“Shaws,” said he at last, “I’ll deal with the naked hand. It’s a queer tale, and no’ very creditable, the way you tell it; and I’m far frae minting that is other than the way that ye believe it. As for yoursel’, ye seem to me rather a dacent-like young man. But me, that’s aulder and mair judeecious, see perhaps a wee bit further forrit in the job than what ye can dae. And here is the maitter clear and plain to ye. There’ll be nae skaith to yoursel’ if I keep ye here; far frae that, I think ye’ll be a hantle better by it. There’ll be nae skaith to the kintry—just ae mair Hielantman hangit—Gude kens, a guid riddance! On the ither hand, it would be considerable skaith to me if I would let you free. Sae, speakin’ as a guid Whig, an honest freen’ to you, and an anxious freen’ to my ainsel’, the plain fact is that I think ye’ll just have to bide here wi’ Andie an’ the solans.”

“Andie,” said I, laying my hand upon his knee, “this Hielantman’s innocent.”

“Ay, it’s a peety about that,” said he. “But ye see, in this warld, the way God made it, we canna just get a’thing that we want.”

CHAPTER XV

BLACK ANDIE’S TALE OF TOD LAPRAIK

I have yet said little of the Highlanders. They were all three of the followers of James More, which bound the accusation very tight about their master’s neck. All understood a word or two of English; but Neil was the only one who judged he had enough of it for general converse, in which (when once he got embarked) his company was often tempted to the contrary opinion. They were tractable, simple creatures; showed much more courtesy than might have been expected from their raggedness and their uncouth appearance, and fell spontaneously to be like three servants for Andie and myself.

Dwelling in that isolated place, in the old falling ruins of a prison, and among endless strange sounds of the sea and the sea-birds, I thought I perceived in them early the effects of superstitious fear. When there was nothing doing they would either lie and sleep, for which their appetite appeared insatiable, or Neil would entertain the others with stories which seemed always of a terrifying strain. If neither of these delights were within reach—if perhaps two were sleeping and the third could find no means to follow their example—I would see him sit and listen and look about him in a progression of uneasiness, starting, his face blenching, his hands clutched, a man strung like a bow. The nature of these fears I had never an occasion to find out, but the sight of them was catching, and the nature of the place that we were in favourable to alarms. I can find no word for it in the English, but Andie had an expression for it in the Scots from which he never varied.

“Ay,” he would say, “it’s an unco place, the Bass.”

It is so I always think of it. It was an unco place by night, unco by day; and these were unco sounds, of the calling of the solans, and the plash of the sea and the rock echoes, that hung continually in our ears. It was chiefly so in moderate weather. When the waves were any way great they roared about the rock like thunder and the drums of armies, dreadful but merry to hear; and it was in the calm days that a man could daunt himself with listening—not a Highlandman only, as I several times experimented on myself, so many still, hollow noises haunted and reverberated in the porches of the rock.

This brings me to a story I heard, and a scene I took part in, which quite changed our terms of living, and had a great effect on my departure. It chanced one night I fell in a muse beside the fire and (that little air of Alan’s coming back to my memory) began to whistle. A hand was laid upon my arm, and the voice of Neil bade me to stop, for it was not “canny musics.”

“Not canny?” I asked. “How can that be?”

“Na,” said he; “it will be made by a bogle and her wanting ta heid upon his body.”13

“Well,” said I, “there can be no bogles here, Neil; for it’s not likely they would fash themselves to frighten solan geese.”

“Ay?” says Andie, “is that what ye think of it? But I’ll can tell ye there’s been waur nor bogles here.”

“What’s waur than bogles, Andie?” said I.

“Warlocks,” said he. “Or a warlock at the least of it. And that’s a queer tale, too,” he added. “And if ye would like, I’ll tell it ye.”

To be sure we were all of the one mind, and even the Highlander that had the least English of the three set himself to listen with all his might.

THE TALE OF TOD LAPRAIK

My faither, Tam Dale, peace to his banes, was a wild sploring lad in his young days, wi’ little wisdom and less grace. He was fond of a lass and fond of a glass, and fond of a ran-dan; but I could never hear tell that he was muckle use for honest employment. Frae ae thing to anither, he listed at last for a sodger, and was in the garrison of this fort, which was the first way that ony of the Dales cam to set foot upon the Bass. Sorrow upon that service! The governor brewed his ain ale; it seems it was the warst conceivable. The rock was proveesioned frae the shore with vivers, the thing was ill-guided, and there were whiles when they büt to fish and shoot solans for their diet. To crown a’, thir was the Days of the Persecution. The perishin’ cauld chalmers were a’ occupeed wi’ sants and martyrs, the saut of the yerd, of which it wasna worthy. And though Tam Dale carried a firelock there, a single sodger, and likit a lass and a glass, as I was sayin’, the mind of the man was mair just than set with his position. He had glints of the glory of the kirk; there were whiles when his dander rase to see the Lord’s sants misguided, and shame covered him that he should be hauldin’ a can’le (or carrying a firelock) in so black a business. There were nights of it when he was here on sentry, the place a’ wheesht, the frosts o’ winter maybe riving in the wa’s, and he would hear ane o’ the prisoners strike up a psalm, and the rest join in, and the blessed sounds rising from the different chalmers—or dungeons, I would raither say—so that this auld craig in the sea was like a pairt of Heev’n. Black shame was on his saul; his sins hove up before him muckle as the Bass, and above a’, that chief sin, that he should have a hand in hagging and hashing at Christ’s Kirk. But the truth is that he resisted the spirit. Day cam, there were the rousing compainions, and his guid resolves depairtit.

In thir days, dwalled upon the Bass a man of God, Peden the Prophet was his name. Ye’ll have heard tell of Prophet Peden. There was never the wale of him sinsyne, and it’s a question wi’ mony if there ever was his like afore. He was wild’s a peat-hag, fearsome to look at, fearsome to hear, his face like the day of judgment. The voice of him was like a solan’s and dinnled in folk’s lugs, and the words of him like coals of fire.

Now there was a lass on the rock, and I think she had little to do, for it was nae place for dacent weemen; but it seems she was bonny, and her and Tam Dale were very well agreed. It befell that Peden was in the gairden his lane at the praying when Tam and the lass cam by; and what should the lassie do but mock with laughter at the sant’s devotions? He rose and lookit at the twa o’ them, and Tam’s knees knoitered thegether at the look of him. But whan he spak, it was mair in sorrow than in anger. “Poor thing, poor thing!” says he, and it was the lass he lookit at, “I hear you skirl and laugh,” he says, “but the Lord has a deid shot prepared for you, and at that surprising judgment ye shall skirl but the ae time!” Shortly thereafter she was daundering on the craigs wi’ twa-three sodgers, and it was a blawy day. There cam a gowst of wind, claught her by the coats, and awa’ wi’ her, bag and baggage. And it was remarkit by the sodgers that she gied but the ae skirl.

Nae doubt this judgment had some weicht upon Tam Dale; but it passed again, and him nane the better. Ae day he was flyting wi’ anither sodger-lad. “Deil hae me!” quo’ Tam, for he was a profane swearer. And there was Peden glowering at him, gash an’ waefu’; Peden wi’ his lang chafts an’ luntin’ een, the maud happit about his kist, and the hand of him held out wi’ the black nails upon the finger-nebs—for he had nae care of the body. “Fy, fy, poor man!” cries he, “the poor fool man! Deil hae me, quo’ he; an’ I see the deil at his oxter.” The conviction of guilt and grace cam in on Tam like the deep sea; he flang doun the pike that was in his hands—“I will nae mair lift arms against the cause o’ Christ!” says he, and was as gude’s word. There was a sair fyke in the beginning, but the governor, seeing him resolved, gied him his dischairge, and he went and dwallt and merried in North Berwick, and had aye a gude name with honest folk frae that day on.

It was in the year seeventeen hunner and sax that the Bass cam in the hands o’ the Da’rymples, and there was twa men soucht the chairge of it. Baith were weel qualified, for they had baith been sodgers in the garrison, and kennt the gate to handle solans, and the seasons and values of them. Forbye that they were baith—or they baith seemed—earnest professors and men of comely conversation. The first of them was just Tam Dale, my faither. The second was ane Lapraik, whom the folk ca’d Tod Lapraik maistly, but whether for his name or his nature I could never hear tell. Weel, Tam gaed to see Lapraik upon this business, and took me, that was a toddlin’ laddie, by the hand. Tod had his dwallin’ in the lang loan benorth the kirkyaird. It’s a dark, uncanny loan, forbye that the kirk has aye had an ill name since the days o’ James the Saxt and the deevil’s cantrips played therein when the Queen was on the seas; and as for Tod’s house, it was in the mirkest end, and was little likit by some that kenned the best. The door was on the sneck that day, and me and my faither gaed straucht in. Tod was a wabster to his trade; his loom stood in the but. There he sat, a muckle fat, white hash of a man like creish, wi’ a kind of a holy smile that gart me scunner. The hand of him aye cawed the shuttle, but his een was steekit. We cried to him by his name, we skirled in the deid lug of him, we shook him by the shouther. Nae mainner o’ service! There he sat on his dowp, an’ cawed the shuttle and smiled like creish.

“God be guid to us,” says Tam Dale, “this is no’ canny!”

He had jimp said the word, when Tod Lapraik cam to himsel’.

“Is this you, Tam?” says he. “Haith, man! I’m blithe to see ye. I whiles fa’ into a bit dwam like this,” he says; “it’s frae the stamach.”

Weel, they began to crack about the Bass, and which of them twa was to get the warding o’t, and by little and little cam to very ill words, and twined in anger. I mind weel, that as my faither and me gaed hame again, he came ower and ower the same expression, how little he likit Tod Lapraik and his dwams.

“Dwam!” says he. “I think folk hae brunt for dwams like yon.”

Aweel, my faither got the Bass, and Tod had to go wantin’. It was remembered sinsyne what way he had ta’en the thing. “Tam,” says he, “ye hae gotten the better o’ me aince mair, and I hope,” says he, “ye’ll find at least a’ that ye expeckit at the Bass.” Which have since been thought remarkable expressions. At last the time came for Tam Dale to take young solans. This was a business he was weel used wi’, he had been a craigsman frae a laddie, and trustit nane but himsel’. So there was he, hingin’ by a line an’ speldering on the craig face, whaur it’s hieest and steighest. Fower tenty lads were on the tap, hauldin’ the line and mindin’ for his signals. But whaur Tam hung there was naething but the craig, and the sea below, and the solans skirling and flying. It was a braw spring morn, and Tam whustled as he claught in the young geese. Mony’s the time I heard him tell of this experience, and aye the swat ran upon the man.

It chanced, ye see, that Tam keekit up, and he was awaur of a muckle solan, and the solan pyking at the line. He thocht this by-ordinar and outside the creature’s habits. He minded that ropes was unco saft things, and the solan’s neb and the Bass Rock unco hard, and that twa hunner feet were raither mair than he would care to fa’.

“Shoo!” says Tam. “Awa’, bird! Shoo, awa’ wi’ ye!” says he.

The solan keekit doun into Tam’s face, and there was something unco in the creature’s ee. Just the ae keek it gied, and back to the rope. But now it wroucht and warstl’t like a thing dementit. There never was the solan made that wroucht as that solan wroucht; and it seemed to understand its employ brawly, birzing the saft rope between the neb of it and a crunkled jag o’ stane.

There gaed a cauld stend o’ fear into Tam’s heart. “This thing is nae bird,” thinks he. His een turnt backward in his heid and the day gaed black about him. “If I get a dwam here,” he thocht, “it’s by wi’ Tam Dale.” And he signalled for the lads to pu’ him up.

And it seemed the solan understood about signals. For nae sooner was the signal made than he let be the rope, spried his wings, squawked out loud, took a turn flying, and dashed straucht at Tam Dale’s een. Tam had a knife, he gart the cauld steel glitter. And it seemed the solan understood about knives, for nae suner did the steel glint in the sun than he gied the ae squawk, but laigher, like a body disappointit, and flegged aff about the roundness of the craig, and Tam saw him nae mair. And as sune as that thing was gane, Tam’s held drapt upon his shouther, and they pu’d him up like a deid corp, dadding on the craig.

A dram of brandy (which he went never without) broucht him to his mind, or what was left of it. Up he sat.

“Rin, Geordie, rin to the boat, mak’ sure of the boat, man—rin!” he cries, “or yon solan’ll have it awa’,” says he.

The fower lads stared at ither, an’ tried to whillywha him to be quiet. But naething would satisfy Tam Dale, till ane o’ them had startit on aheid to stand sentry on the boat. The ithers askit if he was for down again.

“Na,” says he, “and neither you nor me,” says he, “and as sune as I can win to stand on my twa feet we’ll be aff frae this craig o’ Sawtan.”

Sure eneuch, nae time was lost, and that was ower muckle; for before they won to North Berwick Tam was in a crying fever. He lay a’ the simmer; and wha was sae kind as come speiring for him but Tod Lapraik! Folk thocht afterwards that ilka time Tod cam near the house the fever had worsened. I kenna for that; but what I ken the best, that was the end of it.

It was about this time o’ the year; my grandfaither was out at the white fishing; and like a bairn, I büt to gang wi’ him. We had a grand take, I mind, and the way that the fish lay broucht us near in by the Bass, whaur we forgathered wi’ anither boat that belanged to a man Sandie Fletcher in Castleton. He’s no’ lang deid neither, or ye could speir at himsel’. Weel, Sandie hailed.

“What’s yon on the Bass?” says he.

“On the Bass?” says grandfaither.

“Ay,” says Sandie, “on the green side o’t.”

“Whatten kind of a thing?” says grandfaither. “There canna be naething on the Bass but just the sheep.”

“It looks unco like a body,” quo’ Sandie, who was nearer in.

“A body!” says we, and we nane of us likit that. For there was nae boat that could have broucht a man, and the key o’ the prison yett hung ower my faither’s heid at hame in the press bed.

We keept the twa boats closs for company, and crap in nearer hand. Grandfaither had a gless, for he had been a sailor, and the captain of a smack, and had lost her on the sands of Tay. And when we took the gless to it, sure eneuch there was a man. He was in a crunkle o’ green brae, a wee below the chaipel, a’ by his lee-lane, and lowped and flang and danced like a daft quean at a waddin’.

“It’s Tod,” says grandfaither, and passed the gless to Sandie.

“Ay, it’s him,” says Sandie.

“Or ane in the likeness o’ him,” says grandfaither.

“Sma’ is the differ,” quo’ Sandie. “Deil or warlock, I’ll try the gun at him,” quo’ he, and broucht up a fowling-piece that he aye carried, for Sandie was a notable famous shot in a’ that country.

“Haud your hand, Sandie,” says grandfaither; “we maun see clearer first,” says he, “or this may be a dear day’s wark to the baith of us.”

“Hout!” says Sandie, “this is the Lord’s judgments surely, and be damned to it!” says he.

“Maybe ay, and maybe no,” says my grandfaither, worthy man! “But have you a mind of the Procurator Fiscal, that I think ye’ll have forgathered wi’ before,” says he.

This was ower true, and Sandie was a wee thing set ajee. “Aweel, Edie,” says he, “and what would be your way of it?”

“Ou, just this,” says grandfaither. “Let me that has the fastest boat gang back to North Berwick, and let you bide here and keep an eye on Thon. If I canna find Lapraik, I’ll join ye, and the twa of us’ll have a crack wi’ him. But if Lapraik’s at hame, I’ll rin up the flag at the harbour, and ye can try Thon Thing wi’ the gun.”

Aweel, so it was agreed between them twa. I was just a bairn, an’ clum in Sandie’s boat, whaur I thocht I would see the best of the employ. My grandsire gied Sandie a siller tester to pit in his gun wi’ the leid draps, bein’ mair deidly again bogles. And then the ae boat set aff for North Berwick, an’ the tither lay whaur it was and watched the wanchancy thing on the brae-side.

A’ the time we lay there it lowped and flang and capered and span like a teetotum, and whiles we could hear it skelloch as it span. I hae seen lassies, the daft queans, that would lowp and dance a winter’s nicht, and still be lowping and dancing when the winter’s day cam in. But there would be folk there to hauld them company, and the lads to egg them on; and this thing was its lee-lane. And there would be a fiddler diddling his elbock in the chimney-side; and this thing had nae music but the skirling of the solans. And the lassies were bits o’ young things wi’ the reid life dinnling and stending in their members; and this was a muckle, fat, creishy man, and him fa’n in the vale o’ years. Say what ye like, I maun say what I believe. It was joy was in the creature’s heart; the joy o’ hell, I daursay: joy whatever. Mony a time I have askit mysel’, why witches and warlocks should sell their sauls (whilk are their maist dear possessions) and be auld, duddy, wrunkl’t wives, or auld, feckless, doddered men; and then I mind upon Tod Lapraik dancing a’ thae hours by his lane in the black glory of his heart. Nae doubt they burn for it in muckle hell, but they have a grand time here of it, whatever!—and the Lord forgie us!

Weel, at the hinder end, we saw the wee flag yirk up to the mast-heid upon the harbour rocks. That was a’ Sandie waited for. He up wi’ the gun, took a deleeberate aim, an’ pu’d the trigger. There cam a bang and then ae waefu’ skirl frae the Bass. And there were we, rubbin’ our een and lookin’ at ither like daft folk. For wi’ the bang and the skirl the thing had clean disappeared. The sun glintit, the wund blew, and there was the bare yerd whaur the Wonder had been lowping and flinging but ae second syne.

The hale way hame I roared and grat wi’ the terror of that dispensation. The grawn folk were nane sae muckle better; there was little said in Sandie’s boat but just the name of God; and when we won in by the pier, the harbour rocks were fair black wi’ the folk waitin’ us. It seems they had fund Lapraik in ane of his dwams, cawing the shuttle and smiling. Ae lad they sent to hoist the flag, and the rest abode there in the wabster’s house. You may be sure they likit it little; but it was a means of grace to severals that stood there praying in to themsel’s (for nane cared to pray out loud) and looking on thon awesome thing as it cawed the shuttle. Syne, upon a suddenty, and wi’ the ae dreidfu’ skelloch, Tod sprang up frae his hinderlands and fell forrit on the wab, a bluidy corp.

When the corp was examined the leid draps hadna played buff upon the warlock’s body; sorrow a leid drap was to be fund; but there was grandfaither’s siller tester in the puddock’s heart of him.

Andie had scarce done when there befell a mighty silly affair that had its consequence. Neil, as I have said, was himself a great narrator. I have heard since that he knew all the stories in the Highlands; and thought much of himself, and was thought much of by others, on the strength of it. Now Andie’s tale reminded him of one he had already heard.

“She would ken that story afore,” he said. “She was the story of Uistean More M’Gillie Phadrig and the Gavar Vore.”

“It is no sic a thing,” cried Andie. “It is the story of my faither (now wi’ God) and Tod Lapraik. And the same in your beard,” says he; “and keep the tongue of ye inside your Hielant chafts!”

In dealing with Highlanders it will be found, and has been shown in history, how well it goes with Lowland gentlefolk; but the thing appears scarce feasible for Lowland commons. I had already remarked that Andie was continually on the point of quarrelling with our three Macgregors, and now, sure enough, it was to come.

“Thir will be no words to use to shentlemans,” says Neil.

“Shentlemans!” cries Andie. “Shentlemans, ye Hielant stot! If God would gie ye the grace to see yoursel’ the way that ithers see ye, ye would throw your denner up.”

There came some kind of a Gaelic oath from Neil, and the black knife was in his hand that moment.

There was no time to think; and I caught the Highlander by the leg, and had him down, and his armed hand pinned out, before I knew what I was doing. His comrades sprang to rescue him, Andie and I were without weapons, the Gregara three to two. It seemed we were beyond salvation, when Neil screamed in his own tongue, ordering the others back, and made his submission to myself in a manner the most abject, even giving me up his knife, which (upon a repetition of his promises) I returned to him on the morrow.

Two things I saw plain: the first, that I must not build too high on Andie, who had shrunk against the wall and stood there, as pale as death, till the affair was over; the second, the strength of my own position with the Highlanders, who must have received extraordinary charges to be tender of my safety. But if I thought Andie came not very well out in courage, I had no fault to find with him upon the account of gratitude. It was not so much that he troubled me with thanks, as that his whole mind and manner appeared changed; and as he preserved ever after a great timidity of our companions, he and I were yet more constantly together.

CHAPTER XVI

THE MISSING WITNESS

On the seventeenth, the day I was trysted with the Writer, I had much rebellion against fate. The thought of him waiting in the “King’s Arms,” and of what he would think, and what he would say, when next we met, tormented and oppressed me. The truth was unbelievable, so much I had to grant, and it seemed cruel hard I should be posted as a liar and a coward, and have never consciously omitted what it was possible that I should do. I repeated this form of words with a kind of bitter relish, and re-examined in that light the steps of my behaviour. It seemed I had behaved to James Stewart as a brother might; all the past was a picture that I could be proud of, and there was only the present to consider. I could not swim the sea, nor yet fly in the air, but there was always Andie. I had done him a service, he liked me; I had a lever there to work on; if it were just for decency, I must try once more with Andie.

It was late afternoon; there was no sound in all the Bass but the lap and bubble of a very quiet sea; and my four companions were all crept apart, the three Macgregors higher on the rock, and Andie with his Bible to a sunny place among the ruins; there I found him in deep sleep, and, as soon as he was awake, appealed to him with some fervour of manner and a good show of argument.

“If I thocht it was to do guid to ye, Shaws!” said he, staring at me over his spectacles.

“It’s to save another,” said I, “and to redeem my word. What would be more good than that? Do ye no’ mind the scripture, Andie? And you with the Book upon your lap! What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world?”

“Ay,” said he, “that’s grand for you. But where do I come in? I have my word to redeem the same’s yoursel’. And what are ye asking me to do, but just to sell it ye for siller?”

“Andie! have I named the name of siller?” cried I.

“Ou, the name’s naething,” said he; “the thing is there, whatever. It just comes to this: if I am to service ye the way that you propose, I’ll lose my lifelihood. Then it’s clear ye’ll have to make it up to me, and a pickle mair, for your ain credit like. And what’s that but just a bribe? And if even I was certain of the bribe! But by a’ that I can learn, it’s far frae that; and if you were to hang, where would I be? Na: the thing’s no’ possible. And just awa’ wi’ ye like a bonny lad! and let Andie read his chapter.”

I remember I was at bottom a good deal gratified with this result; and the next humour I fell into was one (I had near said) of gratitude to Prestongrange, who had saved me, in this violent, illegal manner, out of the midst of my dangers, temptations, and perplexities. But this was both too flimsy and too cowardly to last me long, and the remembrance of James began to succeed to the possession of my spirits. The 21st, the day set for the trial, I passed in such misery of mind as I can scarce recall to have endured, save perhaps upon Isle Earraid only. Much of the time I lay on a brae-side betwixt sleep and waking, my body motionless, my mind full of violent thoughts. Sometimes I slept indeed; but the court-house of Inverary and the prisoner glancing on all sides to find his missing witness, followed me in slumber; and I would wake again with a start to darkness of spirit and distress of body. I thought Andie seemed to observe me, but I paid him little heed. Verily, my bread was bitter to me, and my days a burthen.

Early the next morning (Friday, 22nd) a boat came with provisions, and Andie placed a packet in my hand. The cover was without address but sealed with a Government seal. It enclosed two notes. “Mr. Balfour can now see for himself it is too late to meddle. His conduct will be observed and his discretion rewarded.” So ran the first, which seemed to be laboriously writ with the left hand. There was certainly nothing in these expressions to compromise the writer, even if that person could be found; the seal, which formidably served instead of signature, was affixed to a separate sheet on which there was no scratch of writing; and I had to confess that (so far) my adversaries knew what they were doing, and to digest as well as I was able the threat that peeped under the promise.

But the second enclosure was by far the more surprising. It was in a lady’s hand of writ. “Maister Dauvit Balfour is informed a friend was speiring for him, and her eyes were of the grey,” it ran—and seemed so extraordinary a piece to come to my hands at such a moment and under cover of a Government seal, that I stood stupid. Catriona’s grey eyes shone in my remembrance. I thought, with a bound of pleasure, she must be the friend. But who should the writer be, to have her billet thus enclosed with Prestongrange’s? And of all wonders, why was it thought needful to give me this pleasing but most inconsequential intelligence upon the Bass? For the writer, I could hit upon none possible except Miss Grant. Her family, I remembered, had remarked on Catriona’s eyes, and even named her for their colour; and she herself had been much in the habit to address me with a broad pronunciation, by way of a sniff, I supposed, at my rusticity. No doubt, besides, but she lived in the same house as this letter came from. So there remained but one step to be accounted for; and that was how Prestongrange should have permitted her at all in an affair so secret, or let her daft-like billet go in the same cover with his own. But even here I had a glimmering. For, first of all, there was something rather alarming about the young lady, and papa might be more under her domination than I knew. And second, there was the man’s continual policy to be remembered, how his conduct had been continually mingled with caresses, and he had scarce ever, in the midst of so much contention, laid aside a mask of friendship. He must conceive that my imprisonment had incensed me. Perhaps this little jesting, friendly message was intended to disarm my rancour?

I will be honest—and I think it did. I felt a sudden warmth towards that beautiful Miss Grant, that she should stoop to so much interest in my affairs. The summoning up of Catriona moved me of itself to milder and more cowardly counsels. If the Advocate knew of her and of our acquaintance—if I should please him by some of that “discretion” at which his letter pointed—to what might not this lead? In vain is the net spread in the sight of any fowl, the scripture says. Well, fowls must be wiser than folk! For I thought I perceived the policy, and yet fell in with it.

I was in this frame, my heart beating, the grey eyes plain before me like two stars, when Andie broke in upon my musing.

“I see ye hae gotten guid news,” said he.

I found him looking curiously in my face; with that, there came before me like a vision of James Stewart and the court of Inverary; and my mind turned at once like a door upon its hinges. Trials, I reflected, sometimes draw out longer than is looked for. Even if I came to Inverary just too late, something might yet be attempted in the interests of James—and in those of my own character, the best would be accomplished. In a moment, it seemed without thought, I had a plan devised.

“Andie,” said I, “is it still to be to-morrow?”

He told me nothing was changed.

“Was anything said about the hour?” I asked.

He told me it was to be two o’clock afternoon.

“And about the place?” I pursued.

“Whatten place?” says Andie.

“The place I’m to be landed at,” said I.

He owned there was nothing as to that.

“Very well, then,” I said, “this shall be mine to arrange. The wind is in the east, my road lies westward; keep your boat, I hire it; let us work up the Forth all day; and land me at two o’clock to-morrow at the westmost we’ll can have reached.”

“Ye daft callant!” he cried, “ye would try for Inverary after a’!”

“Just that, Andie,” says I.

“Weel, ye’re ill to beat!” says he. “And I was kind o’ sorry for ye a’ day yesterday,” he added. “Ye see, I was never entirely sure till then, which way of it ye really wantit.”

Here was a spur to a lame horse!

“A word in your ear, Andie,” said I. “This plan of mine has another advantage yet. We can leave these Hielandmen behind us on the rock, and one of your boats from the Castleton can bring them off to-morrow. Yon Neil has a queer eye when he regards you; maybe, if I was once out of the gate there might be knives again; these red-shanks are unco grudgeful. And if there should come to be any question, here is your excuse. Our lives were in danger by these savages; being answerable for my safety, you chose the part to bring me from their neighbourhood and detain me the rest of the time on board your boat: and do you know, Andie,” says I, with a smile, “I think it was very wisely chosen.”

“The truth is, I have nae goo for Neil,” says Andie, “nor he for me, I’m thinking; and I would like ill to come to my hands wi’ the man. Tam Anster will make a better hand of it with the cattle, onyway.” (For this man, Anster, came from Fife, where the Gaelic is still spoken.) “Ay, ay!” says Andie, “Tam’ll can deal wi’ them the best. And troth! the mair I think of it, the less I see what way we would be required. The place—ay, feggs! they had forgot the place. Eh, Shaws, ye’re a lang-heided chield when ye like! Forbye that I’m awing ye my life,” he added, with more solemnity, and offered me his hand upon the bargain.

Whereupon, with scarce more words, we stepped suddenly on board the boat, cast off, and set the lug. The Gregara were then busy upon breakfast, for the cookery was their usual part; but, one of them stepping to the battlements, our flight was observed before we were twenty fathoms from the rock; and the three of them ran about the ruins and the landing-shelf, for all the world like ants about a broken nest, hailing and crying on us to return. We were still in both the lee and the shadow of the rock, which last lay broad upon the waters, but presently came forth in almost the same moment into the wind and sunshine; the sail filled, the boat heeled to the gunwale, and we swept immediately beyond sound of the men’s voices. To what terrors they endured upon the rock, where they were now deserted without the countenance of any civilised person or so much as the protection of a Bible, no limit can be set, nor had they any brandy left to be their consolation, for even in the haste and secrecy of our departure Andie had managed to remove it.

It was our first care to set Anster ashore in a cove by the Glenteithy Rocks, so that the deliverance of our maroons might be duly seen to the next day. Thence we kept away up Firth. The breeze, which was then so spirited, swiftly declined, but never wholly failed us. All day we kept moving, though often not much more; and it was after dark ere we were up with the Queen’s Ferry. To keep the letter of Andie’s engagement (or what was left of it) I must remain on board, but I thought no harm to communicate with the shore in writing. On Prestongrange’s cover, where the Government seal must have a good deal surprised my correspondent, I writ, by the boat’s lantern, a few necessary words, and Andie carried them to Rankeillor. In about an hour he came aboard again, with a purse of money and the assurance that a good horse should be standing saddled for me by two to-morrow at Clackmannan Pool. This done, and the boat riding by her stone anchor, we lay down to sleep under the sail.

We were in the Pool the next day long ere two; and there was nothing left for me but sit and wait. I felt little alacrity upon my errand. I would have been glad of any passable excuse to lay it down; but, none being to be found, my uneasiness was no less great than if I had been running to some desired pleasure. By shortly after one the horse was at the water-side, and I could see a man walking it to and fro till I should land, which vastly swelled my impatience. Andie ran the moment of liberation very fine, showing himself a man of his bare word, but scarce serving his employers with a heaped measure; and by about fifty seconds after two I was in the saddle and on the full stretch for Stirling. In a little more than an hour I had passed that town and was already mounting Allan Water side, when the weather broke in a small tempest. The rain blinded me, the wind had nearly beat me from the saddle, and the first darkness of the night surprised me in a wilderness still some way east of Balwhidder, not very sure of my direction, and mounted on a horse that began already to be weary.

In the press of my hurry, and to be spared the delay and annoyance of a guide, I had followed (so far as it was possible for any horseman) the line of my journey with Alan. This I did with open eyes, foreseeing a great risk in it, which the tempest had now brought to a reality. The last that I knew of where I was, I think it must have been about Uam Var; the hour perhaps six at night. I must still think it great good fortune that I got about eleven to my destination, the house of Duncan Dhu. Where I had wandered in the interval perhaps the horse could tell. I know we were twice down, and once over the saddle and for a moment carried away in a roaring burn. Steed and rider were bemired up to the eyes.

From Duncan I had news of the trial. It was followed in all these Highland regions with religious interest; news of it spread from Inverary as swift as men could travel; and I was rejoiced to learn that, up to a late hour that Saturday, it was not yet concluded: and all men began to suppose it must spread over to the Monday. Under the spur of this intelligence I would not sit to eat; but, Duncan having agreed to be my guide, took the road again on foot, with the piece in my hand and munching as I went. Duncan brought with him a flask of usquebaugh and a hand-lantern; which last enlightened us just so long as we could find houses where to rekindle it, for the thing leaked outrageously and blew out with every gust. The more part of the night we walked blindfold among sheets of rain, and day found us aimless on the mountains. Hard by we struck a hut on a burn-side, where we got a bite and a direction: and, a little before the end of the sermon, came to the kirk-doors of Inverary.

The rain had somewhat washed the upper parts of me, but I was still bogged as high as to the knees; I streamed water; I was so weary I could hardly limp, and my face was like a ghost’s. I stood certainly more in need of a change of raiment and a bed to lie on than of all the benefits in Christianity. For all which (being persuaded the chief point for me was to make myself immediately public) I set the door open, entered that church with the dirty Duncan at my tails, and, finding a vacant place hard by, sat down.

“Thirteenthly, my brethren, and in parenthesis, the law itself must be regarded as a means of grace,” the minister was saying, in the voice of one delighting to pursue an argument.

The sermon was in English on account of the assize. The judges were present with their armed attendants, the halberts glittered in a corner by the door, and the seats were thronged beyond custom with the array of lawyers. The text was in Romans 5th and 13th—the minister a skilled hand; and the whole of that able churchful—from Argyle, and my Lords Elchies and Kilkerran, down to the halbertmen that came in their attendance—was sunk with gathered brows in a profound critical attention. The minister himself and a sprinkling of those about the door observed our entrance at the moment and immediately forgot the same; the rest either did not hear or would not heed; and I sat there amongst my friends and enemies unremarked.

The first that I singled out was Prestongrange. He sat well forward, like an eager horseman in the saddle, his lips moving with relish, his eyes glued on the minister; the doctrine was clearly to his mind. Charles Stewart, on the other hand, was half-asleep, and looked harassed and pale. As for Simon Fraser, he appeared like a blot, and almost a scandal, in the midst of that attentive congregation, digging his hands in his pockets, shifting his legs, clearing his throat, rolling up his bald eyebrows and shooting out his eyes to right and left, now with a yawn, now with a secret smile. At times too, he would take the Bible in front of him, run it through, seem to read a bit, run it through again, and stop and yawn prodigiously: the whole as if for exercise.

In the course of this restlessness his eye alighted on myself. He sat a second stupefied, then tore a half leaf out of the Bible, scrawled upon it with a pencil, and passed it with a whispered word to his next neighbour. The note came to Prestongrange, who gave me but the one look; thence it voyaged to the hands of Mr. Erskine; thence again to Argyle, where he sat between the other two lords of session, and his Grace turned and fixed me with an arrogant eye. The last of those interested to observe my presence was Charlie Stewart, and he too began to pencil and hand about despatches, none of which I was able to trace to their destination in the crowd.

But the passage of these notes had aroused notice; all who were in the secret (or supposed themselves to be so) were whispering information—the rest questions; and the minister himself seemed quite discountenanced by the flutter in the church and sudden stir and whispering. His voice changed, he plainly faltered, nor did he again recover the easy conviction and full tones of his delivery. It would be a puzzle to him till his dying day, why a sermon that had gone with triumph through four parts, should thus miscarry in the fifth.

As for me, I continued to sit there, very wet and weary, and a good deal anxious as to what should happen next, but greatly exulting in my success.

CHAPTER XVII

THE MEMORIAL

The last word of the blessing was scarce out of the minister’s mouth before Stewart had me by the arm. We were the first to be forth of the church, and he made such extraordinary expedition that we were safe within the four walls of a house before the street had begun to be thronged with the home-going congregation.

“Am I yet in time?” I asked.

“Ay and no,” said he. “The case is over; the jury is enclosed, and will be so kind as let us ken their view of it to-morrow in the morning, the same as I could have told it my own self three days ago before the play began. The thing has been public from the start. The panel kennt it, ‘Ye may do what ye will for me,’ whispers he two days ago. ‘I ken my fate by what the Duke of Argyle has just said to Mr. Macintosh.’ O, it’s been a scandal!

and the very macer cried ‘Cruachan!’ But now that I have got you again I’ll never despair. The oak shall go over the myrtle yet; we’ll ding the Campbells yet in their own town. Praise God that I should see the day!”

He was leaping with excitement, emptied out his mails upon the floor that I might have a change of clothes, and incommoded me with his assistance as I changed. What remained to be done, or how I was to do it, was what he never told me, nor, I believe, so much as thought of. “We’ll ding the Campbells yet!” that was still his owercome. And it was forced home upon my mind how this, that had the externals of a sober process of law, was in its essence a clan battle between savage clans. I thought my friend the Writer none of the least savage. Who, that had only seen him at a counsel’s back before the Lord Ordinary, or following a golf-ball and laying down his clubs on Bruntsfield links, could have recognised for the same person this voluble and violent clansman?

James Stewart’s counsel were four in number—Sheriffs Brown of Colstoun and Miller, Mr. Robert Macintosh and Mr. Stewart, younger of Stewart Hall. These were covenanted to dine with the Writer after sermon, and I was very obligingly included of the party. No sooner the cloth lifted, and the first bowl very artfully compounded by Sheriff Miller, than we fell to the subject in hand. I made a short narration of my seizure and captivity, and was then examined and re-examined upon the circumstances of the murder. It will be remembered this was the first time I had had my say out, or the matter at all handled, among lawyers; and the consequence was very dispiriting to the others and (I must own) disappointing to myself.

“To sum up,” said Colstoun, “you prove that Alan was on the spot; you have heard him proffer menaces against Glenure; and though you assure us he was not the man who fired, you leave a strong impression that he was in league with him, and consenting, perhaps immediately assisting, in the act. You show him besides, at the risk of his own liberty, actively furthering the criminal’s escape. And the rest of your testimony (so far as the least material) depends on the bare word of Alan or of James, the two accused. In short, you do not at all break, but only lengthen by one personage, the chain that binds our client to the murderer; and I need scarcely say that the introduction of a third accomplice rather aggravates that appearance of a conspiracy which has been our stumbling-block from the beginning.”

“I am of the same opinion,” said Sheriff Miller. “I think we may all be very much obliged to Prestongrange for taking a most uncomfortable witness out of our way. And chiefly, I think, Mr. Balfour himself might be obliged. For you talk of a third accomplice, but Mr. Balfour (in my view) has very much the appearance of a fourth.”

“Allow me, sirs!” interposed Stewart the Writer. “There is another view. Here we have a witness—never fash whether material or not—a witness in this cause, kidnapped by that old, lawless, bandit crew of the Glengyle Macgregors, and sequestered for near upon a month in a bourock of old cold ruins on the Bass. Move that and see what dirt you fling on the proceedings! Sirs, this is a tale to make the world ring with! It would be strange, with such a grip as this, if we couldna squeeze out a pardon for my client.”

“And suppose we took up Mr. Balfour’s cause to-morrow?” said Stewart Hall. “I am much deceived or we should find so many impediments thrown in our path, as that James should have been hanged before we had found a court to hear us. This is a great scandal, but I suppose we have none of us forgot a greater still, I mean the matter of the Lady Grange. The woman was still in durance; my friend Mr. Hope of Rankeillor did what was humanly possible; and how did he speed? He never got a warrant! Well, it’ll be the same now; the same weapons will be used. This is a scene, gentlemen, of clan animosity. The hatred of the name which I have the honour to bear rages in high quarters. There is nothing here to be viewed but naked Campbell spite and scurvy Campbell intrigue.”

You may be sure this was to touch a welcome topic, and I sat for some time in the midst of my learned counsel, almost deaved with their talk, but extremely little the wiser for its purport. The Writer was led into some hot expressions; Colstoun must take him up and set him right; the rest joined in on different sides, but all pretty noisy; the Duke of Argyle was beaten like a blanket; King George came in for a few digs in the by-going and a great deal of rather elaborate defence: and there was only one person that seemed to be forgotten, and that was James of the Glens.

Through all this Mr. Miller sat quiet. He was a slip of an oldish gentleman, ruddy and twinkling; he spoke in a smooth rich voice, with an infinite effect of pawkiness, dealing out each word the way an actor does, to give the most expression possible; and even now, when he was silent, and sat there with his wig laid aside, his glass in both hands, his mouth funnily pursed, and his chin out, he seemed the mere picture of a merry slyness. It was plain he had a word to say, and waited for the fit occasion.

It came presently. Colstoun had wound up one of his speeches with some expression of their duty to their client. His brother sheriff was pleased, I suppose, with the transition. He took the table in his confidence with a gesture and a look.

“That suggests to me a consideration which seems overlooked,” said he. “The interest of our client goes certainly before all, but the world does not come to an end with James Stewart.” Whereat he cocked his eye. “I might condescend, exempli gratia, upon a Mr. George Brown, a Mr. Thomas Miller, and a Mr. David Balfour. Mr. David Balfour has a very good ground of complaint, and I think, gentlemen—if his story was properly redd out—I think there would be a number of wigs on the green.”

The whole table turned to him with a common movement.

“Properly handled and carefully redd out, his is a story that could scarcely fail to have some consequence,” he continued. “The whole administration of justice, from its highest officer downward, would be totally discredited; and it looks to me as if they would need to be replaced.” He seemed to shine with cunning as he said it. “And I need not point out to ye that this of Mr. Balfour’s would be a remarkable bonny cause to appear in,” he added.

Well, there they all were started on another hare; Mr. Balfour’s cause, and what kind of speeches could be there delivered, and what officials could be thus turned out, and who would succeed to their positions. I shall give but the two specimens. It was proposed to approach Simon Fraser, whose testimony, if it could be obtained, would prove certainly fatal to Argyle and Prestongrange. Miller highly approved of the attempt. “We have here before us a dreeping roast,” said he, “here is cut-and-come-again for all.” And methought all licked their lips. The other was already near the end. Stewart the Writer was out of the body with delight, smelling vengeance on his chief enemy, the Duke.

“Gentlemen,” cried he, charging his glass, “here is to Sheriff Miller. His legal abilities are known to all. His culinary, this bowl in front of us is here to speak for. But when it comes to the poleetical!”—cries he, and drains the glass.

“Ay, but it will hardly prove politics in your meaning, my friend,” said the gratified Miller. “A revolution, if you like, and I think I can promise you that historical writers shall date from Mr. Balfour’s cause. But, properly guided, Mr. Stewart, tenderly guided, it shall prove a peaceful revolution.”

“And if the damned Campbells get their ears rubbed, what care I?” cries Stewart, smiting down his fist.

It will be thought I was not very well pleased with all this, though I could scarce forbear smiling at a kind of innocency in these old intriguers. But it was not my view to have undergone so many sorrows for the advancement of Sheriff Miller or to make a revolution in the Parliament House: and I interposed accordingly with as much simplicity of manner as I could assume.

“I have to thank you, gentlemen, for your advice,” said I. “And now I would like, by your leave, to set you two or three questions. There is one thing that has fallen rather on one side,—for instance: Will this cause do any good to our friend James of the Glens?”

They seemed all a hair set back, and gave various answers, but concurring practically in one point, that James had now no hope but in the King’s mercy.

“To proceed, then,” said I, “will it do any good to Scotland? We have a saying that it is an ill bird that fouls his own nest. I remember hearing we had a riot in Edinburgh when I was an infant child, which gave occasion to the late Queen to call this country barbarous; and I always understood that we had rather lost than gained by that. Then came the year ’Forty-five, which made Scotland to be talked of everywhere; but I never heard it said we had anyway gained by the ’Forty-five. And now we come to this cause of Mr. Balfour’s, as you call it. Sheriff Miller tells us historical writers are to date from it, and I would not wonder. It is only my fear they would date from it as a period of calamity and public reproach.”

The nimble-witted Miller had already smelt where I was travelling to, and made haste to get on the same road. “Forcibly put, Mr. Balfour,” says he. “A weighty observe, sir.”

“We have next to ask ourselves if it will be good for King George,” I pursued. “Sheriff Miller appears pretty easy upon this; but I doubt you will scarce be able to pull down the house from under him, without his Majesty coming by a knock or two, one of which might easily prove fatal.”

I gave them a chance to answer, but none volunteered.

“Of those for whom the case was to be profitable,” I went on, “Sheriff Miller gave us the names of several, among the which he was good enough to mention mine. I hope he will pardon me if I think otherwise. I believe I hung not the least back in this affair while there was life to be saved; but I own I thought myself extremely hazarded, and I own I think it would be a pity for a young man, with some idea of coming to the Bar, to ingrain upon himself the character of a turbulent, factious fellow before he was yet twenty. As for James, it seems—at this date of the proceedings, with the sentence as good as pronounced—he has no hope but in the King’s mercy. May not his Majesty, then, be more pointedly addressed, the characters of these high officers sheltered from the public, and myself kept out of a position which I think spells ruin for me?”

They all sat and gazed into their glasses, and I could see they found my attitude on the affair unpalatable. But Miller was ready at all events.

“If I may be allowed to put our young friend’s notion in more formal shape,” says he, “I understand him to propose that we should embody the fact of his sequestration, and perhaps some heads of the testimony he was prepared to offer, in a memorial to the Crown. This plan has elements of success. It is as likely as any other (and perhaps likelier) to help our client. Perhaps his Majesty would have the goodness to feel a certain gratitude to all concerned in such a memorial, which might be construed into an expression of a very delicate loyalty; and I think, in the drafting of the same, this view might be brought forward.”

They all nodded to each other, not without sighs, for the former alternative was doubtless more after their inclination.

“Paper then, Mr. Stewart, if you please,” pursued Miller; “and I think it might very fittingly be signed by the five of us here present, as procurators for the ‘condemned man.’”

“It can do none of us any harm at least,” says Colstoun, heaving another sigh, for he had seen himself Lord Advocate the last ten minutes.

Thereupon they set themselves, not very enthusiastically, to draft the memorial—a process in the course of which they soon caught fire; and I had no more ado but to sit looking on and answer an occasional question. The paper was very well expressed; beginning with a recitation of the facts about myself, the reward offered for my apprehension, my surrender, the pressure brought to bear upon me; my sequestration; and my arrival at Inverary in time to be too late; going on to explain the reasons of loyalty and public interest for which it was agreed to waive any right of action; and winding up with a forcible appeal to the King’s mercy on behalf of James.

Methought I was a good deal sacrificed, and rather represented in the light of a firebrand of a fellow whom my cloud of lawyers had restrained with difficulty from extremes. But I let it pass, and made but the one suggestion, that I should be described as ready to deliver my own evidence and adduce that of others before any commission of inquiry —and the one demand, that I should be immediately furnished with a copy.

Colstoun hummed and hawed. “This is a very confidential document,” said he.

“And my position towards Prestongrange is highly peculiar,” I replied. “No question but I must have touched his heart at our first interview, so that he has since stood my friend consistently. But for him, gentlemen, I must now be lying dead, or awaiting my sentence alongside poor James. For which reason I choose to communicate to him the fact of this memorial as soon as it is copied. You are to consider also that this step will make for my protection. I have enemies here accustomed to drive hard; his Grace is in his own country, Lovat by his side; and if there should hang any ambiguity over our proceedings I think I might very well awake in gaol.”

Not finding any very ready answer to these considerations, my company of advisers were at the last persuaded to consent, and made only this condition, that I was to lay the paper before Prestongrange with the express compliments of all concerned.

The Advocate was at the castle dining with his Grace. By the hand of one of Colstoun’s servants I sent him a billet asking for an interview, and received a summons to meet him at once in a private house of the town. Here I found him alone in a chamber; from his face there was nothing to be gleaned; yet I was not so unobservant but what I spied some halberts in the hall, and not so stupid but what I could gather he was prepared to arrest me there and then, should it appear advisable.

“So, Mr. David, this is you?” said he.

“Where I fear I am not overly welcome, my lord,” said I. “And I would like before I go further to express my sense of your lordship’s continued good offices, even should they now cease.”

“I have heard of your gratitude before,” he replied drily, “and I think this can scarce be the matter you called me from my wine to listen to. I would remember also, if I were you, that you still stand on a very boggy foundation.”

“Not now, my lord, I think,” said I; “and if your lordship will but glance an eye along this, you will perhaps think as I do.”

He read it sedulously through, frowning heavily; then turned back to one part and another which he seemed to weigh and compare the effect of. His face a little lightened.

“This is not so bad but what it might be worse,” said he; “though I am still likely to pay dear for my acquaintance with Mr. David Balfour.”

“Rather for your indulgence to that unlucky young man, my lord,” said I.

He still skimmed the paper, and all the while his spirits seemed to mend.

“And to whom am I indebted for this?” he asked presently. “Other counsels must have been discussed, I think. Who was it proposed this private method? Was it Miller?”

“My lord, it was myself,” said I. “These gentlemen have shown me no such consideration, as that I should deny myself any credit I can fairly claim, or spare them any responsibility they should properly bear. And the mere truth is, that they were all in favour of a process which should have remarkable consequences in the Parliament House, and prove for them (in one of their own expressions) a dripping roast. Before I intervened, I think they were on the point of sharing out the different law appointments. Our friend Mr. Simon was to be taken in upon some composition.”

Prestongrange smiled. “These are our friends!” said he. “And what were your reasons for dissenting, Mr. David?”

I told them without concealment, expressing, however, with more force and volume those which regarded Prestongrange himself.

“You do me no more than justice,” said he. “I have fought as hard in your interest as you have fought against mine. And how came you here to-day?” he asked. “As the case drew out, I began to grow uneasy that I had clipped the period so fine, and I was even expecting you to-morrow. But to-day—I never dreamed of it.”

I was not, of course, going to betray Andie.

“I suspect there is some very weary cattle by the road,” said I.

“If I had known you were such a moss-trooper you should have tasted longer of the Bass,” says he.

“Speaking of which, my lord, I return your letter.” And I gave him the enclosure in the counterfeit hand.

“There was the cover also with the seal,” said he.

“I have it not,” said I. “It bore not even an address, and could not compromise a cat. The second enclosure I have, and with your permission, I desire to keep it.”

I thought he winced a little, but he said nothing to the point. “To-morrow,” he resumed, “our business here is to be finished, and I proceed by Glasgow. I would be very glad to have you of my party, Mr. David.”

“My lord ...” I began.

“I do not deny it will be of service to me,” he interrupted. “I desire even that, when we shall come to Edinburgh, you should alight at my house. You have very warm friends in the Miss Grants, who will be overjoyed to have you to themselves. If you think I have been of use to you, you can thus easily repay me, and so far from losing, may reap some advantage by the way. It is not every strange young man who is presented in society by the King’s Advocate.”

Often enough already (in our brief relations) this gentleman had caused my head to spin; no doubt but what for a moment he did so again now. Here was the old fiction still maintained of my particular favour with his daughters, one of whom had been so good as laugh at me, while the other two had scarce deigned to remark the fact of my existence. And now I was to ride with my lord to Glasgow; I was to dwell with him in Edinburgh; I was to be brought into society under his protection! That he should have so much good-nature as to forgive me was surprising enough; that he could wish to take me up and serve me seemed impossible; and I began to seek for some ulterior meaning. One was plain. If I became his guest, repentance was excluded; I could never think better of my present design and bring any action. And besides, would not my presence in his house draw out the whole pungency of the memorial? For that complaint could not be very seriously regarded, if the person chiefly injured was the guest of the official most incriminated. As I thought upon this, I could not quite refrain from smiling.

“This is in the nature of a countercheck to the memorial?” said I.

“You are cunning, Mr. David,” said he, “and you do not wholly guess wrong; the fact will be of use to me in my defence. Perhaps, however, you underrate my friendly sentiments, which are perfectly genuine. I have a respect for you, Mr. David, mingled with awe,” says he, smiling.

“I am more than willing, I am earnestly desirous to meet your wishes,” said I. “It is my design to be called to the Bar, where your lordship’s countenance would be invaluable; and I am besides sincerely grateful to yourself and family for different marks of interest and of indulgence. The difficulty is here. There is one point in which we pull two ways. You are trying to hang James Stewart, I am trying to save him. In so far as my riding with you would better your lordship’s defence, I am at your lordship’s orders; but in so far as it would help to hang James Stewart, you see me at a stick.”

I thought he swore to himself. “You should certainly be called; the Bar is the true scene for your talents,” says he bitterly, and then fell a while silent. “I will tell you,” he presently resumed, “there is no question of James Stewart, for or against. James is a dead man; his life is given and taken—bought (if you like it better) and sold; no memorial can help—no defalcation of a faithful Mr. David hurt him. Blow high, blow low, there will be no pardon for James Stewart: and take that for said! The question is now of myself: am I to stand or fall? and I do not deny to you that I am in some danger. But will Mr. David Balfour consider why? It is not because I have pushed the case unduly against James; for that, I am sure of condonation. And it is not because I have sequestered Mr. David on a rock, though it will pass under that colour; but because I did not take the ready and plain path, to which I was pressed repeatedly, and send Mr. David to his grave or to the gallows. Hence the scandal—hence this damned memorial,” striking the paper on his leg. “My tenderness for you has brought me in this difficulty. I wish to know if your tenderness to your own conscience is too great to let you help me out of it?”

No doubt but there was much of the truth in what he said; if James was past helping, whom was it more natural that I should turn to help than just the man before me, who had helped myself so often, and was even now setting me a pattern of patience? I was besides not only weary, but beginning to be ashamed of my perpetual attitude of suspicion and refusal.

“If you will name the time and place, I will be punctually ready to attend your lordship,” said I.

He shook hands with me. “And I think my misses have some news for you,” says he, dismissing me.

I came away, vastly pleased to have my peace made, yet a little concerned in conscience; nor could I help wondering, as I went back, whether, perhaps, I had not been a scruple too good-natured. But there was the fact, that this was a man that might have been my father, an able man, a great dignitary, and one that, in the hour of my need, had reached a hand to my assistance. I was in the better humour to enjoy the remainder of that evening, which I passed with the advocates, in excellent company no doubt, but perhaps with rather more than a sufficiency of punch: for though I went early to bed I have no clear mind of how I got there.