must be the Duke's camp!' she thinks.

"Joy now takes the place of fear, and she walks bravely on, her head erect, as becomes a fearless Highland maiden, but her hand upon the claymore.

"She is near the camp, but still in the darkness, though watch-fires light the bush around her. Suddenly there is a rattle as of a musket being brought to the shoulder.

"'Who goes there?"

"'Friend.'

"'The watchword. Speak quickly, or I fire.'

"'I'm a woman!' cried poor Fiona. 'You will not shoot a girl. I have a message for the Duke."

"'Advance, girl.'

"She drew near to the sentry, who was one of the 1st, or Royal Scots. Loyal Scots would have been a good name for them in those days as well as ever since.

"The sentry held up a light.

"'I must do my duty,' he said. 'Hand over that claymore. Why it drips with gore! Are you a rebel?'

"'I am not; I am a loyal and royal Scot.' But she added, 'I fear I have slain a rebel.'

"Hearing voices, three figures muffled in cloaks, with swords that clanked upon the ground, came from a tent and approached the spot.

"'Captain McDonald,' said the sentry, 'this is a young lady who claims audience with the Duke."

"'The Duke cannot be seen, Miss Stranger,' said the officer, 'but come to our tent. We would hear your story.'

"A young officer was sitting writing at a rude table in the tent as the party entered. His back was towards her, but as soon as she spoke he started to his feet and looked at her.

"'What, Fiona!'

"'It is I, Ian. O, thank Heaven you are safe!'

"The officer had taken the girl in his arms, and was gazing fondly in her face.

"But now her eyes swam, and all became dark. When she again looked up, Ian was bending over her as she lay on a plaid.

"'Have I been long ill?'

"'Only a few minutes, Fiona, ma chree.'

"'Then there may still be time to assist my dear brother-in-law, his wife, and children. But see, Ian, day is already breaking. You must to horse if precious lives would be saved.'

"And hurriedly now she told her lover and his comrades all the story.

"Not more hurriedly than Captain McDonald gave the orders that followed.

"'To horse, to horse, immediately, sergeant!' he shouted. 'Thirty men armed to the teeth. If not here within ten minutes, I will cleave the last man with my sword!'

"And now, laddie," said Auld-da, pausing, "have you had enough for to-night?"

"No, no, no," I cried. "Tell me how it ended."

CHAPTER V.

ROYALS TO THE RESCUE—THAT FAITHFUL DWARF—HAND
TO HAND WITH DIRK AND CLAYMORE—"THE
RED-COATS ARE COMING!"

A glimmer of coming daylight was spreading high up in the east, and one by one the stars were paling before it, as that warlike band galloped away from the camp: thirty-three in all were they. Good men and true.

"The largest and strongest horse carried Ian, and behind him sat Fiona herself, for she was the guide.

"And now, dear boy, we must go back a few hours in this true story, to see what happened to sturdy Robertson and his faithful men.

"It was nearly twelve o'clock, and the honest farmer was beginning to think that after all no attack would be made on his little stronghold, when suddenly Muirachie grasped his master's arm.

"'Hist!' he said in Gaelic, 'they are coming, I can hear their footsteps.'

"At the same moment the faithful dwarf's collie, Kooran, sprang up with a growl, and would have given voice had not Muirachie seized her by the muzzle.

"Next moment, the tramp of armed men could be heard by all.

"'This side, this side,' whispered Robertson. 'Each man to a loop-hole, but do not fire till I give the order.'

"Raoul Dhu was the first to advance towards the farm.

"'Hullo! fortified, are you?' he muttered, and drew back

"Robertson could have shot him where he stood, but generously permitted him to retreat.

"'Come forth, you traitor to your lawful King and country,' cried Raoul now. 'Come forth, I say, and I'll fight you with dirk or claymore.'

"There was no response from the darkened fort.

"'Shut up your women folks. We don't want to kill females and children, and we're going to fire. But, Robertson, we'll hang you and all the traitor hounds you have beside you, and Fiona shall be mine.'

"Then came a lull for the space of five minutes at least.

"It was the stillness that precedes a storm. A long line of smoke and fire followed it, but the bullets hardly pierced the palisade. It was briskly replied to from the forts, and more than one man was seen to fall.

"Raoul and his men sought shelter now, and for the next half hour an intermittent fire was kept up from the bush.

"It was not even replied to, for, determined not to waste his ammunition, Robertson had caused his little force to lie down, and the bullets pattered harmlessly on the walls behind them.

"In their cave, half down the wooded ravine, Mrs. Robertson heard the firing, and even the loud, threatening voices of the assailants, but, woman-like, she could but weep. O, yes, she prayed also, as perhaps she had never prayed before, and even caused her little ones to kneel down and add their voices to hers in supplication.

"It seemed, for two long hours, or probably nearer three, that those prayers had been heard, and that the attack on the farm was relinquished.

"Then, in the distance, those in the fort heard a murmur of many voices coming nearer and nearer up the brae.

"They carried torches, too, which they wildly waved aloft. By this light Robertson noted that Raoul's attacking force was now full fifty strong.

"The defenders did not wait for the onslaught this time, but poured a withering fire into the advancing ranks. Volley after volley; but though many were seen to reel and fall, the rest kept rushing on, the commander shouting:

"'Ready, lads, with the axes; and failing that, we'll rout them out with fire and smoke.'

"Soon the hatchets were thundering on the palisade, and those who wielded them were comparatively safe from the port-hole fire.

"Something must be done, and that at once.

"'Follow me!' cried Robertson.

"The rebels, in the glare of the torchlight, could see nothing of the raid that your ancestor and his men now made from a door to the east, and the very closeness of their ranks made Robertson's fire most deadly. Two volleys were poured in at short range. So short, indeed, that one bullet probably killed or wounded two men.

"'Now for the claymores!' shouted Robertson.

"The attack followed close on the shout, and men fell before it as if mowed down by the reaper's scythe.

"They fled now to the adjoining copse, and the defenders poured a volley after them into the wood.

"But that copse was not to protect them, for somehow a fallen torch set a light to the undergrowth, and the fire was speedily raging and licking up everything before it.

"The attacking party was obliged to fly, but, lit up by the glare, many became an easy prey to the defenders, who were once more behind the palisade.

"But startling now was the voice that Robertson heard at his elbow.

"'O, mister, mister'—it was the dwarf who spoke— 'ta leddies, ta leddies and children!'

"'What! You think the fire will reach them?'

"'To pe surely, mister. They will pe smother in ta cave whatefer. But Muirachie will save them.'

"He waited no word of command. He simply disappeared.

"But what had now become of the besiegers? Will Raoul was not the man to be easily discouraged, though his men were worn out, and none would return. He had, therefore, to lead them back to Beauly, and there revelling and drinking were resumed. Such was the custom of the period. Then sleep followed.

"Day had broken and morning well advanced before Raoul Dhu resumed his attack. It was still more determined than that which had gone before it, and to the horror of the defenders it was seen that the rebels had armed themselves with a battering-ram. Moreover, they had crept up the side of the ravine, and had their instrument planted almost before Robertson could fire a shot.

"Nothing, it seemed, was able to save them now. Their destruction was but a matter of time.

"Crash! crash! crash! went the ram, and the palisade flew into flinders before that iron-shod beam.

"One volley more was fired, then the Robertsons retreated to their last trench.

"They would die fighting, at all events.

"And the end speedily came, dear boy."

"What, Auld-da," I cried, excitedly, "did Raoul Dhu slay the poor men?"

"The end came, dear boy, thus," said Auld-da, in his quiet way: "Raoul Dhu, who seemed to possess a charmed life—for his mother, they said, had been witched at the time of his birth—dashed though the breach followed by his men. He seemed surprised to find an inner trench that had still to be stormed. But with a wild shout the rebels leapt at it.

"It would be hand to hand now with dirk and claymore, and, overpowering them by numbers, the enemy would make short work of the defenders. Even at this awful moment Robertson had time to think of those he was about to leave behind him.

"'God help my wife and bairns!' he cried, as he drew his dirk.

"There was no more shouting, for, when hand to hand, laddie, men do not shout. There were sounds, however, in that trench and above it, that would have made your blood run cold. The clash of steel, the dull thuds of dirks driven home, short cries and groans, gaspings and oaths. Oh! war is a terrible thing, my boy.

"But hark! Just at this moment, when all seemed lost, high above the din of the hand-to-hand conflict rose a soldiers' cheer.

"'The red-coats are coming!' shouted Raoul Dhu. 'Back, men, to the opening! Quick!'

"The red-coats were coming. Ay, and they had come, and next minute were pouring in through the opening in the palisade.

"But let us drop the curtain, laddie, over the scene. It is too dreadful to describe.

"Suffice it to say that no quarter was given. Every rebel inside that palisade was slain.

"Ian, Fiona's lover, and Raoul Dhu seemed to single each other out, and fought for many minutes with all the beauty and coolness of skilled swordsmen; but Ian's sword found flesh at last, and Raoul Dhu fell to the ground, pierced through the chest.

"With one foot on his foe, and right arm drawn back, Ian was about to give the coup de grace which Raoul, too proud to sue for mercy, calmly awaited, when Fiona herself rushed upon the scene, and threw herself on her lover's breast.

"'No, no, no!' she cried. 'For my sake, kill him not! To slay a fallen foe were murder. Spare him.'

"'I will,' said Ian, and he sheathed his sword."

"But, Auld-da," I persisted, "the sword was all dripping with blood and gore, wasn't it?"

"Haven't you had enough of that, laddie?" said Auld-da, smiling. "I'll tell you no more, because my story is ended. You see, my boy, God had heard the children's prayers."

"But what became of—of—of everybody, Auld-da?"

"That is soon told. Raoul Dhu was taken prisoner, and, I believe, afterwards suffered the extreme penalty of the law at Edinburgh.

"When peace was once again restored, Ian was married to Fiona in the little church adown the glen, for the soldier was now on leave.

"The children grew up; my father was one of them, my Uncle Peter another.

"The farm, however, was burned, and, sad to say, poor Muirachie lost his life in attempting to save the cattle.

"Then the Robertsons went higher up, and nearer to the forest.

"It was there that I was born, boy. But I shall tell you no more to-night. Old men like me tire soon."

And so I left him dozing over the fire.

CHAPTER VI.

A HIGHLAND SCHOOL A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

I went home the other day.

Home to Scotland, I mean. For though I may be found all winter long at work here in my wigwam, in one of the sweetest sylvan nooks of bonnie Berks, "My heart's in the Highlands," as the old song says.

Well, I work here for my boys and my girls, that is, for the thousands—I think I may say thousands at least—of lads and lasses who do me the honour of reading my books and stories.

England has endeared itself to me by many a tie of friendship and of love. But home is home, you know, and so in spring-time, when the light green tassels droop from the larch-trees, with their tiny crimson buds, when the mavis makes the woodlands ring with his glad clear notes, and the linnet sings its own sweet wee love-song among the banks of golden furze that hug the ground on our Scottish moorlands—I go home. And I go home again in autumn, when the purple and crimson of heather and heath cover mountain and brae, and the whirr of the gorcock is heard on the hills. When streams roll wilder as they dash onwards to the sea, and solemn pine forests nod dark in the breeze.

Waxing poetical, I do believe! Well, I am taken that way sometimes.

Anyhow, I went home the other day, and as I sat on a rock high up in the Deeside Highlands, and gazed around on scenery that, for wild and lonesome grandeur, is hardly to be surpassed in all broad Scotland, I do believe that the tears would have dropped from my eyes, had not the Wizard of the North come to my aid, and bade me declaim as follows:

I had to stand up to do it, mind you.

"This is my own, my native land.
    *     *     *     *     *
"O Caledonia! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child!
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band
That knits me to thy rugged strand?"

"Well," said a voice close behind me, "after that I think you had better come home and take tea with me."

I was so taken aback, and so shy at being caught rhapsodizing, as one might call it, that had there been a fox's burrow anywhere near, I should have dived head first into it.

The speaker was the village minister, a good and clever little man, who plays and sings, and does any number of nice things.

Of course, I would go and have tea; so down the mountain-side we went together.

There was nobody else at the minister's house except an old maiden lady, who spends most of her time in visiting the poor and—gossiping.

I soon found out that she and I were not on the same platform as regards boys.

"O, I hate boys," she said emphatically.

"Well, I don't," I observed mildly.

"O, but I do," she snapped, "and I never see a boy without thinking of a monkey. Boys are noisy, chattering, howling, whistling, teasing brats, and never out of wickedness except when asleep. Gentle or simple, they are all the same at heart, just as full of mischief as this delicious new-laid egg is full of——"

She cut the top off, viciously too, as if the poor egg had been a boy.

There was a chicken in it!

Well, I couldn't stand it any longer. I just laughed and laughed, and leant back and laughed, till the minister's chair began to crack. Yes, and the minister joined me too, right heartily.

But Miss Steelyard pierced me through and through with those indignant little grey eyes of hers, till I began to think I'd gone too far.

"Ah! well, Miss Steelyard," I said winningly, "I suppose there are boys and boys."

"No, I won't admit it," she snapped. "They are all boys, every one of them—'deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked.'"

Well, I wasn't going to stand that.

"For my own part," I said, "I rather like a boy who has some spirit, and who even plays tricks. There is never any saying what a bad boy may turn out. He might stand at the head of a great republic, Miss Steelyard."

"O, yes," said this lady, witheringly, "or dangle at the end of a long rope."

As I saw there was no soothing the old maid, I sipped my tea in silence till the parson changed the subject to trout-fishing.

But I maintain, nevertheless, dear readers, that there are boys and boys.

To which of these catalogues my grandfather belonged when he was a boy, it is not for me to say, but for you to judge.

* * * * *

It was about thirty-five years after the terrible events I have tried to record in last chapter, before my grandfather—plain John Robertson, but called Ian when his foot was on his native heath—saw the light of day.

The day before his birth there had been several strange happenings, all duly related by his mother's nurse, an ancient dame, called Yonish MacPhee. Her name was not MacPhee—fa—fi—fum, though it might have been, for Yonish wore a mob-cap, and dreamt dreams and saw visions.

Come to think of it, I dare say the mob-cap had not much to do either with the dreams or visions, but it was a weird looking head-dress of bleached cotton, with flaps all round the front, that sometimes almost hid her thin yellow face, and sometimes blew right back on her neck, or stuck straight out like the lugs of an oar-eared rabbit. No wonder people said she was a witch. Anyhow, the day before his birth, Yonish saw four magpies sitting all in a row on the limb of a dead tree. This was a bad omen!

Then about fifty red-deer came out of the forest and ate up about half an acre of green springing oats. This was good for the deer, but bad for the farmer. Yonish would have gone to "hush-oo" them away, but they would have tossed the old lady on their horns, and played skittles with her.

That day, too, a raven set upon the chimney and croaked, the cream turned sour, and the nanny-goat let down no milk.

But in spite of all these omens, grandfather was declared to be the finest child ever seen in the parish, with his father's nose, and the very blue eyes of his mother. I myself won't take the nose in, because I have been told that my great grandfather's nose was very large. He snuffed, and there was no want of accommodation for the snuff.

That is the mildest way of putting it.

Well, then, my grandfather began to grow up. I have no authentication of this. I simply reason from analogy. Most boys do grow, for they have not much else to do or think about.

From swaddling bands to kilts. And having arrived at the latter stage, he began to take notice of things, putting this and that together as it were, and drawing his own conclusions.

At seven years of age he was sent to school, and then his mind began to expand as well as his body. It was a day-school, of course, and stood about a mile and a half from his father's house.

I dare say it was a very humble sort of an edifice; it was pulled down long ago. But this school was kept up by the Kirk, and the curriculum was of no mean order.

It stood a little way off the road, I have been told, and was a long, low, stone building, thatched with heather, and not unlike a tiny church, for the door was in the eastern gable, and there were two windows at each side with real glass in them, each pane being very green and with a bull's eye in the centre.

Those windows did not draw up nor down; and when the dominie wanted ventilation he simply opened the door "wide to the wall."

The scholars, as they were called, were about thirty or more, and came from far and near. They were of both sexes, the girls occupying one side of the school, the boys the other. Near the far gable, and close to the fire, there was a kind of little pulpit, and here the dominie reigned serene, monarch of all he surveyed.

Here too, in a drawer, was the tawse—terrible weapon of punishment, especially on a cold day when one's hands are blue: flogging, in the English sense, was never permitted in Scottish schools. The palms or fingers were warmed with the brutal tawse, and oftentimes boys were slashed around the bare feet and ankles, and their howls for mercy would be heart-rending. But mercy was unknown to the souls of those old-time dominies. My own knowledge of Latin was all flogged into me with the tawse, and I used to believe the dominie had no soul, only just a gizzard like a hen or a cock.

When young Ian first went to school, he thought he knew a thing or two; for he had been taught at home, and could already read the New Testament and make pot-hooks and figures on a slate. He thought he knew as much as the teacher, but he was very soon undeceived.

Why, this dominie could not only read Virgil and Horace, but he could even talk good English. So could the boy Ian.

But Gaelic was always spoken in the play-ground, and English and Gaelic in school.

On Fridays not a word of Gaelic was allowed to be uttered.

The schoolmaster was said to be an angel out of doors, but a perfect—well, not an angel—in the school-room.

There was a sturdy independence about Ian, that did not tend to make the dominie love him. The first day he came, the teacher had him up, and addressed him in English.

"How old are you?"

"Seven."

"Say seven, sir."

"Seven, sir."

"What is your name?"

"Ian."

"Ian, Sir."

"No, Ian Robertson."

"Say, John Robertson."

"Shan't! My name is Ian."

"Well, you'll have a touch of the tawse."

"Does she hurt?"

"'Deed, indeed she does. Now what's your name?"

"Sir John Robertson."

Then the boy's tongue went off at a tangent as it were, and he rattled off the following gibberish:

"Sir John Robertson is my name
    And Scotland is my nation,
Forest Farm's my happy home
    And heaven my expectation."

Sir John, as the boys determined to call him, was now permitted to take his slate and sit down.

But he was very sulky for a time.

Why had he been sent to school? he asked himself.

What was the good of school, anyhow? He would have but little time now to catch humble-bumble bees, to chase young rabbits, to look for birds' nests, to fish, and to climb trees.

How beautiful it was out of doors! How sweetly the sun shone in through the green glass of the windows. He had half a mind to bolt and run for it. He was sure enough the teacher couldn't catch him. But—hillo! here was a boy going to get a thrashing. There was some fun in that. Not for the culprit, however, for he spat in his hands and pulled down his sleeves when the dominie went for the tawse. But what a face he made, and how he kicked and jumped and cried when he got the first tingling "pandé." My little boy grandfather had to thrust his bonnet into his mouth to prevent himself from laughing aloud.

But, just as "pandé" number six was descending, the culprit's courage failed him, and he quickly drew in his hand. Down came the tawse on the dominie's own leg. All the boys and girls tittered, and the boy was whacked all the way back to his seat, where he cried the whole afternoon.

Ian then took to drawing little men and women on his slate. He gave each a long tail, and then held them up for the other boys to laugh aloud at. He thus succeeded, beyond even his expectations, in getting no less than three boys tawsed.

School was fine fun after all.

It was also a treat for young Ian to see how deftly the dominie threw the tawse. He was a demon bowler. When he noticed a boy, say at the other end of the school, talking or laughing, he rolled the tawse up in a ball and sent it whirling towards the urchin with an astonishing accuracy of aim, the result of long practice. The tawse would alight in the culprit's lap, and he had to carry it up—it felt like carrying a snake by the tail—and, presenting it to the pedagogue, receive his "pandés" and go back to his seat a sadder and a wiser loon.

These "pandés" reddened all the palms, and sometimes even blistered the wrist. It was ten times worse for hours to come than the feeling one experiences after a snow-ball fight.

But young Ian's first day at school came to an end at last.

"School's out!" cried the teacher.

This wasn't very elegant English, but it had a grand effect. Books and slates and Bibles were bundled away; and a rush was made for the door. Here a block occurred, of course, but finally all were free to yelp and yell, and dance and scream, till the rocks re-echoed the pandemoniacal noise.

But Ian stopped to speak to no one. He didn't like boys over much, and he hated girls, because they were so silly and couldn't do anything as it ought to be done.

So my little morsel of a grandfather flew off like a hare to the hills, his bare legs brushing the heather, and his bonnet under his arm, because a big boy made a grab at it before he left the play-ground.

When the children had all gone, the dominie put away the "tawse," locked up the school, and retired to the bosom of his family.

CHAPTER VII.

HARD TIMES FOR A TEACHER—THE TAWSE—LITTLE RACHEL—A
DROLL ADVENTURE—MY GRANDFATHER STUCK FAST
IN THE CHIMNEY.

There wasn't much bosom about the dominie's family, for the matter of that. Only his wife, a great kind-hearted woman, his little daughter Rachel, and the collie dog.

Dominie Freeschal himself was not much of a man, "judged by points," as doggy people say. He lacked size and bone, and he was thin——and quite out of show-form, so to speak.

He was supposed to be "powerfully learned," however, and powerful with the tawse. In those good old times some of Solomon's dicta were construed very literally indeed.

"Spare the rod and spoil the child" didn't mean that you were to lock up the tawse in the desk, and make a pet of the boy.

Quite the reverse.

A "scholar" might consider himself very lucky indeed if he did not have a sound whacking once in three days. And even the parents expected that the dominie would do his duty towards his pupils in the way of flagellation, and do it handsomely too.

"Now, Mister Freeschal," said a father one day, "I'm going to be after sending my little son to your school, and it's a little nickem he is whatsoever, so you'll not be letting him over you at all, for he is entirely over his mother."

"I'll see to it, Sandy," was the dominie's reply; and he did.

Another day, another father came to see the schoolmaster on business.

"I've a complaint to make, Mister Freeschal."

"Well," said Mister Freeschal, "it's myself that is sorry for that same. What is it, Mister Young?"

"It's that you don't thrash Tonal enough. Now for more 'n two weeks he hasn't been crying, for his face is as clean at night as in the morning evermore. I'm indignant, sure, and if you'll not be doing your duty by the boy, I'll not be after paying you."

And off he went.

That same afternoon, young Tonal was called up and told to spell the words "believe," "deceive," and "relieve."

In each case poor little Tonal had the misfortune to misplace the "i."

A hush fell over the school as the dominie marched off to the desk for the tawse, for every one could tell by the swing of his coat-tails that he meant business.

Young Tonal licked his palms and prepared for the inevitable.

"You're wrong in your orthography" (the dominie put the emphasis on the "graphy"). "Now I'm not going to deceive your father, nor take his money for nothing; but I believe I'll relieve my feelings by whacking you well. Hold out your hand."

And Tonal went home with a dirty wet face that night anyhow. But as will presently be seen, the dominie had succeeded in stirring the boy's blood and making a conspirator of him.

There are exceptions to every rule, however, and one day a boy's mother believed that the dominie had tawsed her lad too much, so she went to the school to relieve her feelings.

She was no great beauty, certainly, but a plain-faced, fair-haired woman, with sinews as tough as gun-tackle.

I think the dominie quailed as she entered the school-room.

"And it's you that'll be after beating my boy black and blue, is it, you miserable oshach?"

She waited for no reply, but just went straight for Mister Freeschal with a broom-handle, which she carried under her arm; and I'm really afraid that the boys and girls grinned as the dominie fled round and round the school, and finally took refuge in the pulpit, or desk.

Mrs. Nairn, for that was the good lady's name, had a visit from the minister next day, and it is said she received a most severe heckling, but, nevertheless, the teacher never dared touch that boy again. Johnnie Nairn became quite a hero, and the other pupils used to say:

"O, Johnnie, it's me that would like to have such a mother as you've got."

Sometimes a boy would be "one licking to the good." This happened when the dominie made a mistake and whacked the wrong youngster.

"Never mind, my lad," the schoolmaster would say; "you're one to the good. Don't forget to remind me of it next time I'm going to tawse you."

And the boy never did forget.

The teacher was no great favourite, you may be sure.

I suppose he ruled his wife by psychal force; it certainly could not have been by physical, for she weighed at least two of him.

There was a long peat-stack that the boys had to pass on their way from school, and near this Mrs. Freeschal would often be found, and she had always a kind word and a smile, and sometimes a pea-meal bannock for the urchins whose faces were all begrimed with tears.

In his daughter, Rachel, the dominie was quite bound up. She was a little thing of eight, with long fair hair, blue eyes, and brown bare legs and feet.

She ruled the boys as if she'd been a little queen, and even the girls had to be sweet to her. Some boys were so much in love with Rachel that if she gave one a smile and tossed her head defiantly and imperiously at another, there was sure to be a fight between the rivals on the way home that evening, resulting in torn kilts and bleeding noses, and sometimes a black eye.

This black-eye business was serious, because, whenever the dominie saw a boy so disfigured, he went for the tawse at once, and no questions were asked or answered. So before two boys began to fight it was no unusual thing to bargain that there should be "no hitting in the face."

* * * * *

Now it came to pass that before my little sturdy mite of a grandfather had been at this seminary quite six months, he had fought himself half-way up the school, that is, he could thrash about fifteen boys, and fifteen could thrash him. But he was conquering one every week at least.

So as he was so brave, and because he used to take his tawsings manfully and never cry, he began to be looked upon as a kind of hero in Rachel's eyes.

Rachel's father, when he paid a visit to Beauly, always came back with a pocketful of brandy-snaps and sugar-bools* for his wee daughter. Of course she ate most herself, but had always a few to expend on her boy favourites.

* Sugar-marbles.

The dominie didn't like boys not to cry when tawsed, and used to devise other modes of punishing them.

One of these was "keeping them in." That is, locking them up for an hour or two in the schoolroom after hours. There was an awful legend, too firmly believed in by the boys, that once upon a time a lad was locked up and forgotten, and how he fell asleep, and the rats ate two of his toes clean off.

So this mode of punishment was no favourite with the pupils, you may be sure.

One day Rachel slighted my grandfather—who thought he was madly in love with her. She put the point of her little tongue out at him and immediately after smiled most sweetly on a bigger boy, Kenneth McRae.

Of course my grandfather determined to fight Kenneth, but not content with that, he was so incensed at his heroine that he called her "little wretch," and she began to cry.

There was a drum-head court-martial at once. It was in vain that my grandfather pleaded that he meant "little Rache"; he was convicted, had six pandés on each hand, and was condemned to be kept in that beautiful spring evening for a whole hour after it was dark.

Rachel cried all that afternoon, and nobody could tell why.

The punishment was more than the boy could bear with anything akin to equanimity. It was bad enough while the sun still shone, but when that luminary began to sink, encrimsoning the clouds, and making the bull's eye in each pane of glass look like a little setting sun itself, then he began to grow impatient, to say the very least of it. If the dominie were to release him at once, then there might still be time to go home by the hill and the forest, because there were many birds' nests to visit.

I am not holding the prisoner up as a paragon of virtue in the way of bird-nesting. He did not rob them, simply because it had never occurred to him that there was any fun in making a collection of eggs. He had seen one such collection, and also a lot of stuffed birds at a barber's shop in Beauly, and being at heart a naturalist, he was much disgusted; the eggs had lost colour, and seemed dreadfully out of place, and the birds were dusty, their necks and legs all awry, and a perfectly idiotic stare in their glass eyes.

But I must give my daft morsel of a grandfather his due, and say he never robbed a nest. He would watch these nests from the very foundation; watch the strange architecture day after day till they were lined, and his pleasure at seeing the first bonnie egg was very real indeed. The birds, he told me, seemed all to know him, and look upon him as their champion. And so he was. If ever he met a much bigger boy in the forest, he lured him away in a diplomatic kind of way which was nearly always successful; if the boy was about his own size, he ordered him off, or stripped and fought him. So even at this early age I think my hero was an embryo soldier.

Well, on this particular evening he was sitting on a stool bemoaning his sad fate, when something like the tapping of a woodpecker fell on his ear.

He looked quickly up.

There was a face at the window, looking in at him through a hole which a snow-ball had made last winter.

"Ian!"

"She has come to laugh at me, I suppose," he said to himself.

"Ian!"

It was a still small and pitying voice. Sorrow in it, but no anger.

He went quickly towards the broken pane.

"Ian, I'se sorry for you."

"O, don't say that! I don't mind a tawsing, but kind words would make me cry. I wouldn't like to cry before you."

"No; you's a brave boy, and never cries. Ian! am I a little wretch?"

"No——o——; you're little Rachel!"

"Ian, put your mouf (mouth) up to the broken hole. Don't be sy (shy); I'm not going to tiss you. Boys is always sy."

Ian put his mouth up to the hole anyhow, and Rachel popped a sugar-bool in it, and watched him eat it with quite a womanly interest. Then she fed him with brandy-snaps, and finished off with two more bools.

"Now I'se off!" she cried. "I'se going to Beauly to fetch mammy and daddy home, then you'll be free."

Away she went, and the schoolroom looked darker now and more lonesome than ever. The sun had set too, leaving only a few red bars of cloud athwart the forest horizon.

He began pacing up and down like a caged wild beast, But he wasn't that quite. He felt a hero after the brandy-snaps and sugar-bools, and Rachel's kindly words.

"I won't stop here," he cried aloud. "There might be ghosts, or anything."

He gave the door a kick, and, as he did so, discovered that the key was in it, though on the outside.

Even had he known this before Rachel came to feed him, he was too manly to have asked her to rescue him. It would have brought trouble on her.

He began to think.

Ha! what a happy thought! He would climb up the chimney, slide down over the roof, and then turn the key and let himself out. It was a funny idea, but the very humour of it commended itself to him.

There was still light enough to read a portion of the good Book by; so this droll little grand-dad of mine sat down by the window, and read aloud for some time. Then, jumping up, he prepared for action. He stripped off his jacket, and vest, and kilt. He seldom wore a cap, only a towzie head of yellow hair.

He had nothing on now but his shirt; that would get black enough, but he could wash it in the burn.

He peeped fearfully up the chimney now, and could see the sky. He shuddered a little, but went boldly up, head first.

Alas! and alack! I don't quite know what "alack" means, but it doesn't matter. Anyhow, my grandfather stuck fast in the chimney.

Here was a plight, and he was half-choked, too, with the falling soot.

O! the agony of the next two hours! He gave himself up for lost; if he didn't die in the chimney, of soot-suffocation, he would be roasted alive next morning, when the fire was lit.

He said his prayers over and over again; then singular to say, he fell asleep, sound and fast.

How long he slept he could not tell himself, but, when he awoke, he made one more struggle for life and liberty, and succeeded. The rest would be easy.

But now let me tell you what befell the dominie. His wife, and he, and Rachel when she arrived, first stayed at a friend's house for supper, and at eight o'clock he set out alone to walk home, the whole of his family—that is, the whole lot of the two of them—remaining in Beauly for the night.

He had not forgotten his prisoner. He would get home by nine, he told himself, and, if the young rascal did get a scare, it would serve him right. Ah! little did he know just then where the scare was to come in. Now, those were the stupid old drinking days, when people believed that spirits warmed them and did them good, and all such silly nonsense. So when the dominie met a friend who invited him into an inn, poor prisoner Ian was soon forgotten.

It was long past twelve, but almost as bright as day, owing to the big, round moon that was shining, when the dominie rather unsteadily approached the school.

At this very time my grandfather was about to slide down, and so he saw the dominie advancing. Something must be done speedily. Like most people in this wild land, the schoolmaster was superstitious, and Ian seemed to know this.

First, then, he emitted the low, mournful cry of a barn owl. Next moment, with an eldritch yell, he dropped from aloft, right in front of the dominie. Such a sudden apparition, black from head to foot, was enough to frighten anyone.

The dominie was more than frightened—he was appalled; his hat fell off, his eyes bulged out, his arms were half-raised, and he looked like a chicken trying to fly.

"Wha—wha—where d'ye co—co—come from?" stammered the dominie.

My tricky little grand-da shrieked again, and pointed aloft; then down dropped the dominie, in a dwaum.*

* A dwaum: fainting brought on by fear.

Boy-like, Ian couldn't help giving the dominie's hat just one good kick; then he turned the key, gathered up his clothes, and made off towards the stream that ran through the ravine.

A bath at such a time of night was rather risky, but the occasion demanded it.

Next day Ian went to school as usual. The dominie eyed him narrowly, but said nothing. No doubt he thought that the adventure with the black sprite, or imp of darkness, was all a dream.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE CONSPIRATORS—A DEED OF DARKNESS—A FEAST TO
FOLLOW—STRANGE SCHOOL-CUSTOMS—A FIGHT IN THE
FOREST—LAST DAYS AT SCHOOL.

My grandfather grew, and kept on growing.

But Ian grew not merely in height, as some lads, who never take exercise nor the cold morning-tub, do, till they become lanky and thin and lantern-jawed, or fat and pasty, with faces like half-cooked dumplings, but in strength as well.

And though he was wild enough when free, he stuck to his books and slates at school.

He continued, however, to fight his way to the top of the school. But, though he was often tawsed, he was never kept in again.

This was very satisfactory, for that terrible adventure in the chimney he never could forget. The tawsing, however, was far from pleasant, and so when one day Tonal, the boy whom the teacher thrashed so unmercifully as to make the lad bear malice, came up to my grandfather in the play-ground, and said mysteriously that he wanted him that evening to go with him to the dark forest, where he would tell him something, a ready consent was given; for even at this early age my grandfather was fond of adventure.

Tonal, who was a great friend of Ian's, led him that night into a gloomy defile before he uttered a word. Then after looking around him, as if he feared they had been followed, he whispered words in grandfather's ears that made him start.

"You don't mean it surely?"

"I do," said Tonal, nodding.

"And the other boys are afraid?"

Tonal nodded again.

"You and I are friends, Tonal, aren't we?"

"Better than brothers."

"Then I will help you."

The two young rascals then shook hands in a most tragical way, as if the deed they were about to commit were nothing less than arson at the least.

Just three days after this, Tonal drew a caricature of the dominie, with a bottle of whisky sticking out of his pocket. This he held up for the inspection of the other boys, who tittered and laughed; then down flew the tawse, and Tonal picked it up and marched boldly to the front.

But the slate also had to be produced.

This was mutiny. Ten pandés on each hand, and to be kept in!

It was early spring, and night fell about eight o'clock, and a dark night it was.

Tonal would have been very much afraid in the lonesome schoolroom, had not the thoughts of what was to come buoyed him up.

At long last, the key turned softly in the door, and a mysterious voice gave the watchword:

"Hist!"

"I've got it," said Tonal, touching Ian's hand with the cold, snaky tawse.

"Well, come on then; I'll run and give the key back to little Rachel."

"Wasn't it in the door?"

"No."

Rachel was waiting at the peat-stack. She was trembling with fear.

"O, you good little Rachel," said my grandfather.

Then a sudden impulse caused him to take her in his arms and give her a rough kind of a hug. He had never gone so far in his sweethearting before, and now, though it was too dark to see it, his face was as red as a Christmas turkey's.

Rachel hurried back to hang up the key, and the boys flew off to the forest.

In a little glade a fire had already been laid, and soon its gleams were illuminating the brown stems of the pine-trees, and sparks like golden snow were carried high aloft in the rolling smoke.

With much pomp and ceremony, the conspirators laid the tawse on the gleaming wood, and sat down in silence, like a couple of stoical Indians, to see it consumed.

It had always felt like a snake; how like one it seemed now, and how it twisted and writhed, and twined and turned. It settled down at last into a fiery serpent, then it gradually crumbled away and disappeared.

After this the boys gave three such wild cheers that the very birds were scared, and some flew, screaming, away into the black darkness beyond.

A little feast now followed. They had provided themselves with bannocks and butter, with potatoes to roast, and a huge mountain trout to grill over the clear embers.

There is no doubt about one thing, they were entirely happy around this camp-fire, and, boy-like, must commence to talk about their prospects. Tonal was two years older than grandfather, and he was determined to be a soldier.

"I can beat the drum a little, you know, so they are sure to take me. And I may be a drum-major yet, you know."

"Well, I'm going to be a farmer," said my grandfather, "and have as many sheep as there are pine-trees in the forest. Then——"

"Then what?"

"Well then, you know, I'll marry Rachel."

Poor boys! Little did they know that

"There is a divinity that shapes our ends,
    Rough hew them as we will."

* * * * * *

The events that immediately succeeded their feast in the forest may soon be told.

1st. Tonal had already told his father, a very humble and poor cottar, that he would enlist.

"If it be the will of Heaven, go, my boy, and the Lord be ever with you."

This was of course spoken in Gaelic.

So Tonal did not go back to school to face the dominie's wrath. He would rather face the French.

2ndly. My grandfather did go back to school.

3rdly. The dominie went straight to Beauly and bought a bran-new tawse. But O, the irony of fate, my grandfather was the very first it was tried upon. And he didn't like it either.

Nevertheless, in spite of his frequent tawsings, this ancestor of mine continued to grow. It is just possible I am showing the worst side of his character. Perhaps I shouldn't. For he must always have been good-hearted. The boy is the father of the man; the boy I might say is the grandfather of the man.

I know one thing for certain, and that is this: he dearly loved his father and mother, and brothers and sister. He had only one sister.

The farm on the Braes was a good one and prolific, and Ian's sturdy father was revered and respected, an elder of the church, and one who brought up his children in the fear and admonition of the Lord, as it was termed. Every evening there were prayers, and morning prayers also. But this was quite the reverse of making the children restricted or sad.

Many a jovial dance was got up in the long winter evenings at Robertson's house, and on such occasions the father was as merry as the young people, and if he wasn't dancing among them he was beating time to the music of fiddle or bagpipe.

In the Highlands of Scotland the winters are usually long and stormy, but the peasantry and farmers have many pleasant ways of making it pass; so that, when at length he went out into the world, my grandfather had a very happy home to look back to.

School life, despite an occasional tawsing, was far indeed from unbearable.

There were one or two strange customs connected with the little Highland school that do not prevail nowadays. How would my reader like, for instance, to carry a peat to school with him every winter's morning? But this was what my grand-dad and all the other boys had to do. The girls were exempt.

If a boy forgot to bring his peat, he had his hands well warmed with the tawse, and he was not likely to forget next day.

These peats kept up not only the school fire but the dominie's family fire also.

Well, there was no disgrace in bringing a peat to school. Even the minister's son had to do it.

But the other custom I only mention to condemn.

It was a great cock-fight that took place before Christmas, or Old Yule rather, every year.

Every boy on this great day brought a cock to school with him, and the boy whose cock should be victor was proclaimed king of the school for the whole year, and was exempt from tawsing, except for specially aggravating conduct.

The cocks that were killed became the property of the dominie.

The fight, I am sorry to say, created considerable excitement in the parish, and the boys' parents came from far and near to witness it. I have been told, though I can scarcely believe it, that even the minister himself came to see the fun.

Sad fun; yes, and cowardly, cruel fun!

Nevertheless, when, on the evening of a great fight, my grandfather was duly crowned king, no prouder boy perhaps ever lived.

Even the cock that won him the honour and glory clapped his wings and crew over and over again, and to complete my grand-dad's happiness, little Rachel looked upon her hero as sweetly as an angel could have looked, though it could only be an angel of darkness who would attend a cock-fight.

As he sat next Rachel that evening, at a party which the dominie got up for the occasion, Ian felt his cup of bliss was not only full but overflowing. Rachel had on a lovely snow-white frock and scarf of Fraser tartan, and Ian was dressed in his Sunday's kilt with an eagle's feather in his bonnet.

As king he was asked to open the ball, and of course choose his partner.

Now duty whispered to him, "Ask Mrs. Freeschal to dance."

But duty was left in the lurch for once. One glance at Rachel's bonnie face, and next moment both were whirling through that very mazy dance—the Reel of Tulloch.

Tom Grahame, a much bigger and older boy than Ian, looked on at the dance with the green eye of jealousy.