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HUNTINGTOWER
JOHN BUCHAN


By JOHN BUCHAN
-
-
HUNTINGTOWER
THE PATH OF THE KING
MR. STANDFAST
GREENMANTLE
THE WATCHERS BY THE
THRESHOLD
SALUTE TO ADVENTURES
PRESTER JOHN
THE POWER HOUSE
THE THIRTY-NINE STEPS
THE BATTLE OF THE SOMME
NEW YORK: GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY


HUNTING TOWER
BY
JOHN BUCHAN
AUTHOR OF
GREENMANTLE, ETC.
G R O S S E T & D UN L A P
PU B L IS H E R S N E W Y O R K
Made in the United States of America


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COPYRIGHT, 1922,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
HUNTINGToweR. II
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


TO
W. P. KER
If the Professor of Poetry in the University of
Oxford has not forgotten the rock whence he was
hewn, this simple story may give him an hour of
entertainment. I offer it to you because I think you
have met my friend Dickson McCunn, and I dare
to hope that you may even in your many sojournings
in the Westlands have encountered one or other of
the Gorbals Die-Hards. If you share my kindly
feeling for Dickson, you will be interested in some
facts which I have lately ascertained about his an-
cestry. In his veins there flows a portion of the
redoubtable blood of the Nicol Jarvies. When the
Bailie, you remember, returned from his journey to
Rob Roy beyond the Highland Line, he espoused
his housekeeper Mattie, “an honest man's daughter
and a near cousin o’ the Laird o’ Limmerfield.”
The union was blessed with a son, who succeeded to
the Bailie's business and in due course begat daugh-
ters, one of whom married a certain Ebenezer
McCunn, of whom there is record in the archives of
the Hammermen of Glasgow. Ebenezer's grand-
son, Peter by name, was Provost of Kirkintilloch,
and his second son was the father of my hero by his
marriage with Robina Dickson, eldest daughter of
one Robert Dickson, a tenant-farmer in the Lennox.
So there are coloured threads in Mr. McCunn’s
pedigree, and, like the Bailie, he can count kin,
should he wish, with Rob Roy himself through “the
auld wife ayont the fire at Stuckavrallachan.”
Such as it is, I dedicate to you the story, and ask
for no better verdict on it than that of that pro-
found critic of life and literature, Mr. Huckleberry
Finn, who observed of the Pilgrim's Progress, that
he “considered the statements interesting, but
steep.”
p J. B.





CONTENTS
PROLOGUE e e s e e s leg :e' te
CHAPTER
I HOW A RETIRED PROVISION MERCHANT FELT
THE IMPULSE OF SPRING - - - e.
II OF MR. John HERITAGE AND THE DIFFERENCE
IN POINTS OF VIEW . . . . . .
III HOW CHILDE ROLAND AND ANOTHER CAME TO
THE DARK TOWER . . . . . .
IV DOUGAL, e e º e o e º e
W OF THE PRINCESS IN THE TOWER . . .
VI HOW MR. MCCUNN DEPARTED WITH RELIEF AND
RETURNED WITH RESOLUTION e - - -
VII SUNDRY DOINGS IN THE MIRK. . . . .
VIII HOW A MIDDLE-AGED CRUSADER ACCEPTED A
CHALLENGE . . . . . . .
IX THE FIRST BATTLE OF THE CRUIVES . . .
X DEALS WITH AN ESCAPE AND A JOURNEY .
XI GRAVITY OUT OF BED . . . . . .
XII HOW MR. MCCUNN COMMITTED AN ASSAULT
UPON AN ALLY . . . . . -
XIII THE COMING OF THE DANISH BRIG . • le."
XIV . THE SECOND BATTLE OF THE CRUIVES -> !e
THE GORBALS DIE-HARDS GO INTO ACTION -
*
IN WIHICH A PRINCESS LEAVES A DARK TOWER
AND A PROVISION MERCHANT RETURNS TO
HIS FAMILY - e e e - e le
rage
II
17
28
46
7o
85
II.4.
I35
I54
171
189
209
225
244
257
286
306





HUNTINGTOWER
/





HUNTINGTOWER
PROLOGUE
THE girl came into the room with a darting
movement like a swallow, looked round her
with the same birdlike quickness, and then ran
across the polished floor to where a young man sat
on a sofa with one leg laid along it.
“I have saved you this dance, Quentin,” she said,
pronouncing the name with a pretty staccato. “You
must be so lonely not dancing, so I will sit with you.
What shall we talk about?”
The young man did not answer at once, for his
gaze was held by her face. He had never dreamed
that the gawky and rather plain little girl whom he
had romped with long ago in Paris would grow into
such a being. The clean delicate lines of her figure,
the exquisite pure colouring of hair and skin, the
charming young arrogance of the eyes—this was
beauty, he reflected, a miracle, a revelation. Herº
virginal fineness and her dress, which was the tint
of pale fire, gave her the air of a creature of ice
and flame.
“About yourself, please, Saskia,” he said. “Are
you happy now that you are a grown-up lady?”
“Happy!” Her voice had a thrill in it like music,
11


PROLOGUE 13
had given him a high colour, which increased his
air of fragility. He felt a little choked by the
place, which seemed to him for both body and mind
a hot-house, though he knew very well that the
Nirski Palace on this gala evening was in no way
typical of the land or its masters. Only a week ago
he had been eating black bread with its owner in
a hut on the Volhynian front.
“You have become amazing, Saskia,” he said.
“I won't pay my old playfellow compliments; be-
sides, you must be tired of them. I wish you hap-
piness all the day long like a fairy-tale Princess.
But a crock like me can't do much to help you to it.
The service seems to be the wrong way round, for
here you are wasting your time talking to me.”
She put her hand on his. “Poor Quentin! Is
the leg very bad?”
He laughed. “Oh, no. It's mending famously.
I'll be able to get about without a stick in another
month, and then you've got to teach me all the new
dances.”
The jigging music of a two-step floated down the
corridor. It made the young man's brow contract,
for it brought to him a vision of dead faces in the
gloom of a November dusk. He had once had a
friend who used to whistle that air, and he had seen
him die in the Hollebeke mud. There was some-
thing macabre in the tune. . . . He was surely
morbid this evening, for there seemed something
macabre about the house, the room, the dancing, all
Russia. . . . These last days he had suffered from
a sense of calamity impending, of a dark curtain


14 HUNTINGTOWER
drawing down upon a splendid world. They didn't
agree with him at the Embassy, but he could not get
rid of the notion. -
The girl saw his sudden abstraction.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked. It
had been her favourite question as a child.
“I was thinking that I rather wished you were
still in Paris.”
“But why?”
“Because I think you would be safer.”
“Oh, what nonsense, Quentin dear! Where
should I be safe if not in my own Russia, where I
have friends—oh, so many, and tribes and tribes
of relations? It is France and England that are
unsafe with the German guns grumbling at their
doors. . . . My complaint is that my life is too
cosseted and padded. I am too secure, and I do
not want to be secure.”
The young man lifted a heavy casket from a table
at his elbow. It was of dark green imperial jade,
with a wonderfully carved lid. He took off the lid
and picked up three small oddments of ivory—a
priest with a beard, a tiny soldier and a draught-ox.
Putting the three in a triangle, he balanced the jade
box on them.
“Look, Saskia | If you were living inside that
box you would think it very secure. You would
note the thickness of the walls and the hardness of
the stone, and you would dream away in a peaceful
green dusk. But all the time it would be held up
by trifles—brittle trifles.”
She shook her head. “You do not understand.


PROLOGUE 15
You cannot understand. We are a very old and
strong people with roots deep, deep in the earth.”
“Please God you are right,” he said. “But,
Saskia, you know that if I can ever serve you, you
have only to command me. Now I can do no more
for you than the mouse for the lion—at the begin-
ning of the story. But the story had an end, you
remember, and some day it may be in my power to
help you. Promise to send for me.”
The girl laughed merrily. “The King of Spain's
daughter,” she quoted,
“Came to visit me,
And all for the love
Of my little nut-tree.”
The other laughed also, as a young man in the
uniform of the Preobrajenski Guard approached to
claim the girl. “Even a nut-tree may be a shelter
in a storm,” he said.
“Of course I promise, Quentin,” she said. “Au
revoir. Soon I will come and take you to supper,
and we will talk of nothing but nut-trees.”
He watched the two leave the room, her gown
glowing like a tongue of fire in the shadowy arch-
way. Then he slowly rose to his feet, for he
thought that for a little he would watch the danc-
ing. Something moved beside him, and he turned
in time to prevent the jade casket from crashing to
the floor. Two of the supports had slipped.
He replaced the thing on its proper table and
stood silent for a moment.


16 HUNTINGTOWER
“The priest and the soldier gone, and only the
beast of burden left. . . . If I were inclined to be
superstitious, I should call that a dashed bad omen.”


CHAPTER I
HOW A RETIRED PROVISION MERCHANT FELT THE
IMPULSE OF SPRING
MR. DICKSON McCUNN completed the pol-
ishing of his smooth cheeks with the towel,
glanced appreciatively at their reflection in the
looking-glass, and then permitted his eyes to stray
out of the window. In the little garden lilacs were
budding, and there was a gold line of daffodils be-
side the tiny greenhouse. Beyond the sooty wall a
birch flaunted its new tassels, and the jackdaws were
circling about the steeple of the Guthrie Memorial
Kirk. A blackbird whistled from a thorn-bush, and
Mr. McCunn was inspired to follow its example.
He began a tolerable version of “Roy's Wife of
Aldivalloch.”
He felt singularly light-hearted, and the immedi-
ate cause was his safety razor. A week ago he had
bought the thing in a sudden fit of enterprise, and
now he shaved in five minutes, where before he had
taken twenty, and no longer confronted his fellows,
at least one day in three, with a countenance ludi-
crously mottled by sticking-plaster. Calculation re-
vealed to him the fact that in his fifty-five years,
having begun to shave at eighteen, he had wasted
three thousand three hundred and seventy hours—
or one hundred and forty days—or between four
17


18 HUNTINGTOWER
and five months—by his neglect of this admirable
invention. Now he felt that he had stolen a march
on Time. He had fallen heir, thus late, to a for-
tune in unpurchasable leisure.
He began to dress himself in the sombre clothes
in which he had been accustomed for thirty-five
years and more to go down to the shop in Mearns
Street. And then a thought came to him which
made him discard the grey-striped trousers, sit down
on the edge of his bed, and muse.
Since Saturday the shop was a thing of the past.
On Saturday at half-past eleven, to the accompani-
ment of a glass of dubious sherry, he had completed
the arrangements by which the provision, shop in
Mearns Street, which had borne so long the legend
of D. McCunn, together with the branches in
Crossmyloof and the Shaws, became the property
of a company, yelept the United Supply Stores,
Limited. He had received in payment cash, deben-
tures and preference shares, and his lawyers and
his own acumen had acclaimed the bargain. But
all the week-end he had been a little sad. It was
the end of so old a song, and he knew no other tune
to sing. He was comfortably off, healthy, free from
any particular cares in life, but free too from any
particular duties. “Will I be going to turn into a
useless old man?” he asked himself.
But he had woke up this Monday to the sound
of the blackbird, and the world, which had seemed
rather empty twelve hours before, was now brisk
and alluring. His prowess in quick shaving assured
him of his youth. “I’m no' that dead old,” he


20 HUNTINGTOWER
odour of camphor. A pair of thick nailed boots
and a flannel shirt and collar completed the equip-
ment of the sportsman. He had another long look
at himself in the glass, and then descended whistling
to breakfast. This time the tune was “Macgregor's
Gathering,” and the sound of it stirred the grimy
lips of a man outside who was delivering coals—
himself a Macgregor—to follow suit. Mr. McCunn
was a very fountain of music that morning.
Tibby, the aged maid, had his newspaper and
letters waiting by his plate, and a dish of ham and
eggs frizzling near the fire. He fell to ravenously
but still musingly, and he had reached the stage of
scones and jam before he glanced at his cor-
respondence. There was a letter from his wife now
holidaying at the Neuk Hydropathic. She reported
that her health was improving, and that she had
met various people who had known somebody who
had known somebody else whom she had once
known herself. Mr. McCunn read the dutiful
pages and smiled. “Mamma's enjoying herself
fine,” he observed to the teapot. He knew that for
his wife the earthly paradise was a hydropathic,
where she put on her afternoon dress and every
jewel she possessed when she rose in the morning,
ate large meals of which the novelty atoned for the
nastiness, and collected an immense casual acquaint-
ance with whom she discussed ailments, ministers,
sudden deaths, and the intricate genealogies of her
class. For his part he rancorously hated hydro-
pathics, having once spent a black week under the
roof of one in his wife's company. He detested the


A RETIRED PROVISION MERCHANT 21
food, the Turkish baths (he had a passionate aver
sion to baring his body before strangers), the in-
ability to find anything to do and the compulsion to
endless small talk. A thought flitted over his mind
which he was too loyal to formulate. Once he and
his wife had had similar likings, but they had taken
different roads since their child died. Janet! He
saw again—he was never quite free from the sight
—the solemn little white-frocked girl who had died
long ago in the spring.
It may have been the thought of the Neuk Hydro-
pathic, or more likely the thin clean scent of the
daffodils with which Tibby had decked the table,
but long ere breakfast was finished the Great Plan
had ceased to be an airy vision and become a sober
well-masoned structure. Mr. McCunn–I may con-
fess it at the start—was an incurable romantic.
He had had a humdrum life since the day when
he had first entered his uncle's shop with the hope
of some day succeeding that honest grocer; and his
feet had never strayed a yard from his sober rut.
But his mind, like the Dying Gladiator's, had been
far away. As a boy he had voyaged among books,
and they had given him a world where he could
shape his career according to his whimsical fancy.
Not that Mr. McCunn was what is known as a
great reader. He read slowly and fastidiously, and
sought in literature for one thing alone. Sir Walter
Scott had been his first guide, but he read the novels
not for their insight into human character or for
their historical pageantry, but because they gave
him material wherewith to construct fantastic jour-


22 HUNTINGTOWER
neys. It was the same with Dickens. A lit tavern,
a stage-coach, post-horses, the clack of hoofs on a
frosty road, went to his head like wine. He was a
Jacobite not because he had any views on Divine
Right, but because he had always before his eyes
a picture of a knot of adventurers in cloaks, new
landed from France, among the western heather.
On this select basis he had built up his small
library—Defoe, Hakluyt, Hazlitt and the essayists,
Boswell, some indifferent romances and a shelf of
spirited poetry. His tastes became known, and he
acquired a reputation for a scholarly habit. He was
president of the Literary Society of the Guthrie
Memorial Kirk, and read to its members a variety
of papers full of a gusto which rarely became
critical. He had been three times chairman at
Burns Anniversary dinners, and had delivered ora-
tions in eulogy of the national Bard; not because he
greatly admired him—he thought him rather vulgar
—but because he took Burns as an emblem of the
un-Burns-like literature which he loved. Mr. Mc-
Cunn was no scholar and was sublimely unconscious
of background. He grew his flowers in his small
garden-plot oblivious of their origin so long as they
gave him the colour and scent he sought. Scent, I
say, for he appreciated more than the mere pictur-
esque. He had a passion for words and cadences,
and would be haunted for weeks by a cunning
phrase, savouring it as a connoisseur savours a vin-
tage. Wherefore long ago, when he could ill afford
it, he had purchased the Edinburgh Stevenson.
They were the only large books on his shelves, for


24 HUNTINGTOWER
It sounds a trivial resolve, but it quickened Mr.
McCunn to the depths of his being. A holiday, and
alonel On foot, of course, for he must travel
light. He would buckle on a pack after the ap-
proved fashion. He had the very thing in a drawer
upstairs, which he had bought some years ago at a
sale. That and a waterproof and a stick, and his
outfit was complete. A book, too, and, as he lit his
first pipe, he considered what it should be. Poetry,
clearly, for it was the Spring, and besides poetry
could be got in pleasantly small bulk. He stood
before his bookshelves trying to select a volume,
rejecting one after another as inapposite. Brown-
ing—Keats, Shelley—they seemed more suited for
the hearth than for the roadside. He did not want
anything Scots, for he was of opinion that Spring
came more richly in England and that English peo-
ple had a better notion of it. He was tempted by
the Oxford Anthology, but was deterred by its
thickness, for he did not possess the thin-paper edi-
tion. Finally he selected Izaak Walton. He had
never fished in his life, but The Compleat Angler
seemed to fit his mood. It was old and curious and
learned and fragrant with the youth of things. He
remembered its falling cadences, its country songs
and wise meditations. Decidedly it was the right
scrip for his pilgrimage.
Characteristically he thought last of where he was
to go. Every bit of the world beyond his front door
had its charms to the seeing eye. There seemed
nothing common or unclean that fresh morning.
Even a walk among coal-pits had its attractions.


A RETIRED PROVISION MERCHANT 25
. . . But since he had the right to choose, he lin-
gered over it like an epicure. Not the Highlands,
for Spring came late among their sour mosses.
Some place where there were fields and woods and
inns, somewhere, too, within call of the sea. It
must not be too remote, for he had no time to waste
on train journeys; nor too near, for he wanted a
countryside untainted. Presently he thought of
Carrick. A good green land, as he remembered it,
with purposeful white roads and public-houses
sacred to the memory of Burns; near the hills but
yet lowland, and with a bright sea chafing on its
shores. He decided on Carrick, found a map and
planned his journey.
Then he routed out his knapsack, packed it with
a modest change of raiment, and sent out Tibby to
buy chocolate and tobacco and to cash a cheque at
the Strathclyde Bank. Till Tibby returned he oc-
cupied himself with delicious dreams. . . . He saw
himself daily growing browner and leaner, swing-
ing along broad highways or wandering in bypaths.
He pictured his seasons of ease, when he unslung
his pack and smoked in some clump of lilacs by a
burnside—he remembered a phrase of Stevenson's
somewhat like that. He would meet and talk with
all sorts of folk; an exhilarating prospect, for Mr.
McCunn loved his kind. There would be the eve-
ning hour before he reached his inn, when, pleas-
antly tired, he would top some ridge and see the
welcoming lights of a little town. There would be
the lamp-lit after-supper time when he would read
and reflect, and the start in the gay morning, when


26 HUNTINGTOWER
tobacco tastes sweetest and even fifty-five seems
young. It would be holiday of the purest, for no
business now tugged at his coat-tails. He was be-
ginning a new life, he told himself, when he could
cultivate the seedling interests which had withered
beneath the far-reaching shade of the shop. Was
ever a man more fortunate or more free?
Tibby was told that he was going off for a week
or two. No letters need be forwarded, for he
would be constantly moving, but Mrs. McCunn at
the Neuk Hydropathic would be kept informed of
his whereabouts. Presently he stood on his door-
step, a stocky figure in ancient tweeds, with a bulg-
ing pack slung on his arm, and a stout hazel stick
in his hand. A passer-by would have remarked an
elderly shopkeeper bent apparently on a day in the
country, a common little man on a prosaic errand.
But the passer-by would have been wrong, for he
could not see into the heart. The plump citizen
was the eternal pilgrim; he was Jason, Ulysses,
Eric the Red, Albuquerque, Cortez—starting out to
discover new worlds. -
Before he left Mr. McCunn had given Tibby a
letter to post. That morning he had received an
epistle from a benevolent acquaintance, one Mack-
intosh, regarding a group of urchins who called
themselves the “Gorbals Die-Hards.” Behind the
premises in Mearns Street lay a tract of slums, full
of mischievous boys with whom his staff waged
truceless war. But lately there had started among
them a kind of unauthorised and unofficial Boy
Scouts, who, without uniform or badge or any kind


A RETIRED PROVISION MERCHANT 27
of paraphernalia, followed the banner of Sir Rob-
ert Baden-Powell and subjected themselves to a
rude discipline. They were far too poor to join
an orthodox troop, but they faithfully copied what
they believed to be the practices of more fortunate
boys. Mr. McCunn had witnessed their pathetic
parades, and had even passed the time of day with
their leader, a red-haired savage called Dougal.
The philanthropic Mackintosh had taken an interest
in the gang and now desired subscriptions to send
them to camp in the country.
Mr. McCunn, in his new exhilaration, felt that
he could not deny to others what he proposed for
himself. His last act before leaving was to send
Mackintosh ten pounds.


CHAPTER II
of MR. John HERITAGE AND THE DIFFERENCE IN
POINTS OF VIEW
Dickson McCUNN was never to forget the
first stage in that pilgrimage. A little after
midday he descended from a grimy third-class car-
riage at a little station whose name I have for-
gotten. In the village near-by he purchased some
new-baked buns and ginger biscuits, to which he was
partial, and followed by the shouts of urchins, who
admired his pack—“Look at the auld man gaun to
the schule”—he emerged into open country. The
late April noon gleamed like a frosty morning, but
the air, though tonic, was kind. The road ran over
sweeps of moorland where curlews wailed, and into
lowland pastures dotted with very white, very vocal
lambs. The young grass had the warm fragrance
of new milk. As he went he munched his buns, for
he had resolved to have no plethoric midday meal,
and presently he found the burnside nook of his
fancy, and halted to smoke. On a patch of turf
close to a grey stone bridge he had out his Walton
and read the chapter on “The Chavender or Chub.”
The collocation of words delighted him and in-
spired him to verse. “Lavender or Lub”—“Paven-
der or Pub”—Gravender or Grub”—but the mono-
syllables proved too vulgar for poetry. Regretfully
he desisted.
28


OF MB. JOHN HERITAGE 29
i
The rest of the road was as idyllic as the start.
He would tramp steadily for a mile or so and then
saunter, leaning over bridges to watch the trout in
the pools, admiring from a dry-stone dyke the un-
steady gambols of new-born lambs, kicking up dust
from strips of moor-burn on the heather. Once by
a fir-wood he was privileged to surprise three lunatic
hares waltzing. His cheeks glowed with the sun;
he moved in an atmosphere of pastoral, serene and
contented. When the shadows began to lengthen
he arrived at the village of Cloncae, where he pro-
posed to lie. The inn looked dirty, but he found
a decent widow, above whose door ran the legend
in home-made lettering, “Mrs. brockie tea and
Coffee,” and who was willing to give him quarters.
There he supped handsomely off ham and eggs, and
dipped into a work called Covenanting Worthies,
which garnished a table decorated with sea-shells.
At half-past nine precisely he retired to bed and
unhesitating sleep.
Next morning he awoke to a changed world.
The sky was grey and so low that his outlook was
bounded by a cabbage garden, while a surly wind
prophesied rain. It was chilly, too, and he had his
breakfast beside the kitchen fire. Mrs. Brockie
could not spare a capital letter for her surname on
the signboard, but she exalted it in her talk. He
heard of a multitude of Brockies, ascendant, de-
scendant and collateral, who seemed to be in a fair
way to inherit the earth. Dickson listened sympathet-
ically, and lingered by the fire. He felt stiff from
yesterday's exercise, and the edge was off his spirit.
• *


30 HUNTINGTOWER
The start was not quite what he had pictured.
His pack seemed heavier, his boots tighter, and his
pipe drew badly. The first miles were all uphill,
with a wind tingling his ears, and no colours in the
landscape but brown and grey. Suddenly he awoke
to the fact that he was dismal, and thrust the notion
behind him. He expanded his chest and drew in
long draughts of air. He told himself that this
sharp weather was better than sunshine. He re-
membered that all travellers in romances battled
with mist and rain. Presently his body recovered
comfort and vigour, and his mind worked itself
into cheerfulness.
He overtook a party of tramps and fell into talk
with them. He had always had a fancy for the
class, though he had never known anything nearer it
than city beggars. He pictured them as philosophic
vagabonds, full of quaint turns of speech, uncon-
scious Borrovians. With these samples his dis-
illusionment was speedy. The party was made up
of a ferret-faced man with a red nose, a draggle-
tailed woman, and a child in a crazy perambulator.
Their conversation was one-sided, for it immedi.
ately resolved itself into a whining chronicle of mis-
fortunes and petitions for relief. It cost him half
a crown to be rid of them.
The road was alive with tramps that day. The
next one did the accosting. Hailing Mr. McCunn
as “Guv'nor,” he asked to be told the way to Man-
chester. The objective seemed so enterprising that
Bickson was impelled to ask questions, and heard,
in what appeared to be in the accents of the


OF MR. JOHN HERITAGE 31.
t
Colonies, the tale of a career of unvarying calamity.
There was nothing merry or philosophic about this
adventurer. Nay, there was something menacing.
He eyed his companion's waterproof covetously, and
declared that he had had one like it which had been
stolen from him the day before. Had the place
been lonely he might have contemplated highway
robbery, but they were at the entrance to a village,
and the sight of a public-house awoke his thirst.
Dickson parted with him at the cost of sixpence for
a drink.
He had no more company that morning except an
aged stone-breaker whom he convoyed for half a
mile. The stone-breaker also was soured with the
world. He walked with a limp, which, he said, was
due to an accident years before, when he had been
run into by “ane o' thae damned velocipeeds.” The
word revived in Dickson memories of his youth,
and he was prepared to be friendly. But the an-
cient would have none of it. He inquired morosely
what he was after, and, on being told, remarked
that he might have learned more sense. “It’s a
daft-like thing for an auld man like you to be
traivellin' the roads. Ye maun be ill-off for a job.”
Questioned as to himself he became, as the news-
papers say, “reticent,” and having reached his bing
of stones, turned rudely to his duties. “Awa'hame
wi' ye,” were his parting words. “It's idle
scoondrels like you that maks wark for honest
folk like me.” -
The morning was not a success, but the strong
air had given Dickson such an appetite that he re-


32 HUNTINGTOWER
solved to break his rule, and, on reaching the little
town of Kilchrist, he sought luncheon at the chief
hotel. There he found that which revived his
spirits. A solitary bagman shared the meal, who
revealed the fact that he was in the grocery line.
There followed a well-informed and most technical
conversation. He was drawn to speak of the
United Supply Stores, Limited, of their prospects
and of their predecessor, Mr. McCunn, whom he
knew well by repute but had never met. “Yon's
the clever one,” he observed. “I’ve always said
there's no longer head in the city of Glasgow than
McCunn. An old-fashioned firm, but it has aye
managed to keep up with the times. He's just re-
tired, they tell me, and in my opinion it's a big
loss to the provision trade. . . .” Dickson's heart
glowed within him. . Here was Romance; to be
praised incognito; to enter a casual inn and find
that fame had preceded him. He warmed to the
bagman, insisted on giving him a liqueur and a
cigar, and finally revealed himself. “I'm Dickson
McCunn,” he said, “taking a bit holiday. If there's
anything I can do for you when I get back, just let
me know.” With mutual esteem they parted.
He had need of all his good spirits, for he
emerged into an unrelenting drizzle. The environs
of Kilchrist are at the best unlovely, and in the wet
they were as melancholy as a graveyard. But the
encounter with the bagman had worked wonders
with Dickson, and he strode lustily into the weather,
his waterproof collar buttoned round his chin. The
road climbed to a bare moor, where lagoons had


OF MR. JOHN HERITAGE 83
formed in the ruts, and the mist showed on each
side only a yard or two of soaking heather. Soon
he was wet; presently every part of him, boots,
body and pack, was one vast sponge. The water-
proof was not water-proof, and the rain penetrated
to his most intimate garments. Little he cared.
He felt lighter, younger, than on the idyllic previous
day. He enjoyed the buffets of the storm, and one
wet mile succeeded another to the accompaniment of
Dickson's shouts and laughter. There was no one
abroad that afternoon, so he could talk aloud to
himself and repeat his favourite poems. About
five in the evening there presented himself at the
Black Bull Inn at Kirkmichael a soaked, disrepu-
table, but most cheerful traveller.
Now the Black Bull at Kirkmichael is one of the
few very good inns left in the world. It is an old
place and an hospitable, for it has been for genera-
tions a haunt of anglers, who above all other men
understand comfort. There are always bright fires
there, and hot water, and old soft leather arm-
chairs, and an aroma of good food and good
tobacco, and giant trout in glass cases, and pictures
of Captain Barclay of Urie walking to London, and
Mr. Ramsay of Barnton winning a horse-race, and
the three-volume edition of the Waverley Novels
with many volumes missing, and indeed all those
things which an inn should have. Also there used
to be—there may still be—sound vintage claret in
the cellars. The Black Bull expects its guests to
arrive in every stage of dishevelment, and Dickson
was received by a cordial landlord, who offered dry


34 HUNTINGTOWER
garments as a matter of course. The pack proved
to have resisted the elements, and a suit of clothes
and slippers were provided by the house. Dickson,
after a glass of toddy, wallowed in a hot bath,
which washed all the stiffness out of him. He had
a fire in his bedroom, beside which he wrote the
opening passages of that diary he had vowed to
keep, descanting lyrically upon the joys of ill
weather. At seven o'clock, warm and satisfied in
soul, and with his body clad in raiment several sizes
too large for it, he descended to dinner.
At one end of the long table in the dining-room
sat a group of anglers. They looked jovial fellows,
and Dickson would fain have joined them; but, hav-
ing been fishing all day in the Loch o' the Threshes,
they were talking their own talk, and he feared that
his admiration for Izaak Walton did not qualify
him to butt into the erudite discussions of fishermen.
The landlord seemed to think likewise, for he drew
back a chair for him at the other end, where sat a
young man absorbed in a book. Dickson gave him
good evening and got an abstracted reply. The
young man supped the Black Bull's excellent broth
with one hand, and with the other turned the pages
of his volume. A glance convinced Dickson that
the work was French, a literature which did not
interest him. He knew little of the tongue and
suspected it of impropriety.
Another guest entered and took the chair oppo-
site the bookish young man. He was also young—
not more than thirty-three—and to Dickson's eye,
was the kind of person he would have liked to re-


OF MR. JOHN HERITAGE 35
semble. He was tall and free from any superfluous
flesh; his face was lean, fine-drawn and deeply sun-
burnt so that the hair above showed oddly pale; the
hands were brown and beautifully shaped, but the
forearm revealed by the loose cuffs of his shirt was
as brawny as a blacksmith's. He had rather pale
blue eyes, which seemed to have looked much at the
sun, and a small moustache the colour of ripe hay.
His voice was low and pleasant, and he pronounced
his words precisely, like a foreigner.
He was very ready to talk, but in defiance of Dr.
Johnson's warning, his talk was all questions. He
wanted to know everything about the neighbour-
hood—who lived in what houses, what were the dis-
tances between the towns, what harbours would
admit what class of vessel. Smiling agreeably, he
put Dickson through a catechism to which he knew
none of the answers. The landlord was called in,
and proved more helpful. But on one matter he
was fairly at a loss. The catechist asked about a
house called Darkwater, and was met with a shake
of the head. “I know no sic-like name in this coun-
tryside, sir,” and the catechist looked disappointed.
The literary young man said nothing, but ate
trout abstractedly, one eye on his book. The fish
had been caught by the anglers in the Loch o' the
Threshes, and phrases describing their capture
floated from the other end of the table. The young
man had a second helping, and then refused the
excellent hill mutton that followed, contenting him-
self with cheese. Not so Dickson and the catechist.
They ate everything that was set before them, top-


36 HUNTINGTOWER
ping up with a glass of port. Then the latter, who
had been talking illuminatingly about Spain, rose,
bowed and left the table, leaving Dickson, who liked
to linger over his meals, to the society of the
ichthyophagous student.
He nodded towards the book. “Interesting?”
he asked.
The young man shook his head and displayed the
name on the cover. “Anatole France. I used to
be crazy about him, but now he seems rather a back
number.” Then he glanced towards the just-
vacated chair. “Australian,” he said.
“How d'you know?”
“Can't mistake them. There's nothing else so
lean and fine produced on the globe to-day. I was
next door to them at Pozières and saw them fight.
Lord! Such men! Now and then you had a freak,
but most looked like Phoebus Apollo.”
Dickson gazed with a new respect at his neigh-
bour, for he had not associated him with battle-
fields. During the war he had been a fervent
patriot, but, though he had never heard a shot him-
self, so many of his friends' sons and nephews, not
to mention cousins of his own, had seen service,
that he had come to regard the experience as com-
monplace. Lions in Africa and bandits in Mexico
seemed to him novel and romantic things, but not
trenches and airplanes which were the whole world's
property. But he could scarcely fit his neighbour
into even his haziest picture of war. The young
man was tall and a little round-shouldered; he had
short-sighted, rather prominent brown eyes, untidy


OF MR. JOHN HERITAGE 37.
black hair and dark eyebrows which came near to
meeting. He wore a knickerbocker suit of bluish-
grey tweed, a pale blue shirt, a pale blue collar and
a dark blue tie—a symphony of colour which seemed
too elaborately considered to be quite natural.
Dickson had set him down as an artist or a news-
paper correspondent, objects to him of lively in-
terest. But now the classification must be reconsid-
ered.
“So you were in the war,” he said encouragingly.
“Four blasted years,” was the savage reply.
“And I never want to hear the name of the beastly
thing again.”
“You said he was an Australian,” said Dickson,
casting back. “But I thought Australians had a
queer accent, like the English.”
“They've all kind of accents, but you can never
mistake their voice. It's got the sun in it. Cana-
dians have got grinding ice in theirs, and Virginians
have got butter. So have the Irish. In Britain
there are no voices, only speaking tubes. It isn't
safe to judge men by their accent only. You your-
self I take to be Scotch, but for all I know you may
be a senator from Chicago or a Boer General.”
“I’m from Glasgow. My name's Dickson Mc-
Cunn.” He had a faint hope that the announcement
might affect the other as it had affected the bagman
at Kilchrist.
“Golly, what a name!” exclaimed the young man
rudely. -
Dickson was nettled. “It's very old Highland,”
he said. “It means the son of a dog.”
y


38 HUNTINGTOWER
“Which—Christian name or surname?” Then
the young man appeared to think he had gone too
far, for he smiled pleasantly. “And a very good
name too. Mine is prosaic by comparison. They
call me John Heritage.” -
“That,” said Dickson, mollified, “is like a name
out of a book. With that name by rights you
should be a poet.”
Gloom settled on the young man's countenance.
“It's a dashed sight too poetic. It's like Edwin
Arnold and Alfred Austin and Dante Gabriel Ros-
setti. Great poets have vulgar monosyllables for
names, like Keats. The new Shakespeare when he
comes along will probably be called Grubb or
Jubber, if he isn't Jones. With a name like
yours I might have a chance. You should be the
poet.” -
“I’m very fond of reading,” said Dickson mod-
estly.
A slow smile crumpled Mr. Heritage's face.
“There's a fire in the smoking-room,” he observed
as he rose. “We’d better bag the armchairs before
these fishing louts take them.” Dickson followed
obediently. This was the kind of chance acquaint-
ance for whom he had hoped, and he was prepared
to make the most of him.
The fire burned bright in the little dusky smoking-
room, lighted by one oil-lamp. Mr. Heritage flung
himself into a chair, stretched his long legs and lit
a pipe.
“You like reading?” he asked. “What sort?
Any use for poetry?”


OF MR. JOHN HERITAGE 39
“Plenty,” said Dickson. “I’ve aye been fond of
learning it up and repeating it to myself when I had
nothing to do. In church and waiting on trains,
like. It used to be Tennyson, but now it's more
Browning. I can say a lot of Browning.”
The other screwed his face into an expression of
disgust. “I know the stuff. “Damask cheeks and
dewy sister eyelids.” Or else the Ercles vein—
“God's in His Heaven, all's right with the world.”
No good, Mr. McCunn. All back numbers.
Poetry's not a thing of pretty round phrases or.
noisy invocations. It's life itself, with the tang of
the raw world in it—not a sweetmeat for middle-
class women in parlours.”
“Are you a poet, Mr. Heritage?”
“No, Dogson, I'm a paper-maker.”
This was a new view to Mr. McCunn. “I just
once knew a paper-maker,” he observed reflectively.
“They called him Tosh. He drank a bit.”
“Well, I don't drink,” said the other. “I’m a
paper-maker, but that's for my bread and butter.
Some day for my own sake I may be a poet.”
“Have you published anything?”
The eager admiration in Dickson's tone gratified
Mr. Heritage. He drew from his pocket a slim
book. “My firstfruits,” he said, rather shyly.
Dickson received it with reverence. It was a
small volume in grey paper boards with a white
label on the back, and it was lettered: “Whorls—
John Heritage's Book.” He turned the pages and
read a little. “It's a nice wee book,” he observed
at length.


40 HUNTINGTOWER
“Good God, if you call it nice, I must have failed
pretty badly,” was the irritated answer. -
Dickson read more deeply and was puzzled. It
seemed worse than the worst of Browning to
understand. He found one poem about a garden
entitled “Revue.” “Crimson and resonant clangs
the dawn,” said the poet. Then he went on to
describe noonday:
“Sunflowers, tall Grenadiers, ogle the roses' short-skirted
ballet.
The fumes of dark sweet wine hidden in frail petals
Madden the drunkard bees.”
This seemed to him an odd way to look at things,
and he boggled over a phrase about an “epicene
lily.” Then came evening: “The painted gauze of
the stars flutters in a fold of twilight crape,” sang
Mr. Heritage; and again, “The moon's pale leprosy
sloughs the fields.”
Dickson turned to other verses which apparently
enshrined the writer's memory of the trenches.
They were largely compounded of oaths, and rather
horrible, lingering lovingly over sights and smells
which every one is aware of, but most people con-
trive to forget. He did not like them. Finally he
skimmed a poem about a lady who turned into a
bird. The evolution was described with inti-
mate anatomical details which scared the honest
reader.
He kept his eyes on the book for he did not know
what to say. The trick seemed to be to describe


OF MR. JOHN HERITAGE 41
nature in metaphors mostly drawn from music-
halls and haberdashers' shops, and, when at a loss,
to fall to cursing. He thought it frankly very bad,
and he laboured to find words which would combine
politeness and honesty.
“Well?” said the poet. -
“There's a lot of fine things here, but—but the
lines don't just seem to scan very well.”
Mr. Heritage laughed. “Now I can place you
exactly. You like the meek rhyme and the conven-
tional epithet. Well, I don't. The world has
passed beyond that prettiness. You want the moon
described as a Huntress or a gold disc or a flower
—I say it's oftener like a beer barrel or a cheese.
You want a wealth of jolly words and real things
ruled out as unfit for poetry. I say there's nothing
unfit for poetry. Nothing, Dogson l Poetry's
everywhere, and the real thing is commoner among
drabs and pot-houses and rubbish heaps than in your
Sunday parlours. The poet's business is to distil it
out of rottenness, and show that it is all one spirit,
the thing that keeps the stars in their place. . . . I
wanted to call my book ‘Drains,’ for drains are
sheer poetry, carrying off the excess and discards
of human life to make the fields green and the corn
ripen. But the publishers kicked. So I called it
‘Whorls,” to express my view of the exquisite in-
volution of all things. Poetry is the fourth dimen-
sion of the soul. . . . Well, let's hear about your
taste in prose.”
Mr. McCunn was much bewildered, and a little
inclined to be cross. He disliked being called


42 HUNTINGTOWER
Togson, which seemed to him an abuse of his
etymological confidences. But his habit of polite-
ness held. -
He explained rather haltingly his preferences in
prose.
Mr. Heritage listened with wrinkled brows.
“You’re even deeper in the mud than I thought,”
he remarked. “You live in a world of painted laths
and shadows. All this passion for the picturesquel
Trash, my dear man, like a schoolgirl's novelette
heroes. You make up romances about gipsies and
sailors and the blackguards they call pioneers, but
you know nothing about them. If you did, you
would find they had none of the gilt and gloss you
imagine. But the great things they have got in
common with all humanity you ignore. It's like—
it's like sentimentalising about a pancake because it
looked like a buttercup, and all the while not know-
ing that it was good to eat.”
At that moment the Australian entered the room
to get a light for his pipe. He wore a motor-
cyclist's overalls and appeared to be about to take
the road. He bade them good night and it seemed
to Dickson that his face, seen in the glow of the
fire, was drawn and anxious, unlike that of the
agreeable companion at dinner.
“There,” said Mr. Heritage, nodding after the
departing figure. “I dare say you have been telling
yourself stories about that chap—life in the bush,
stock-riding and the rest of it. But probably he's a
bank-clerk from Melbourne. . . . Your romanti-
cism is one vast self-delusion and it blinds your eye
-


OF MR. JOHN HERITAGE 43
to the real thing. We have got to clear it out and
with it all the damnable humbug of the Kelt.”
Mr. McCunn, who spelt the word with a soft
“C,” was puzzled. “I thought a kelt was a kind
of a no-weel fish,” he interposed.
But the other, in the flood-tide of his argument,
ignored the interruption. “That's the value of the
war,” he went on. “It has burst up all the old con-
ventions, and we've got to finish the destruction be-
fore we can build. It is the same with literature
and religion and society and politics. At them with
the axe, say I. I have no use for priests and
pedants. I've no use for upper classes and middle
classes. There's only one class that matters, the
plain man, the workers, who live close to life.”
“The place for you,” said Dickson dryly, “is in
Russia among the Bolsheviks.”
Mr. Heritage approved. “They are doing a
great work in their own fashion. We needn't imi-
tate all their methods—they're a trifle crude and
have too many Jews among them—but they've got
hold of the right end of the stick. They seek truth
and reality.”
Mr. McCunn was slowly being roused.
“What brings you wandering hereaways?” he
asked. -
“Exercise,” was the answer. “I’ve been kept
pretty closely tied up all winter. And I want lei-.
sure and quiet to think over things.”
“Well, there's one subject you might turn your
attention to. You'll have been educated like a
'gentleman?”


44 HUNTINGTOWER
“Nine wasted years—five at Harrow, four at
Cambridge.”
“See here, then. You're daft about the working-
class and have no use for any other. But what in
the name of goodness do you know about working-
men? . . . I come out of them myself, and have
lived next door to them all my days. Take them
one way and another, they're a decent sort, good
and bad like the rest of us. But there's a wheen
daft folk that would set them up as models—close
to truth and reality, says you. It's sheer ignorance,
for you're about as well acquaint with the working-
man as with King Solomon. You say I make up
fine stories about tinklers and sailor-men because I
know nothing about them. That's maybe true.
But you're at the same job yourself. You ideelise
the working-man, you and your kind, because you're
ignorant. You say that he's seeking for truth, when
he's only looking for a drink and a rise in wages.
You tell me he's near reality, but I tell you that his
notion of reality is often just a short working day
and looking on at a footba'-match on Saturday.
. . . And when you run down what you call the
middle-classes that do three-quarters of the world's
work and keep the machine going and the working
man in a job, then I tell you you're talking havers.
Havers I”
Mr. McCunn, having delivered his defence of the
bourgeoisie, rose abruptly and went to bed. He
felt jarred and irritated. His innocent little private
domain had been badly trampled by this stray bull
of a poet. But as he lay in bed, before blowing out
f


OF MR. JOHN HERITAGE 45
his candle, he had recourse to Walton, and found
a passage on which, as on a pillow, he went peace-
fully to sleep:
“As I left this place, and entered into the next
field, a second pleasure entertained me; 'twas a
handsome milkmaid, that had not yet attained so
much age and wisdom as to load her mind with any
fears of many things that will never be, as too many
men too often do; but she cast away all care, and
sang like a nightingale; her voice was good, and the
ditty fitted for it; it was the smooth song that was
made by Kit Marlow now at least fifty years ago.
And the milkmaid's mother sung an answer to it,
which was made by Sir Walter Raleigh in his
younger days. They were old-fashioned poetry, but
choicely good; I think much better than the strong
lines that are now in fashion in this critical age.”


CHAPTER III
HOW CHILDE ROLAND AND ANOTHER CAME TO THE
DARK TOWER
Dick$9N wº with a vague sense of irritation.
As his recollections took form they produced
a very unpleasant picture of Mr. John Heritage.
The poet had loosened all his placid idols, so that
they shook and rattled in the niches where they had
been erstwhile so secure. Mr. McCunn had a mind
of a singular candour, and was prepared most hon-
estly at all times to revise his views. But by this
iconoclast he had been only irritated and in no way
convinced. “Sich poetry!” he muttered to himself
as he shivered in his bath (a daily cold tub instead
of his customary hot one on Saturday night being
part of the discipline of his holiday). “And yon
blethers about the working-man I" he ingeminated
as he shaved. He breakfasted alone, having out-
stripped even the fishermen, and as he ate he arrived
at conclusions. He had a great respect for youth,
but a line must be drawn somewhere. “The man's
a child,” he decided, “and not like to grow up. The
way he's besotted on everything daftlike, if it's only
new. And he's no rightly young either—speaks
like an auld dominie, whiles. And he's rather im-
pident,” he concluded, with memories of “Dogson.
. . . He was very clear that he never wanted to see
•
* * * *
,” “
46


CHILDE ROLAND AND ANOTHER 47
him again; that was the reason of his early break-
fast. Having clarified his mind by definitions, Dick-
son felt comforted. He paid his bill, took an affec-
tionate farewell of the landlord, and at 7.30 pre-
cisely stepped out into the gleaming morning.
It was such a day as only a Scots April can show.
The cobbled streets of Kirkmichael still shone with
the night's rain, but the storm clouds had fled before
a mild south wind, and the whole circumference of
the sky was a delicate translucent blue. Homely
breakfast smells came from the houses and de-
lighted Mr. McCunn's nostrils; a squalling child
was a pleasant reminder of an awakening world,
the urban counterpart to the morning song of birds;
even the sanitary cart seemed a picturesque vehicle.
He bought his ration of buns and ginger biscuits
at a baker's shop whence various ragamuffin boys
were preparing to distribute the householders'
bread, and took his way up the Gallows Hill to the
Burgh Muir almost with regret at leaving so pleas-
ant a habitation.
A chronicle of ripe vintages must pass lightly
over small beer. I will not dwell on his leisurely
progress in the bright weather, or on his luncheon
in a coppice of young firs, or on his thoughts which
had returned to the idyllic. I take up the narrative
at about three o'clock in the afternoon, when he is
revealed seated on a milestone examining his map.
For he had come, all unwitting, to a turning of the
ways, and his choice is the cause of this veracious
history.
The place was high up on a bare moor, which


48 HUNTINGTOWER
showed a white lodge among pines, a white cottage
in a green nook by a burnside, and no other marks
of human dwelling. To his left, which was the
east, the heather rose to a low ridge of hill, much
scarred with peat-bogs, behind which appeared the
blue shoulder of a considerable mountain. Before
him the road was lost momentarily in the woods
of a shooting-box, but reappeared at a great dis-
tance climbing a swell of upland which seemed to
be the glacis of a jumble of bold summits. There
was a pass there, the map told him, which led into
Galloway. It was the road he had meant to follow,
but as he sat on the milestone his purpose wavered.
For there seemed greater attractions in the country
which lay to the westward. Mr. McCunn, be it
remembered, was not in search of brown heath and
shaggy wood; he wanted greenéry and the Spring.
Westward there ran out a peninsula in the shape
of an isosceles triangle, of which his present high-
road was the base. At a distance of a mile or so
a railway ran parallel to the road, and he could see
the smoke of a goods train waiting at a tiny station
islanded in acres of bog. Thence the moor swept
down to meadows and scattered copses, above
which hung a thin haze of smoke which betokened
a village. Beyond it were further woodlands, not
firs but old shady trees, and as they narrowed to a
point the gleam of two tiny estuaries appeared on
either side. He could not see the final cape, but he
saw the sea beyond it, flawed with catspaws, gold
in the afternoon sun, and on it a small herring
smack flapping listless sails.


CHILDE ROLAND AND ANOTHER 49
Something in the view caught and held his fancy.
He conned his map, and made out the names. The
peninsula was called the Cruives—an old name ap-
parently, for it was in antique lettering. He
vaguely remembered that “cruives” had something
to do with fishing, doubtless in the two streams
which flanked it. One he had already crossed, the
Laver, a clear tumbling water springing from green
hills; the other, the Garple, descended from the
rougher mountains to the south. The hidden village
bore the name of Dalquharter, and the uncouth
syllables awoke some vague recollection in his mind.
The great house in the trees beyond—it must be a
great house, for the map showed large policies—
was Huntingtower.
The last name fascinated and almost decided him.
He pictured an ancient keep by the sea, defended
by converging rivers, which some old Comyn lord
of Galloway had built to command the shore road
and from which he had sallied to hunt in his wild
hills. . . . He liked the way the moor dropped
down to green meadows, and the mystery of the
dark woods beyond. He wanted to explore the twin
waters, and see how they entered that strange
shimmering sea. The odd names, the odd cul-de-sac
of a peninsula, powerfully attracted him. Why
should he not spend a night there, for the map
showed clearly that Dalquharter had an inn? He
must decide promptly, for before him a side-road
left the highway, and the signpost bore the legend,
“Dalquharter and Huntingtower.”
Mr. McCunn, being a cautious and pious man,


50 HUNTINGTOWER
took the omens. He tossed a penny—heads go on,
tails turn aside. It fell tails.
He knew as soon as he had taken three steps
down the side-road that he was doing something
momentous, and the exhilaration of enterprise
stole into his soul. It occurred to him that this
was the kind of landscape that he had always espe-
cially hankered after, and had made pictures of
when he had a longing for the country on him—a
wooded cape between streams, with meadows in-
land and then a long lift of heather. He had the
same feeling of expectancy, of something most in-
teresting and curious on the eve of happening, that
he had had long ago when he waited on the curtain
rising at his first play. His spirits soared like the
lark, and he took to singing. If only the inn at
Dalquharter were snug and empty, this was going
to be a day in ten thousand. Thus mirthfully he
swung down the rough grass-grown road, past the
railway, till he came to a point where heath began
to merge in pasture, and dry-stone walls split the
moor into fields. Suddenly his pace slackened and
song died on his lips. For, approaching from the
right by a tributary path, was the Poet.
Mr. Heritage saw him afar off and waved a
friendly hand. In spite of his chagrin Dickson
could not but confess that he had misjudged his
critic, Striding with long steps over the heather,
his jacket open to the wind, his face a-glow and his
capless head like a whin-bush for disorder, he cut
a more wholesome and picturesque figure than in


CHILDE ROLAND AND ANOTHER 51
the smoking-room the night before. He seemed
to be in a companionable mood, for he brandished
his stick and shouted greetings.
“Well met!” he cried; “I was hoping to fall in
with you again. You must have thought me a
pretty fair cub last night.”
“I did that,” was the dry answer.
“Well, I want to apologise. God knows what
made me treat you to a university-extension lecture.
I may not agree with you, but every man's entitled
to his own views, and it was dashed poor form
for me to start jawing you.”
Mr. McCunn had no gift of nursing anger, and
was very susceptible to apologies.
“That's all right,” he murmured. “Don’t men-
tion it. I'm wondering what brought you down
here, for it's off the road.”
“Caprice. Pure caprice. I liked the look of this
butt-end of nowhere.”
“Same here. I've aye thought there was some-
thing terrible nice about a wee cape with a village
at the neck of it and a burn each side.”
“Now that's interesting,” said Mr. Heritage.
“You’re obsessed by a particular type of landscape.
Ever read Freud’”
Dickson shook his head.
“Well, you've got an odd complex somewhere.
I wonder where the key lies. Cape—woods—two
rivers—moor behind. Ever been in love, Dog-
son?” -
Mr. McCunn was startled. “Love” was a word


52 HUNTINGTOWER
rarely mentioned in his circle except on death-beds.
“I’ve been a married man for thirty years,” he said
hurriedly.
“That won't do. It should have been a hopeless
affair—the last sight of the lady on a spur of coast
with water on three sides—that kind of thing, you
know. Or it might have happened to an ancestor.
. . . But you don't look the kind of breed for
hopeless attachments. More likely some scoun-
drelly old Dogson long ago found sanctuary in this
sort of place. Do you dream about it?”
“Not exactly.”
“Well, I do. The queer thing is that I've got
the same prepossession as you. As soon as I
spotted this Cruives place on the map this morn-
ing, I saw it was what I was after. When I came
in sight of it I almost shouted. I don't very often
dream, but when I do that's the place I frequent.
Odd, isn't it?”
Mr. McCunn was deeply interested at this un-
expected revelation of romance. “Maybe it's being
in love,” he daringly observed.
The Poet demurred. “No. I'm not a connois-
seur of obvious sentiment. That explanation might
fit your case, but not mine. I'm pretty certain
there's something hideous at the back of my com-
plex—some grim old business tucked away back in
the ages. For though I'm attracted by the place,
I'm frightened too!”
There seemed no room for fear in the delicate
landscape now opening before them. In front in
groves of birch and rowans smoked the first houses


CHILDE ROLAND AND ANOTHER 53
of a tiny village. The road had become a green
“loaning” on the ample margin of which cattle
grazed. The moorland still showed itself in spits
of heather, and some distance off, where a rivulet
ran in a hollow, there were signs of a fire and figures
near it. These last Mr. Heritage regarded with
disapproval.
“Some infernal trippers I” he murmured. “Or
Boy Scouts. They desecrate everything. Why
can't the tunicatus popellus keep away from a
paradise like this!” Dickson, a democrat who felt
nothing incongruous in the presence of other
holiday-makers, was meditating a sharp rejoinder,
when Mr. Heritage's tone changed.
“Ye gods! What a villagel” he cried, as they
turned a corner. There were not more than a
dozen whitewashed houses, all set in little gardens
of wallflower and daffodil and early fruit blossom.
A triangle of green filled the intervening space, and
in it stood an ancient wooden pump. There was
no schoolhouse or kirk; not even a post-office—
only a red box in a cottage side. Beyond rose the
high wall and the dark trees of the demesne, and
to the right up a by-road which clung to the park
edge stood a two-storeyed building which bore the
legend “The Cruives Inn.”
The Poet became lyrical. “At last!” he cried.
“The village of my dreams! Not a sign of com-
mercel No church or school or beastly recreation
hall! Nothing but these divine little cottages and
an ancient publ Dogson, I warn you, I'm going to
have the devil of a tea.” And he declaimed:


54 HUNTINGTOWER
“Thou shalt hear a song
After a while which Gods may listen to;
But place the flask upon the board and wait
Until the stranger hath allayed his thirst,
For poets, grasshoppers and nightingales
Sing cheerily but when the throat is moist.”
Dickson, too, longed with sensual gusto for tea.
But, as they drew nearer, the inn lost its hospitable
look. The cobbles of the yard were weedy, as if
rarely visited by traffic, a pane in a window was
broken, and the blinds hung tattered. The garden
was a wilderness, and the doorstep had not been
scoured for weeks. But the place had a landlord,
for he had seen them approach and was waiting at
the door to meet them.
He was a big man in his shirt sleeves, wearing
old riding breeches unbuttoned at the knees, and
thick ploughman's boots. He had no leggings, and
his fleshy calves were imperfectly covered with
woollen socks. His face was large and pale, his
neck bulged, and he had a gross unshaven jowl.
He was a type familiar to students of society; not
the innkeeper, which is a thing consistent with good
breeding and all the refinements; a type not un-
known in the House of Lords, especially among
recent creations, common enough in the House of
Commons and the City of London, and by no means
infrequent in the governing circles of Labour; the
type known to the discerning as the Licensed
Victualler.
His face was wrinkled in official smiles, and he
gave the travellers a hearty good afternoon.


CHILDE ROLAND AND ANOTHER 55
“Can we stop here for the night?" Dickson
asked.
The landlord looked sharply at him, and then
replied to Mr. Heritage. His expression passed
from official bonhomie to official contrition.
“Impossible, gentlemen. Quite impossible. . . .
Ye couldn't have come at a worse time. I've only
been here a fortnight myself, and we haven't got
right shaken down yet. Even then I might have
made shift to do with ye, but the fact is we've
illness in the house, and I’m fair at my wits' end.
It breaks my heart to turn gentlemen away and me
- that keen to get the business started. But there it
is l’” He spat vigorously as if to emphasise the
desperation of his quandary. -
The man was clearly Scots, but his native speech
was overlaid with something alien, something which
might have been acquired in America or in going
down to the sea in ships. He hitched his breeches,
too, with a nautical air.
“Is there nowhere else we can put up?” Dickson
asked.
“Not in this one-horse place. Just a wheen auld
wives that packed thegether they haven't room for
an extra hen. But it's grand weather, and it's not
above seven miles to Auchenlochan. Say the word
and I’ll yoke the horse and drive ye there.”
“Thank you. We prefer to walk,” said Mr.
Heritage. Dickson would have tarried to inquire
after the illness in the house, but his companion
hurried him off. Once he looked back, and saw the
landlord still on the doorstep gazing after them.


56 HUNTINGTOWER
“That fellow's a swine,” said Mr. Heritage
sourly. “I wouldn't trust my neck in his pothouse.
Now, Dogson, I'm hanged if I’m going to leave this
place. We'll find a corner in the village somehow.
Besides, I'm determined on tea.”
The little street slept in the clear pure light of an
early April evening. Blue shadows lay on the white
road, and a delicate aroma of cooking tantalised
hungry nostrils. The near meadows shone like pale
gold against the dark lift of the moor. A light
wind had begun to blow from the west and carried
the faintest tang of salt. The village at that hour
was pure Paradise, and Dickson was of the Poet's
opinion. At all costs they must spend the night
there. -
They selected a cottage whiter and neater than
the others, which stood at a corner, where a nar-
row lane turned southward. Its thatched roof had
been lately repaired, and starched curtains of a
dazzling whiteness decorated the small, closely-shut
windows. Likewise it had a green door and a pol-
ished brass knocker.
Tacitly the duty of envoy was entrusted to Mr.
McCunn. Leaving the other at the gate, he ad-
vanced up the little path lined with quartz stones,
and politely but firmly dropped the brass knocker.
He must have been observed, for ere the noise had
ceased the door opened, and an elderly woman
stood before him. She had a sharply-cut face, the
rudiments of a beard, big spectacles on her nose,
and an old-fashioned lace cap on her smooth white
hair. A little grim she looked at first sight, be-


CHILDE ROLAND AND ANOTHER 57
cause of her thin lips and Roman nose, but her
mild curious eyes corrected the impression and
gave the envoy confidence.
“Good afternoon, mistress,” he said, broadening
his voice to something more rustical than his normal
Glasgow speech. “Me and my friend are paying
our first visit here, and we're terrible taken up with
the place. We would like to bide the night, but the
inn is no' taking folk. Is there any chance, think
you, of a bed here?”
“I’ll no tell ye a lee,” said the woman. “There's
twae guid beds in the loft. But I dinna tak’ lodgers
and I dinna want to be bothered wi' ye. I'm an
auld wumman and no' as stoot as I was. Ye'd
better try doun the street. Eppie Home micht
tak’ ye.”
Dickson wore his most ingratiating smile. “But,
mistress, Eppie Home's house is no' yours. We've
taken a tremendous fancy to this bit. Can you no'
manage to put with us for the one night? We're
quiet auld-fashioned folk and we'll no' trouble you
much. Just our tea and maybe an egg to it, and
a bowl of porridge in the morning.”
The woman seemed to relent. “Whaur's your
freend?” she asked, peering over her spectacles
towards the garden gate. The waiting Mr. Heri-
tage, seeing her eyes moving in his direction, took
off his cap with a brave gesture and advanced.
“Glorious weather, Madam,” he declared.
“English,” whispered Dickson to the woman, in
explanation.
She examined the Poet's neat clothes and Mr.


58 HUNTINGTOWER
McCunn's homely garments, and apparently found
them reassuring. “Come in,” she said shortly.
“I see ye're wilfu' folk and I'll hae to dae my best
for ye.”
A quarter of an hour later the two travellers,
having been introduced to two spotless beds in the
loft, and having washed luxuriously at the pump in
the back yard, were seated in Mrs. Morran's
kitchen before a meal which fulfilled their wildest
dreams. She had been baking that morning, so
there were white scones and barley scones, and
oaten farles, and russet pancakes. There were
three boiled eggs for each of them; there was a
segment of an immense currant cake (“a present
from my guid brither last Hogmanay”); there was
skim-milk cheese; there were several kinds of jam,
and there was a pot of dark-gold heather honey.
“Try hinny and aitcake,” said their hostess. “My ,
man used to say he never fund onything as guid in
a' his days.”
Presently they heard her story. Her name was
Morran, and she had been a widow these ten years.
Of her family her son was in South Africa, one
daughter a lady's maid in London, and the other
married to a schoolmaster in Kyle. The son had
been in France fighting, and had come safely
through. He had spent a month or two with her
before his return, and, she feared, had found it dull.
“There's no’ a man body in the place. Naething
but auld wives.”
That was what the innkeeper had told them.
Mr. McCunn inquired concerning the inn.


CHILDE ROLAND AND ANOTHER 59
“There's new folk just come. What's this they
ca’ them?—Robson—Dobson—aye, Dobson. What
for wad they no’ tak’ ye in? Does the man think
he's a laird to refuse folk that gait?”
“He said he had illness in the house.”
Mrs. Morran meditated. “Whae in the world
can be lyin' there? The man bides his lane. He
got a lassie frae Auchenlochan to cook, but she and
her box gaed off in the post-cairt yestreen. I doot
he tell't ye a lee, though it's no for me to juidge
him. I've never spoken a word to ane o' thae new
folk.”
Dickson inquired about the “new folk.”
“They're a' new come in the last three weeks,
and there's no' a man o' the auld stock left. John
Blackstocks at the Wast Lodge dee'd o' pneumony
last back-end, and auld Simon Tappie at the Gair-
dens flitted to Maybole a year come Mairtinmas.
There's naebody at the Gairdens noo, but there's
a man come to the Wast Lodge, a blackavised body
wi' a face like bend-leather. Tam Robison used to
bide at the South Lodge, but Tam got killed about
Mesopotamy, and his wife took the bairns to her
guidsire up at the Garpleheid. I seen the man
that's in the South Lodge gaun up the street when
I was finishin' my denner—a shilpit body and a
lameter, but he hirples as fast as ither folk run.
He's no' bonny to look at. I canna think what the
factor's ettlin' at to let sic' ill-faured chiels come
about the toun.”
Their hostess was rapidly rising in Dickson's
esteem. She sat very straight in her chair, eating


60 HUNTINGTOWER
with the careful gentility of a bird, and primming
her thin lips after every mouthful of tea.
“Who bides in the Big House?” he asked.
“Huntingtower is the name, isn't it?”
“When I was a lassie they ca'ed it Dalquharter
Hoose, and Huntingtower was the auld rickle o'
stanes at the sea-end. But naething wad serve the
last laird's faither but he maun change the name,
for he was clean daft about what they ca' antickities.
Ye speir whae bides in the Hoose? Naebody,
since the young laird dee'd. It's standin' cauld and
lanely and steikit, and it aince the cheeriest dwallin'
in a' Carrick.”
Mrs. Morran's tone grew tragic. “It’s a queer
warld wi'out the auld gentry. My faither and my
guidsire and his faither afore him served the Ken-
nedys, and my man Dauvit Morran was gemkeeper
to them, and afore I mairried I was ane o' the table-
maids. They were kind folk, the Kennedys, and,
like a' the rale gentry, maist mindful o' them that
served them. Sic' merry nichts I've seen in the auld
Hoose, at Hallowe'en and Hogmanay, and at the
servants' balls and the waddin's o' the young
leddies l But the laird bode to waste his siller in
stane and lime, and hadna that much to leave to his
bairns. And now they've a' scattered or deid.”
Her grave face wore the tenderness which comes
from affectionate reminiscence.
“There was never sic a laddie as young Maister
Quentin. No' a week gaed by but he was in here,
cryin', 'Phemie Morran, I've come till my tea!'
Fine he likit my treacle scones, puir man. There


CHILDE ROLAND AND ANOTHER 61
wasna ane in the countryside sae bauld a rider at
the hunt, or sic a skeely fisher. And he was clever
at his books tae, a graund scholar, they said, and
ettlin' at bein’ what they ca' a dipplemat. But
that's a' bye wi'.”
“Quentin Kennedy—the fellow in the Tins?”
Heritage asked. “I saw him in Rome when he was
with the Mission.”
“I dinna ken. He was a brave sodger, but he
wasna long fechtin' in France till he got a bullet in
his breist. Syne we heard tell o' him in far awa’
bits like Russia; and syne cam' the end o' the war
and we lookit to see him back, fishin' the waters
and ridin' like Jehu as in the auld days. But was's
me! It wasna permitted. The next news we got,
the puir laddie was deid o' influenzy and buried
somewhere about France. The wanchancy bullet
maun have weakened his chest, nae doot. So
that's the end o' the guid stock o' Kennedy o'
Huntingtower, whae hae been great folk sin' the
time o' Robert Bruce. And noo the Hoose is shut
up till the lawyers can get somebody sae far left
to himsel' as to tak' it on lease, and in thae dear
days it's no' just onybody that wants a muckle
castle.”
“Who are the lawyers?” Dickson asked.
“Glendonan and Speirs in Embro. But they
never look near the place, and Maister Loudoun
in Auchenlochan does the factorin'. He's let the
public an' filled the twae lodges, and he'll be thinkin'
nae doot that he's done eneuch.”
Mrs. Morran had poured some hot water into


CHILDE ROLAND AND ANOTHER 63
The noise brought a man to the lodge door. He
was a sturdy fellow in a suit of black clothes which
had not been made for him. He might have been a
butler en deshabille, but for the presence of a pair.
of field boots into which he had tucked the ends of
his trousers. The curious thing about him was his
face, which was decorated with features so tiny as
to give the impression of a monstrous child. Each
in itself was well enough formed, but eyes, nose,
mouth, chin were of a smallness curiously out of
proportion to the head and body. Such an anomaly
might have been redeemed by the expression; good-
humour would have invested it with an air of agree-
able farce. But there was no friendliness in the
man's face. It was set like a judge's in a stony
impassiveness.
“May we walk up to the House?” Heritage
asked. “We are here for a night and should like
to have a look at it.”
The man advanced a step. He had either a bad
cold, or a voice comparable in size to his features.
“There's no entrance here,” he said huskily. “I
have strict orders.”
“Oh, come now,” said Heritage. “It can do
nobody any harm if you let us in for half an hour.”
The man advanced another step.
“You shall not come in. Go away from here.
Go away, I tell you. It is private.” The words
spoken by the small mouth in the small voice had
a kind of childish ferocity.
The travellers turned their back on him and con-
tinued their way.


66 HUNTINGTOWER
liaison job. It was Easter time and fine weather
and, being glad to get out of the trenches, I was
pretty well pleased with myself and enjoying life.
. . . In the place where I stayed there was a girl.
She was a Russian, a princess of a great family, but
a refugee and of course as poor as sin. . . . I re-
member how badly dressed she was among all the
well-to-do Romans. But, my God, what a beauty!
There was never anything in the world like her.
. . . She was little more than a child, and she used
to sing that air in the morning as she went down the
stairs. . . . They sent me back to the front before
I had a chance of getting to know her, but she used
to give me little timid good mornings, and her voice
and eyes were like an angel's. . . . I'm over my
head in love, but it's hopeless, quite hopeless. I
shall never see her again.”
“I’m sure I'm honoured by your confidence,” said
Dickson reverently.
The Poet, who seemed to draw exhilaration from
the memory of his sorrows, arose and fetched him
a clout on the back. “Don’t talk of confidence as
if you were a reporter,” he said. “What about
that House? If we're to see it before the dark
comes we'd better hustle.”
The green slopes on their left, as they ran sea-
ward, were clothed towards their summit with a
tangle of broom and light scrub. The two forced
their way through this, and found to their surprise
that on this side there were no defences of the
Huntingtower demesne. Along the crest ran a path
which had once been gravelled and trimmed. Be-


CHILDE ROLAND AND ANOTHER 67
yond through a thicket of laurels and rhododen-
drons they came on a long unkempt aisle of grass,
which seemed to be one of those side avenues often
found in connection with old Scots dwellings. Keep-
ing along this they reached a grove of beech and
holly through which showed a dim shape of ma-
sonry. By a common impulse they moved stealth-
ily, crouching in cover, till at the far side of the
wood they found a sunk fence and looked over an
acre or two of what had once been lawn and flower-
beds to the front of the mansion.
The outline of the building was clearly silhouetted
against the glowing west, but since they were look-
ing at the east face the detail was all in shadow.
But, dim as it was, the sight was enough to give
Dickson the surprise of his life. He had expected
something old and baronial. But this was new,
raw and new, not twenty years built. Some mad-
ness had prompted its creator to set up a replica of
a Tudor house in a countryside where the thing
was unheard of. All the tricks were there—oriel
windows, lozenged panes, high twisted chimney
stacks; the very stone was red, as if to imitate the
mellow brick of some ancient Kentish manor. It
was new, but it was also decaying. The creepers
had fallen from the walls, the pilasters on the ter-
race were tumbling down, lichen and moss were on
the doorsteps. Shuttered, silent, abandoned, it
stood like a harsh memento mori of human hopes.
Dickson had never before been affected by an
inanimate thing with so strong a sense of disquiet.
He had pictured an old stone tower on a bright


68 HUNTINGTOWER
headland; he found instead this raw thing among
trees. The decadence of the brand-new repels as
something against nature, and this new thing was
decadent. But there was a mysterious life in it, for
though not a chimney smoked, it seemed to enshrine
a personality and to wear a sinister aura. He felt
a lively distaste, which was almost fear. He
wanted to get far away from it as fast as possible.
The sun, now sinking very low, sent up rays which
kindled the crests of a group of firs to the left of
the front door. He had the absurd fancy that they
were torches flaming before a bier.
It was well that the two had moved quietly and
kept in shadow. Footsteps fell on their ears, on
the path which threaded the lawn just beyond the
sunk-fence. It was the keeper of the West Lodge
and he carried something on his back, but both that
and his face were indistinct in the half-light.
Other footsteps were heard, coming from the
other side of the lawn. A man's shod feet rang on
the stone of a flagged path, and from their irregular
fall it was plain that he was lame. The two men
met near the door, and spoke together. Then they
separated, and moved one down each side of the
house. To the two watchers they had the air of a
patrol, or of warders pacing the corridors of a
prison.
“Let's get out of this,” said Dickson, and turned
to go.
The air had the curious stillness which precedes
the moment of sunset, when the birds of day have
stopped their noises and the sounds of night have


CHILDE ROLAND AND ANOTHER 69
not begun. But suddenly in the silence fell notes of
music. They seemed to come from the house, a
voice singing softly but with great beauty and
clearness.
Dickson halted in his steps. The tune, whatever
it was, was like a fresh wind to blow aside his de-
pression. The house no longer looked sepulchral.
He saw that the two men had hurried back from
their patrol, had met and exchanged some message,
and made off again as if alarmed by the music.
Then he noticed his companion. . . .
Heritage was on one knee with his face rapt and
listening. He got to his feet and appeared to be
about to make for the House. Dickson caught him
by the arm and dragged him into the bushes, and
he followed unresistingly, like a man in a dream.
They ploughed through the thicket, recrossed the
grass avenue, and scrambled down the hillside to
the banks of the stream.
Then for the first time Dickson observed that his
companion's face was very white, and that sweat
stood on his temples. Heritage lay down and
lapped up water like a dog. Then he turned a wild
eye on the other.
“I am going back,” he said. “That is the voice
of the girl I saw in Rome, and it is singing her
song!”


CHAPTER IV
DOUGAL
“You Li. do nothing of the kind,” said Dickson.
“You're coming home to your supper. It
was to be on the chap of nine.”
“I’m going back to that place.”
The man was clearly demented and must be hu-
moured. “Well, you must wait till the morn's
morning. It's very near dark now, and those are
two ugly customers wandering about yonder. You'd
better sleep the night on it.”
Mr. Heritage seemed to be persuaded. He suf-
fered himself to be led up the now dusky slopes to
the gate where the road from the village ended.
He walked listlessly like a man engaged in painful
reflection. Once only he broke the silence.
“You heard the singing?” he asked.
Dickson was a very poor hand at a lie. “I heard
something,” he admitted.
“You heard a girl's voice singing?”
“It sounded like that,” was the admission. “But
I'm thinking it might have been a seagull.”
“You're a fool,” said the Poet rudely.
The return was a melancholy business, compared
to the bright speed of the outward journey. Dick-
son's mind was a chaos of feelings, all of them
unpleasant. He had run up against something
70


DOUGAL 71
which he violently, blindly detested, and the trouble
was that he could not tell why. It was all perfectly
absurd, for why on earth should an ugly house,
some overgrown trees and a couple of ill-favoured
servants so malignly affect him? Yet this was the
fact; he had strayed out of Arcady into a sphere
that filled him with revolt and a nameless fear.
Never in his experience had he felt like this, this
foolish childish panic which took all the colour and
zest out of life. He tried to laugh at himself but
failed. Heritage, stumbling alone by his side, ef-
fectually crushed his effort to discover humour in
the situation. Some exhalation from that infernal
place had driven the Poet mad. And then that
voice singing ! A seagull, he had said. More like
a nightingale, he reflected—a bird which in the
flesh he had never met.
Mrs. Morran had the lamp lit and a fire burning
in her cheerful kitchen. The sight of it somewhat
restored Dickson's equanimity, and to his surprise
he found that he had an appetite for supper. There
was new milk, thick with cream, and most of the
dainties which had appeared at tea, supplemented
by a noble dish of shimmering “potted-head.” The
hostess did not share their meal, being engaged in
some duties in the little cubby-hole known as the
back kitchen.
Heritage drank a glass of milk but would not
touch food.
T“I called this place Paradise four hours ago,” he
said. “So it is, but I fancy it is next door to Hell.
There is something devilish going on inside that


72 HUNTINGTOWER
park wall and I mean to get to the bottom of it.”
“Hoots! Nonsense!” Dickson replied with af-
fected cheerfulness. “To-morrow you and me will
take the road for Auchenlochan. We needn't trou-
ble ourselves about an ugly old house and a wheen
impident lodge-keepers.”
“To-morrow I'm going to get inside the place.
Don't come unless you like, but it's no use arguing
with me. My mind is made up.”
Heritage cleared a space on the table and spread
out a section of a large-scale Ordnance map.
“I must clear my head about the topography, the
same as if this were a battle-ground. Look here,
Dogson. . . . The road past the inn that we went
by to-night runs north and south.” He tore a page
from a note-book and proceeded to make a rough
sketch.” . . . “One end we know abuts on the
Laver glen, and the other stops at the South Lodge.
Inside the wall which follows the road is a long belt
of plantation—mostly beeches and ash—then to the
west a kind of park, and beyond that the lawns of
the house. Strips of plantation with avenues be-
tween follow the north and south sides of the park.
On the sea side of the House are the stables and
what looks like a walled garden, and beyond them
what seems to be open ground with an old dovecot
marked and the ruins of Huntingtower keep. Be-
yond that there is more open ground, till you come
to the cliffs of the cape. Have you got that? . . .
It looks possible from the contouring to get on to
1 The reader is referred to the improved version of Mr. Herit-
age's sketch reproduced as a frontispiece.


DOUGAL 73
the sea cliffs by following the Laver, for all that
side is broken up into ravines. . . . But look at the
other side—the Garple glen. It's evidently a deep-
cut gully, and at the bottom it opens out into a little
harbour. There's deep water there, you observe.
Now the House on the south side—the Garple side
—is built fairly close to the edge of the cliffs. Is
that all clear in your head? We can't reconnoitre
unless we've got a working notion of the lie of the
land.”
Dickson was about to protest that he had no in-
tention of reconnoitring, when a hubbub arose in
the back kitchen. Mrs. Morran's voice was heard
in shrill protest. -
“Ye ill laddiel Eh—ye—ill—laddie I [crescendo]
Makin' a hash o' my back door wi' your dirty feet!
What are ye slinkin’ roond here for, when I tell't
ye this mornin' that I wad sell ye nae mair scones
till ye paid for the last lot? Ye're a wheen thievin'
hungry callants, and if there were a polisman in the
place I’d gie ye in chairge. . . . What's that ye
say? Ye're no’ wantin' meat? Ye want to speak
to the gentlemen that's bidin' here? Ye ken the
auld ane, says you? I believe it's a muckle lee, but
there's the gentlemen to answer ye theirsels.”
Mrs. Morran, brandishing a dishclout dramat-
ically, flung open the door, and with a vigorous
push propelled into the kitchen a singular figure.
It was a stunted boy, who from his face might
have been fifteen years old, but had the stature of
a child of twelve. He had a thatch of fiery red
hair above a pale freckled countenance. His nose


DOUGAL 75
“I’m glad to see you, Dougal,” he said pleasantly.
“How are you all getting on?” And then, with a
vague reminiscence of the Scouts' code—“Have
you been minding to perform a good deed every
day?”
The Chieftain's brow darkened. -
“‘Good deeds!’” he repeated bitterly. “I tell
ye I’m fair wore out wi' good deeds. Yon man
Mackintosh tell't me this was going to be a grand
holiday. Holiday! Govey Dick! It's been like
a Setterday night in Main Street—a’ fechtin',
fechtin’.”
No collocation of letters could reproduce Dougal's
accent, and I will not attempt it. There was a
touch of Irish in it, a spice of music-hall patter, as
well as the odd lilt of the Glasgow vernacular. He
was strong in vowels, but the consonants, especially
the letter “t,” were only aspirations.
“Sit down and let's hear about things,” said
Dickson.
The boy turned his head to the still open back
door, where Mrs. Morran could be heard at her
labours. He stepped across and shut it. “I’m no'
wantin' that auld wife to hear,” he said. Then he
squatted down on the patchwork rug by the hearth,
and warmed his blue-black shins. Looking into the
glow of the fire, he observed, “I seen you two up by
the Big Hoose the night.”
“The devil you did,” said Heritage, roused to a
sudden attention. “And where were you?”
“Seven feet from your head, up a tree. It's my
chief hidy-hole, and Gosh! I need one, for Lean's


DOUGAL 77
been going on my belly about thae policies. I've
found out some queer things.”
Heritage had risen and was staring down at the
small squatting figure.
“What have you found out? Quick. Tell me
at once.” His voice was sharp and excited.
“Bide a wee,” said the unwinking Dougal. “I’m
no' going to let ye into this business till I ken that
ye'll help. It's a far bigger job than I thought.
There's more in it than Lean and Spittal. There's
the big man that keeps the public—Dobson, they
ca' him. He's a Namerican, which looks bad. And
there's two-three tinklers campin' down in the
Garple Dean. They're in it, for Dobson was col-
loguin' wi' them a' mornin'. When I seen ye, I
thought ye were more o' the gang, till I mindit that
one o' ye was auld McCunn that has the shop in
Mearns Street. I seen that ye didn't like the look
o' Lean, and I followed ye here, for I was thinkin'
I needit help.”
Heritage plucked Dougal by the shoulder and
lifted him to his feet.
“For God's sake, boy,” he cried, “tell us what
you know!”
“Will ye help?”
“Of course, you little fool.”
“Then swear,” said the ritualist. From a grimy
wallet he extracted a limp little volume which
proved to be a damaged copy of a work entitled
Sacred Songs and Solos. “Here! Take that in
your right hand and put your left hand on my pole,


78 HUNTINGTOWER
and say after me, ‘I swear no' to blab what is telled
me in secret and to be swift and sure in obeyin'
orders, s'help me God!” Syne kiss the bookie.”
Dickson at first refused, declaring it was all
havers, but Heritage's docility persuaded him to
follow suit. The two were sworn.
“Now,” said Heritage.
Dougal squatted again on the hearth-rug, and
gathered the eyes of his audience. He was enjoy-
ing himself.
“This day,” he said slowly, “I got inside the
Hoose.”
“Stout fellow,” said Heritage; “and what did you
find there?”
“I got inside that Hoose, but it wasn't once or
twice I tried. I found a corner where I was out o'
sight o' anybody unless they had come there seekin'
me, and I sklimmed up a rone pipe, but a' the
windies were lockit and I verra near broke my neck.
Syne I tried the roof, and a sore sklim I had, but
when I got there there were no skylights. At the
end I got in by the coal-hole. That's why ye're
maybe thinkin' I'm no' very clean.”
Heritage's patience was nearly exhausted.
“I don't want to hear how you got in. What
did you find, you little devil?”
“Inside the Hoose,” said Dougal slowly (and
there was a melancholy sense of anti-climax in his
voice, as of one who had hoped to speak of gold
and jewels and armed men)—“inside that Hoose
there's nothing but two women.”
Heritage sat down before him with a stern face.


DOUGAL 79
“Describe them,” he commanded.
“One o' them is dead auld, as auld as the wife
here. She didn't look to me very right in the head.”
“And the other?”
“Oh, just a lassie.”
“What was she like?”
Dougal seemed to be searching for adequate
words. “She is . . .” he began. Then a popular
song gave him inspiration. “She's pure as the lully
in the dell!”
In no way discomposed by Heritage's fierce in-
terrogatory air, he continued: “She's either foreign
or English, for she couldn't understand what I said,
and I could make nothing o' her clippit tongue. But
I could see she had been greetin'. She looked
feared, yet kind o' determined. I speired if I could
do anything for her, and when she got my meaning
she was terrible anxious to ken if I had seen a man
—a big man, she said, wi' a yellow beard. She
didn't seem to ken his name, or else she wouldn't
tell me. The auld wife was mortal feared, and was
aye speakin' in a foreign langwidge. I seen at once
that what frightened them was Lean and his
friends, and I was just starting to speir about them
when there came a sound like a man walkin' along
the passage. She was for hidin' me in behind a
sofy, but I wasn't going to be trapped like that, so
I got out by the other door and down the kitchen
stairs and into the coal-hole. Gosh, it was a near
thing!”
The boy was on his feet. “I must be off to the
camp to give out the orders for the morn. I'm


80 HUNTINGTOWER
going back to that Hoose, for it's a fight atween
the Gorbals Die-Hards and the scoundrels that are
frightenin' thae women. The question is, Are ye
comin' with me? Mind, ye’ve sworn. But if ye're
no', I'm going mysel', though I'll no’ deny I'd be
glad o' company. You anyway. ” he added,
nodding at Heritage. “Maybe auld McCunn
wouldn't get through the coal-hole.”
“You’re an impident laddie,” said the outraged
Dickson. “It's no' likely we're coming with you.
Breaking into other folks' houses! It's a job for
the police l’”
“Please yersel’,” said the Chieftain and looked
at Heritage.
“I'm on,” said that gentleman.
“Well, just you set out the morn as if ye were
for a walk up the Garple glen. I'll be on the road
and I'll have orders for ye.”
Without more ado Dougal left by way of the
back kitchen. There was a brief denunciation from
Mrs. Morran, then the outer door banged and he
was gone.
The Poet sat still with his head in his hands,
while Dickson, acutely uneasy, prowled about the
floor. He had forgotten even to light his pipe.
“You’ll not be thinking of heeding that raga-
muffin boy,” he ventured.
“I'm certainly going to get into the House to-
morrow,” Heritage answered, “and if he can show
me a way so much the better. He's a spirited
youth. Do you breed many like him in Glasgow?”
“Plenty,” said Dickson sourly. “See here, Mr.


82 HUNTINGTOWER
hands folded on her lap to hear the business.
Dickson narrated their pre-supper doings, and gave
a sketch of Dougal's evidence. His exposition was
cautious and colourless, and without conviction. He
seemed to expect a robust incredulity in his hearer.
Mrs. Morran listened with the gravity of one in
church. When Dickson finished she seemed to
meditate.
“There's no blagyird trick that would surprise me
in thae new folk. What's that ye ca’ them—Lean
and Spittal? Eppie Home threepit to me they
were furriners and these are no furrin names.”
“What I want to hear from you, Mrs. Morran,”
said Dickson impressively, “is whether you think
there's anything in that boy's story?”
“I think it's maist likely true. He's a terrible
impident callant, but he's no' a leear.”
“Then you think that a gang of ruffians have got
two lone women shut up in that House for their
own purposes?”
“I wadna wonder.”
“But it's ridiculous! This is a Christian and
law-abiding country. What would the police say?”
“They never troubled Dalquharter muckle.
There's no' a polisman nearer than Knockraw—yin
Johnnie Trummle, and he's as useless as a frostit
tattie.”
“The wiselike thing, as I think,” said Dickson,
“would be to turn the Procurator-Fiscal on to the
job. It's his business, no' ours.”
“Weel, I wadna say but ye're richt,” said the
lady.


DOUGAL 83.
“What would you do if you were us?” Dick-
son's tone was subtly confidential. “My friend here
wants to get into the House the morn with that
red-haired laddie to satisfy himself about the facts.
I say no. Let sleeping dogs lie, I say, and if you
think the beasts are mad report to the authorities.
What would you do yourself?”
“If I were you,” came the emphatic reply, “I
would tak’ the first train hame the morn, and when
I got hame I wad bide there. Ye're a dacent body,
but ye're no' the kind to be traivellin' the roads.”
“And if you were me?” Heritage asked with his
queer crooked smile.
“If I was a young and yauld like you I wad gang
into the Hoose, and I wadna rest till I had riddled
oot the truith and jyled every scoondrel about the
place. If ye dinna gang, 'faith I'll kilt my coats
and gang mysel'. I havena served the Kennedys
for forty year no' to hae the honour o' the Hoose
at my hert. . . . Ye speired my advice, sirs, and
ye've gotten it. Now I maun clear awa’ your
supper.”
Dickson asked for a candle, and, as on the previ-
ous night, went abruptly to bed. The oracle of
prudence to which he had appealed had betrayed
him and counselled folly. But was it folly? For
him, assuredly, for Dickson McCunn, late of
Mearns Street, Glasgow, wholesale and retail pro-
vision merchant, elder in the Guthrie Memorial
Kirk, and fifty-five years of age. Ay, that was the
rub. He was getting old. The woman had seen
it and had advised him to go home. Yet the plea.


84 HUNTINGTOWER
was curiously irksome, though it gave him the ex-
cuse he needed. If you played at being young, you
had to take up the obligations of youth, and he
thought derisively of his boyish exhilaration of the
past days. Derisively, but also sadly. What had
become of that innocent joviality he had dreamed
of, that happy morning pilgrimage of Spring en-
livened by tags from the poets? His goddess had
played him false. Romance had put upon him too
hard a trial.
He lay long awake, torn between common sense
and a desire to be loyal to some vague whimsical
standard. Heritage a yard distant appeared also
to be sleepless, for the bed creaked with his turn-
ing. Dickson found himself envying one whose
troubles, whatever they might be, were not those
of a divided mind.


CHAPTER V.
OF THE PRINCESS IN THE TOWER
VERY early next morning, while Mrs. Morran
was still cooking breakfast, Dickson and
Heritage might have been observed taking the air
in the village street. It was the Poet who had in-
sisted upon this walk, and he had his own purpose.
They looked at the spires of smoke piercing the
windless air, and studied the daffodils in the cottage
gardens. Dickson was glum, but Heritage seemed
in high spirits. He varied his garrulity with spells
of cheerful whistling.
They strode along the road by the park wall till
they reached the inn. There Heritage's music
waxed peculiarly loud. Presently from the yard,
unshaven and looking as if he had slept in his
clothes, came Dobson the innkeeper.
“Good morning,” said the Poet. “I hope the
sickness in your house is on the mend?”
“Thank ye, it's no worse,” was the reply, but in
the man's heavy face there was little civility. His
small grey eyes searched their faces.
“We're just waiting on breakfast to get on the
road again. I’m jolly glad we spent the night here.
We found quarters after all, you know.”
“So I see. Whereabouts, may I ask?”
“Mrs. Morran's. We could always have got in
85


36 HUNTINGTOWER
there, but we didn't want to fuss an old lady, so
we thought we'd try the inn first. She's my friend's
aunt.”
At this amazing falsehood Dickson started, and
the man observed his surprise. The eyes were
turned on him like a searchlight. They roused
antagonism in his peaceful soul, and with that an-
tagonism came an impulse to back up the Poet.
“Ay,” he said, “she's my Auntie Phemie, my
mother's half-sister.”
The man turned on Heritage.
“Where are ye for the day?”
“Auchenlochan,” said Dickson hastily. He was
still determined to shake the dust of Dalquharter
from his feet.
The innkeeper sensibly brightened. “Well, ye’ll
have a fine walk. I must go in and see about my
own breakfast. Good day to ye, gentlemen.”
“That,” said Heritage as they entered the vil-
lage street again, “is the first step in camouflage, to
put the enemy off his guard.”
“It was an abominable lie,” said Dickson crossly.
“Not at all. It was a necessary and proper ruse
de guerre. It explained why we spent the night
here, and now Dobson and his friends can get about
their day's work with an easy mind. Their suspi-
cions are temporarily allayed, and that will make
our job easier.”
“I’m not coming with you.”
“I never said you were. By 'we' I refer to my-
self and the red-headed boy.”
“Mistress, you're my auntie,” Dickson informed


88 HUNTINGTOWER
;
should have been ascending with the larks, stuck
leadenly in his boots. He was not even relieved at
putting Dalquharter behind him. The atmosphere
of that unhallowed place lay still on his soul. He
hated it, but he hated himself more. Here was one,
who had hugged himself all his days as an adven-
turer waiting his chance, running away at the first
challenge of adventure; a lover of Romance who
fled from the earliest overture of his goddess. He
was ashamed and angry, but what else was there to
do? Burglary in the company of a queer poet and
a queerer urchin? It was unthinkable.
Presently as they tramped silently on they came
to the bridge beneath which the peaty waters of the
Garple ran in porter-coloured pools and tawny
cascades. From a clump of elders on the other side
Dougal emerged. A barefoot boy, dressed in much
the same parody of a Boy Scout's uniform, but with
corduroy shorts instead of a kilt, stood before him
at rigid attention. Some command was issued, the
child saluted, and trotted back past the travellers
with never a look at them. Discipline was strong
among the Gorbals Dié-Hards; no Chief of Staff
ever conversed with his General under a stricter
etiquette.
Dougal received the travellers with the conde-
scension of a regular towards civilians.
“They're off their gawrd,” he announced.
“Thomas Yownie has been shadowin' them since
skreigh o' day, and he reports that Dobson and
Lean followed ye till ye were out o' sight o' the
houses, and syne Lean got a spy-glass and watched


OF THE PRINCESS IN THE TOWER 89
ye till the road turned in among the trees. That
satisfied them, and they're both away back to their
jobs. Thomas Yownie's the fell yin. Ye'll no fickle
Thomas Yownie.”
Dougal extricated from his pouch the fag of a
cigarette, lit it and puffed meditatively. “I did a
reckonissince mysel' this morning. I was up at the
Hoose afore it was light, and tried the door o' the
coal-hole. I doot they've gotten on our tracks, for
it was lockit—ay, and wedged from the inside.”
Dickson brightened. Was the insane venture off?
“For a wee bit I was fair beat. But I mindit
that the lassie was allowed to walk in a kind o' a
glass hoose on the side farthest away from the
Garple. That was where she was singin' yest’reen.
So I reckonissinced in that direction, and I fund a
queer place.” Sacred Songs and Solos was requi-
sitioned, and on a page of it Dougal proceeded to
make marks with the stump of a carpenter's pencil.
“See here,” he commanded. “There's the glass
place wi' a door into the Hoose. That door must
be open or the lassie must have the key, for she
comes there whenever she likes. Now, at each end
o' the place the doors are lockit, but the front that
looks on the garden is open, wi' muckle posts and
flower-pots. The trouble is that that side there's
maybe twenty feet o' a wall between the pawrapet
and the ground. It's an auld wall wi' cracks and
holes in it, and it wouldn't be ill to sklim. That's
why they let her gang there when she wants, for a
lassie couldn't get away without breakin' her neck.”
“Could we climb it?” Heritage asked.


OF THE PRINCESS IN THE TOWER 91
they're still in their camp we can get by easy enough,
but they're maybe wanderin’ about the wud after
rabbits. . . . Then we must ford the water, for
ye'll no' cross it lower down where it's deep. . . .
Our road is on the Hoose side o' the Dean and it's
awfu' public if there's onybody on the other side,
though it's hid well enough from folk up in the
policies. . . . Ye must do exactly what I tell ye.
When we get near danger I'll scout on ahead, and
I daur ye to move a hair o' your head till I give
the word.”
Presently, when they were at the edge of the
water, Dougal announced his intention of crossing.
Three boulders in the stream made a bridge for an
active iman and Heritage hopped lightly over. Not
so Dickson, who stuck fast on the second stone, and
would certainly have fallen in had not Dougal
plunged into the current and steadied him with a
grimy hand. The leap was at last successfully
taken, and the three scrambled up a rough scaur,
all reddened with iron springs, till they struck a
slender track running down the Dean on its northern
side. Here the undergrowth was very thick, and
they had gone the better part of half a mile before
the covert thinned sufficiently to show them the
stream beneath. Then Dougal halted them with a
finger on his lips, and crept forward alone.
He returned in three minutes. “Coast's clear,”
he whispered. “The tinklers are eatin' their break-
fast. They're late at their meat though they're up
early seekin' it.”
Progress was now very slow and secret and mainly


92 HUNTINGTOWER
w
on all fours. At one point Dougal nodded down-
ward, and the other two saw on a patch of turf,
where the Garple began to widen into its estuary,
a group of figures round a small fire. There were
four of them, all men, and Dickson thought he had
never seen such ruffianly-looking customers. After
that they moved high up the slope, in a shallow
glade of a tributary burn, till they came out of the
trees and found themselves looking seaward.
On one side was the House, a hundred yards or
so back from the edge, the roof showing above the
precipitous scarp. Half-way down the slope became
easier, a jumble of boulders and boiler-plates, till
it reached the waters of the small haven, which
lay calm as a mill-pond in the windless forenoon.
The haven broadened out at its foot and revealed
a segment of blue sea. The opposite shore was
flatter and showed what looked like an old wharf
and the ruins of buildings, behind which rose a bank
clad with scrub and surmounted by some gnarled
and wind-crooked firs.
“There's dashed little cover here,” said Heritage.
“There's no muckle,” Dougal assented. “But
they canna see us from the policies, and it's no' like
there's anybody watchin' from the Hoose. The
danger is somebody on the other side, but we'll
have to risk it. Once among thae big stones we're
safe. Are ye ready?”
Five minutes later Dickson found himself gasp-
ing in the lee of a boulder, while Dougal was
making a cast forward. The scout returned with
a hopeful report. “I think we're safe, till we get


OF THE PRINCESS IN THE TOWER , 93
into the policies. There's a road that the auld folk
made when ships used to come here. Down there
it's deeper than Clyde at the Broomilaw. Has the
auld yin got his wind yet? There's no time to
waste.”
Up that broken hillside they crawled, well in the
cover of the tumbled stones, till they reached a low
wall which was the boundary of the garden. The
House was now behind them on their right rear,
and as they topped the crest they had a glimpse of
an ancient dovecot and the ruins of the old Hunting-
tower on the short thymy turf which ran seaward
to the cliffs. Dougal led them along a sunk fence
which divided the downs from the lawns behind the
house, and, avoiding the stables, brought them by
devious ways to a thicket of rhododendrons and
broom. On all fours they travelled the length of
the place, and came to the edge where some for-
gotten gardeners had once tended a herbaceous
border. The border was now rank and wild, and,
lying flat under the shade of an azalea, and peering
through the young spears of iris, Dickson and Heri-
tage regarded the north-western façade of the house.
The ground before them had been a sunken
garden, from which a steep wall, once covered with
creepers and rock plants, rose to a long verandah,
which was pillared and open on that side; but at
each end built up half-way and glazed for the rest.
There was a glass roof, and inside untended shrubs
sprawled in broken plaster vases.
“Ye must bide here,” said Dougal, “and no cheep
above your breath. Afore we dare to try that wall,


94 HUNTINGTOWER
I must ken where Lean and Spittal and Dobson are.
I'm off to spy the policies.” He glided out of sight
behind a clump of pampas grass.
For hours, so it seemed, Dickson was left to his
own unpleasant reflections. His body, prone on the
moist earth, was fairly comfortable, but his mind
was ill at ease. The scramble up the hillside had
convinced him that he was growing old, and there
was no rebound in his soul to counter the convic-
tion. He felt listless, spiritless—an apathy with
fright trembling somewhere at the back of it. He
regarded the verandah wall with foreboding. How
on earth could he climb that? And if he did there
would be his exposed hinder-parts inviting a shot
from some malevolent gentleman among the trees.
He reflected that he would give a large sum of
money to be out of this preposterous adventure.
Heritage's hand was stretched towards him, con-
taining two of Mrs. Morran's jellied scones, of
which the Poet had been wise enough to bring a
supply in his pocket. The food cheered him, for
he was growing very hungry, and he began to take
an interest in the scene before him instead of his
own thoughts. He observed every detail of the
verandah. There was a door at one end, he noted,
giving on a path which wound down to the sunk
garden. As he looked he heard a sound of steps
and saw a man ascending this path.
It was the lame man whom Dougal had called
Spittal, the dweller in the South Lodge. Seen at
closer quarters he was an odd-looking being, lean
as a heron, wry-necked, but amazingly quick on his


OF THE PRINCESS IN THE TOWER 95
feet. Had not Mrs. Morran said that he hobbled
as fast as other folk ran P. He kept his eyes on the
ground and seemed to be talking to himself as he
went, but he was alert enough, for the dropping
of a twig from a dying magnolia transferred him
in an instant into a figure of active vigilance. No
risks could be run with that watcher. He took a
key from his pocket, opened the garden door and
entered the verandah. For a moment his shuffle
sounded on its tiled floor, and then he entered the
door admitting from the verandah to the House. It
was clearly unlocked for there came no sound of
a turning key.
Dickson had finished the last crumbs of his
scones before the man emerged again. He seemed
to be in a greater hurry than ever, as he locked the
garden door behind him and hobbled along the west
front of the House till he was lost to sight. After
that the time passed slowly. A pair of yellow wag-
tails arrived and played at hide-and-seek among the
stuccoed pillars. The little dry scratch of their
claws was heard clearly in the still air. Dickson
had almost fallen asleep when a smothered exclama-
tion from Heritage woke him to attention. A girl
had appeared in the verandah.
Above the parapet he saw only her body from
the waist up. She seemed to be clad in bright
colours, for something red was round her shoulders
and her hair was bound with an orange scarf. She
was tall—that he could tell, tall and slim and very
young. Her face was turned seaward, and she
stood for a little scanning the broad channel, shad-


96 HUNTINGTOWER,
ing her eyes as if to search for something on the
extreme horizon. The air was very quiet and he
thought that he could hear her sigh. Then she
turned and re-entered the House, while Heritage by
his side began to curse under his breath with a
shocking fervour.
One of Dickson's troubles had been that he did
not really believe Dougal's story, and the sight of
the girl removed one doubt. That bright exotic
thing did not belong to the Cruives or to Scotland
at all, and that she should be in the House removed
the place from the conventional dwelling to which
the laws against burglary applied.
There was a rustle among the rhododendrons and
the fiery face of Dougal appeared. He lay between
the other two, his chin on his hands, and grunted
out his report.
“After they had their dinner Dobson and Lean.
yokit a horse and went off to Auchenlochan. I seen
them pass the Garple brig, so that's two accounted
for. Has Spittal been round here?”
“Half an hour ago,” said Heritage, consulting a
wrist watch.
“It was him that keepit me waitin' so long. But
he's safe enough now, for five minutes syne he was
splittin' firewood at the back door o' his hoose.
. . . I've found a ladder, an' auld yin in ahint yon
lot o' bushes. It'll help wi' the wall. There ! I've
gotten my breath again and we can start.”
The ladder was fetched by Heritage and proved
to be ancient and wanting many rungs, but sufficient
in length. The three stood silent for a moment,


OF THE PRINCESS IN THE TOWER 97
listening like stags, and then ran across the inter-
vening lawn to the foot of the verandah wall.
Dougal went up first, then Heritage, and lastly
Dickson, stiff and giddy from his long lie under the
bushes. Below the parapet the verandah floor was
heaped with old garden litter, rotten matting, dead
or derelict bulbs, fibre, withies and strawberry nets.
It was Dougal's intention to pull up the ladder and
hide it among the rubbish against the hour of de-
parture. But Dickson had barely put his foot on
the parapet when there was a sound of steps within
the House approaching the verandah door.
The ladder was left alone. Dougal's hand
brought Dickson summarily to the floor, where he
was fairly well concealed by a mess of matting.
Unfortunately his head was in the vicinity of some
upturned pot-plants, so that a cactus ticked his brow
and a spike of aloe supported painfully the back of
his neck. Heritage was prone behind two old water-
butts, and Dougal was in a hamper which had once
contained seed potatoes. The house door had
panels of opaque glass, so the new-comer could not
see the doings of the three till it was opened, and
by that time all were in cover.
The man—it was Spittal—walked rapidly along
the verandah and out of the garden door. He was
talking to himself again, and Dickson, who had a
glimpse of his face, thought he looked both evil and
furious. Then came some anxious moments, for
had the man glanced back when he was once outside,
he must have seen the tell-tale ladder. But he
seemed immersed in his own reflections, for he


98 HUNTINGTOWER
hobbled steadily along the house front till he was
lost to sight.
“That'll be the end o' them the night,” said
Dougal, as he helped Heritage to pull up the ladder
and stow it away. “We’ve got the place to oursels,
now. Forward, men, forward.” He tried the
handle of the house door and led the way in.
A narrow paved passage took them into what had
once been the garden room, where the lady of the
house had arranged her flowers, and the tennis
racquets and croquet mallets had been kept. It was
very dusty and on the cobwebbed walls still hung a
few soiled garden overalls. A door beyond opened
into a huge murky hall, murky, for the windows
were shuttered, and the only light came through
things like port-holes far up in the wall. Dougal,
who seemed to know his way about, halted them.
“Stop here till I scout a bit. The women bide in a
wee room through that muckle door.” Bare feet
stole across the oak flooring, there was the sound
of a door swinging on its hinges, and then silence
and darkness. Dickson put out a hand for com-
panionship and clutched Heritage's; to his surprise
it was cold and all a-tremble. They listened for
voices, and thought they could detect a far-away
sob.
It was some minutes before Dougal returned. “A
bonny kettle o' fish,” he whispered. “They're both
greetin'. We're just in time. Come on, the pair
o' ye.”
Through a green baize door they entered a pas-
sage which led to the kitchen regions, and turned


OF THE PRINCESS IN THE TOWER 99
in at the first door on their right. From its situa-
tion Dickson calculated that the room lay on the
seaward side of the House next to the verandah.
The light was bad, for the two windows were par-
tially shuttered, but it had plainly been a smoking-
room, for there were pipe-racks by the hearth, and
on the walls a number of old school and college
photographs, a couple of oars with emblazoned
names, and a variety of stags' and roebucks' heads.
There was no, fire in the grate, but a small oil-stove
burned inside the fender. In a stiff-backed chair sat
an elderly woman, who seemed to feel the cold, for
she was muffled to the neck in a fur coat. Beside
her, so that the late afternoon light caught her face
and head, stood a girl.
Dickson's first impression was of a tall child.
The pose, startled and wild and yet curiously stiff
and self-conscious, was that of a child striving to
remember a forgotten lesson. One hand clutched
a handkerchief, the other was closing and unclosing
on a knob of the chair back. She was staring at
Dougal, who stood like a gnome in the centre of the
floor. “Here's the gentlemen I was tellin' ye
about,” was his introduction, but her eyes did not
In OVe. º
Then Heritage stepped forward. “We have met
before, Mademoiselle,” he said. “Do you remem-
ber Easter in 1918—in the house in the Trinità dei
Monte P”
The girl looked at him.
“I do not remember,” she said slowly.
“But I was the English officer who had the


OF THE PRINCESS IN THE TOWER 101
treasures of beauty and pride in its ancestry.
Strange, he thought, that a thing so fine should be
so masterful. He felt abashed in every inch of him.
As the eyes rested on him their sorrowfulness
seemed to be shot with humour. A ghost of a smile
lurked there, to which Dickson promptly responded.
He grinned and bowed. -
“Very pleased to meet you, Mem. I'm Mr. Mc-
Cunn from Glasgow.”
“You don't even know my name,’
“We don't,” said Heritage.
“They call me Saskia. This,” nodding to the
chair, “is my cousin Eugènie. . . . We are in very
great trouble. But why should I tell you? I do
not know you. You cannot help me.”
“We can try,” said Heritage. “Part of your
trouble we know already through that boy. You
are imprisoned in this place by scoundrels. We are
here to help you to get out. We want to ask no
questions—only to do what you bid us.”
“You are not strong enough,” she said sadly.
“A young man—an old man—and a little boy.
There are many against us, and any moment there
may be more.”
It was Dougal's turn to break in. “There's
Lean and Spittal and Dobson and four tinklers in
the Dean—that's seven; but there's us three and
five more Gorbals Die-Hards—that's eight.”
There was something in the boy's truculent cour-
age that cheered her.
“I wonder,” she said, and her eyes fell on each
in turn.
' she said.


OF THE PRINCEss IN THE TOWER 108
peace was forbidden me, for I learned that we Rus-
sians had to win back our fatherland again and that
the weakest must work in that cause. So I was set
my task and it was very hard. . . . There were
jewels which once belonged to my Emperor—they
had been stolen by the brigands and must be recov-
ered. There were others still hidden in Russia
which must be brought to a safe place. In that
work I was ordered to share.”
She spoke in almost perfect English, with a cer-
tain foreign precision. Suddenly she changed to
French, and talked rapidly to Heritage.
“She has told me about her family,” he said,
turning to Dickson. “It is among the greatest in
Russia, the very greatest after the throne.” Dick-
son could only stare.
“Our enemies soon discovered me,” she went on.
“Oh, but they are very clever, these enemies, and
they have all the criminals of the world to aid them.
Here you do not understand what they are. You
good people in England think they are well-meaning
dreamers who are forced into violence by the perse-
cution of Western Europe. But you are wrong.
Some honest fools there are among them, but the
power—the true power—lies with madmen and de-
generates, and they have for allies the special devil
that dwells in each country. That is why they cast
their net as wide as mankind.”
She shivered, and for a second her face wore a
look which Dickson never forgot, the look of one
who has looked over the edge of life into the outer
dark.


104 HUNTINGTOWER
“There were certain jewels of great price which
were about to be turned into guns and armies for
our enemies. These our people recovered and the
charge of them was laid on me. Who would sus-
pect, they said, a foolish girl? But our enemies
were very clever, and soon the hunt was cried
against me. They tried to rob me of them, but they
failed, for I too had become clever. Then they
asked the help of the law—first in Italy and then
in France. Oh, it was subtly done. Respectable
bourgeois, who hated the Bolsheviki but had bought
long ago the bonds of my country, desired to be
repaid their debts out of the property of the Russian
Crown which might be found in the West. But be-
hind them were the Jews, and behind the Jews our
unsleeping enemies. Once I was enmeshed in the
law I would be safe for them, and presently they
would find the hiding-place of the treasure, and
while the bourgeois were clamouring in the courts,
it would be safe in their pockets. So I fled. For
months I have been fleeing and hiding. They have
tried to kidnap me many times, and once they have
tried to kill me, but I, too, have become rery clever
—oh, very clever. And I have learned not to fear.”
This simple recital affected Dickson's honest soul
with the liveliest indignation. “Sich doings!” he
exclaimed, and he could not forbear from whisper-
ing to Heritage an extract from that gentleman's
conversation the first night at Kirkmichael. “We
needn't imitate all their methods, but they've got
hold of the right end of the stick. They seek truth


106 HUNTINGTOWER
night when we arrived, and we were brought in by
strange ways to this house, with no light but a single
candle. Here we were welcomed indeed, but by an
enemy.”
“Which?” asked Heritage. “Dobson or Lean
or Spittal?”
“Dobson I do not know. Léon was there. He
is no Russian, but a Belgian who was a valet in my
father's service till he joined the Bolsheviki. Next
day the Lett Spidel came, and I knew that I was in
very truth entrapped. For of all our enemies he
is, save one, the most subtle and unwearied.”
Her voice had trailed off into flat weariness.
Again Dickson was reminded of a child, for her
arms hung limp by her side; and her slim figure in
its odd clothes was curiously like that of a boy in
a school blazer. Another resemblance perplexed
him. She had a hint of Janet—about the mouth—
Janet, that solemn little girl those twenty years in
her grave.
Heritage was wrinkling his brows. “I don't
think I quite understand. The jewels? You have
them with you?”
She nodded.
“These men wanted to rob you. Why didn't they
do it between here and Auchenlochan? You had no
chance to hide them on the journey. Why did they
let you come here where you were in a better posi-
tion to baffle them?”
She shook her head. “I cannot explain—except
perhaps, that Spidel had not arrived that night, and
Léon may have been waiting instructions.”


OF THE PRINCESS IN THE TOWER 107
The other still looked dissatisfied. “They are
either clumsier villains than I take them to be, or
there is something deeper in the business than we
understand. These jewels—are they here?”
His tone was so sharp that she looked startled—
almost suspicious. Then she saw that in his face
which reassured her. “I have them hidden here.
I have grown very skilful in hiding things.”
“Have they searched for them?”
“The first day they demanded them of me. I
denied all knowledge. Then they ransacked this
house—I think they ransack it daily, but I am too
clever for them. I am not allowed to go beyond
the verandah, and when at first I disobeyed there
was always one of them in wait to force me back
with a pistol behind my head. Every morning Léon
brings us food for the day—good food, but not
enough, so that Cousin Eugènie is always hungry,
and each day he and Spidel question and threaten
me. This afternoon Spidel has told me that their
patience is at an end. He has given me till to-
morrow at noon to produce the jewels. If not, he
says I will die.”
“Mercy on us!” Dickson exclaimed.
“There will be no mercy for us,” she said sol-
emnly. “He and his kind think as little of shedding
blood as of spilling water. But I do not think he
will kill me. I think I will kill him first, but after
that I shall surely die. As for Cousin Eugènie, I
do not know.” º
Her level matter-of-fact tone seemed to Dickson
most shocking, for he could not treat it as mere


108 HUNTINGTOWER
melodrama. It carried a horrid conviction. “We
must get you out of this at once,” he declared.
“I cannot leave. I will tell you why. When I
came to this country I appointed one to meet me
here. He is a kinsman who knows England well,
for he fought in your army. With him by my side
I have no fear. It is altogether needful that I wait
for him.”
“Then there is something more which you haven't
told us?” Heritage asked.
Was there the faintest shadow of a blush on her
cheek? “There is something more,” she said.
She spoke to Heritage in French and Dickson
caught the name “Alexis” and a word which sounded
like “prance.” The Poet listened eagerly and nod-
ded. “I have heard of him,” he said.
“But have you not seen him? A tall man with
a yellow beard, who bears himself proudly. Being
of my mother's race he has eyes like mine.”
“That's the man she was askin' me about yester-
day,” said Dougal, who had squatted on the floor.
Heritage shook his head. “We only came here
last night. When did you expect Prince—your
friend?”
“I hoped to find him here before me. Oh, it is
his not coming that terrifies me. I must wait and
hope. But if he does not come in time another may
come before him.”
“The ones already here are not all the enemies
that threaten you?”
“Indeed, no. The worst has still to come, and
till I know he is here I do not greatly fear Spidel


OF THE PRINCESS IN THE TOWER 109
or Léon. They receive orders and do not give
them.”
Heritage ran a perplexed hand through his hair.
The sunset which had been flaming for some time in
the unshuttered panes was now passing into the
dark. The girl lit a lamp after first shuttering the
rest of the windows. As she turned it up the odd
dusty room and its strange company were revealed
more clearly and Dickson saw with a shock how
haggard was the beautiful face. A great pity seized
him and almost conquered his timidity.
“It is very difficult to help you,” Heritage was
saying. “You won't leave this place, and you won't
claim the protection of the law. You are very in-
dependent, Mademoiselle, but it can't go on for
ever. The man you fear may arrive at any moment.
At any moment, too, your treasure may be discov-
ered.”
“It is that that weighs on me,” she cried. “The
jewels They are my solemn trust, but they burden
me terribly. If I were only rid of them and knew
them to be safe I should face the rest with a braver
mind.”
“If you'll take my advice,” said Dickson slowly,
“you'll get them deposited in a bank and take a
receipt for them. A Scotch bank is no’ in a hurry
to surrender a deposit without it gets the proper
authority.”
Heritage brought his hands together with a
smack. “That's an idea. Will you trust us to take
these things and deposit them safely?”
For a little she was silent and her eyes were fixed
y


110 HUNTINGTOWER
on each of the trio in turn. “I will trust you,” she
said at last. “I think you will not betray me.”
“By God, we won't!” said the Poet fervently.
“Dogson, it's up to you. You march off to Glasgow
in double quick time and place the stuff in your own
name in your own bank. There's not a moment to
lose. D'you hear?”
“I will that.” To his own surprise Dickson
spoke without hesitation. Partly it was because of
his merchant's sense of property, which made him
hate the thought that miscreants should acquire that
to which they had no title; but mainly it was the
appeal in those haggard childish eyes. “But I'm
not going to be tramping the country in the night
carrying a fortune and seeking for trains that aren't
there. I'll go the first thing in the morning.”
“Where are they?” Heritage asked.
“That I do not tell. But I will fetch them.”
She left the room and presently returned with
three odd little parcels wrapped in leather and tied
with thongs of raw hide. She gave them to Heri-
tage, who held them appraisingly in his hand and
then passed them to Dickson.
“I do not ask about their contents. We take
them from you as they are, and, please God, when
the moment comes they will be returned to you as
you gave them. You trust us, Mademoiselle?”
“I trust you, for you are a soldier. Oh, and I
thank you from my heart, my friends.” She held
out a hand to each, which caused Heritage to grow
suddenly very red.
“I will remain in the neighbourhood to await


OF THE PRINCESS IN THE TOWER 111
developments,” he said. “We had better leave you
now. Dougal, lead on.”
Before going, he took the girl's hand again, and
with a sudden movement bent and kissed it. Dick-
son shook it heartily. “Cheer up, Mem,” he ob-
served. “There's a better time coming.” His last
recollection of her eyes was of a soft mistiness not
far from tears. His pouch and pipe had strange
company jostling them in his pocket as he followed
the others down the ladder into the night.
Dougal insisted that they must return by the road
of the morning. “We daren't go by the Laver, for
that would bring us by the public-house. If the
worst comes to the worst, and we fall in wi' any
of the deevils, they must think ye've changed your
mind and come back from Auchenlochan.”
The night smelt fresh and moist as if a break in
the weather were imminent. As they scrambled
along the Garple Dean a pinprick of light below
showed where the tinklers were busy by their fire.
Dickson's spirits suffered a sharp fall and he began
to marvel at his temerity. What in Heaven's name
had he undertaken? To carry very precious things,
to which certainly he had no right, through the
enemy to distant Glasgow. How could he escape
the notice of the watchers? He was already sus-
pect, and the sight of him back again in Dalquharter
would double that suspicion. He must brazen it
out, but he distrusted his powers with such tell-tale
stuff in his pockets. They might murder him any-
where on the moor road or in an empty railway car-
riage. An unpleasant memory of various novels he


112 HUNTINGTOWER
had read in which such things happened haunted his
mind. . . . There was just one consolation. This
job over, he would be quit of the whole business.
And honourably quit, too, for he would have played
a manly part in a most unpleasant affair. He could
retire to the idyllic with the knowledge that he had
not been wanting when Romance called. Not a soul
should ever hear of it, but he saw himself in the
future tramping green roads or sitting by his winter
fireside pleasantly retelling himself the tale.
Before they came to the Garple bridge Dougal
insisted that they should separate, remarking that
“it would never do if we were seen thegither.”
Heritage was despatched by a short cut over fields
to the left, which eventually, after one or two
plunges into ditches, landed him safely in Mrs.
Morran's back yard. Dickson and Dougal crossed
the bridge and tramped Dalquharter-wards by the
highway. There was no sign of human life in that
quiet place with owls hooting and rabbits rustling in
the undergrowth. Beyond the woods they came in
sight of the light in the back kitchen, and both
seemed to relax their watchfulness when it was most
needed. Dougal sniffed the air and looked seaward.
“It's coming on to rain,” he observed. “There
should be a muckle star there, and when you can't
see it it means wet weather wi' this wind.”
“What star?” Dickson asked.
“The one wi' the Irish-lukkin' name. What's
that they call it? O'Brien?” And he pointed to
where the constellation of the Hunter should have
been declining on the western horizon,


OF THE PRINCESS IN THE TOWER 113
There was a bend of the road behind them, and
suddenly round it came a dogcart driven rapidly.
Dougal slipped like a weasel into a bush, and pres-
ently Dickson stood revealed in the glare of a lamp.
The horse was pulled up sharply and the driver
called out to him. He saw that it was Dobson the
innkeeper with Léon beside him.
“Who is it?” cried the voice. “Oh, you! I
thought ye were off the day?”
Dickson rose nobly to the occasion.
“I thought myself I was. But I didn't think
much of Auchenlochan, and I took a fancy to come
back and spend the last night of my holiday with
my Auntie. I'm off to Glasgow first thing the
morn's morn.”
“Sol” said the voice. “Queer thing I never saw
ye on the Auchenlochan road, where ye can see three
mile before ye.”
“I left early and took it easy along the shore.”
“Did ye so? Well, good-night to ye.”
Five minutes later Dickson walked into Mrs.
Morran's kitchen, where Heritage was busy making
up for a day of short provender.
“I’m for Glasgow to-morrow, Auntie Phemie,”
he cried. “I want you to loan me a wee trunk with
a key, and steek the doors and windows, for I've a
lot to tell you.”


CHAPTER WI
HOW MR. McCUNN DEPARTED WITH RELIEF AND
RETURNED WITH RESOLUTION
T seven o'clock on the following morning the
post-cart, summoned by an early message from
Mrs. Morran, appeared outside the cottage. In it
sat the ancient postman, whose real home was
Auchenlochan, but who slept alternate nights in
Dalquharter, and beside him Dobson the innkeeper.
Dickson and his hostess stood at the garden-gate,
the former with his pack on his back and at his feet
a small stout wooden box, of the kind in which
cheeses are transported, garnished with an immense
padlock. Heritage for obvious reasons did not
appear; at the moment he was crouched on the floor
of the loft watching the departure through a gap
in the dimity curtains.
The traveller, after making sure that Dobson
was looking, furtively slipped the key of the trunk
into his knapsack.
“Well, good-bye, Auntie Phemie,” he said. “I’m
sure you've been awful kind to me, and I don't know
how to thank you for all you're sending.”
“Tuts, Dickson, my man, they're hungry folk
about Glesca that'll be glad o' my scones and jeelie.
Tell Mirren I'm rale pleased wi' her man and haste
ye back soon.”
114


MR. MCCUNN 115
The trunk was deposited on the floor of the cart
and Dickson clambered into the back seat. He was
thankful that he had not to sit next to Dobson, for
he had tell-tale stuff on his person. The morning
was wet, so he wore his waterproof, which concealed
his odd tendency to stoutness about the middle.
Mrs. Morran played her part well, with all the
becoming gravity of an affectionate aunt, but so soon
as the post-cart turned the bend of the road her
demeanour changed. She was torn with convulsions
of silent laughter. She retreated to the kitchen,
sank into a chair, wrapped her face in her apron
and rocked. Heritage, descending, found her strug-
gling to regain composure. “D'ye ken his wife's
name?” she gasped. “I ca'ed her Mirren l And
maybe the body's nomairried Hech sirs l Hech
sirs I” - -
Meantime Dickson was bumping along the moor-
road on the back of the post-cart. He had worked
out a plan, just as he had been used aforetime to
devise a deal in foodstuffs. He had expected one
of the watchers to turn up, and was rather relieved
that it should be Dobson, whom he regarded as “the
most natural beast” of the three. Somehow he did
not think that he would be molested before he
reached the station, since his enemies would still be
undecided in their minds. Probably they only
wanted to make sure that he had really departed to
forget all about him. But if not, he had his plan
ready.
“Are you travelling to-day?” he asked the inn-
keeper.


116 HUNTINGTOWER
“Just as far as the station to see about some oil-
cake I'm expectin’. What's in your weekist? Ye
came here wi' nothing but the bag on your back.”
“Ay, the kist is no' mine. It's my auntie's. She's
a kind body, and nothing would serve but she must
pack a box for me to take back. Let me see.
There's a baking of scones; three pots of honey and
one of rhubarb jam—she was aye famous for her
rhubarb jam; a mutton ham, which you can't get
for love or money in Glasgow; some home-made
black puddings and a wee skim-milk cheese. I doubt
I'll have to take a cab from the station.”
Dobson appeared satisfied, lit a short pipe and
relapsed into meditation. The long uphill road,
ever climbing to where far off showed the tiny white-
washed buildings which were the railway station,
seemed interminable this morning. The aged post-
man addressed strange objurgations to his aged
horse and muttered reflections to himself, the inn-
keeper smoked, and Dickson stared back into the
misty hollow where lay Dalquharter. The south-
west wind had brought up a screen of rain clouds
and washed all the countryside in a soft wet grey.
But the eye could still travel a fair distance, and
Dickson thought he had a glimpse of a figure on a
bicycle leaving the village two miles back. He won-
dered who it could be. Not Heritage, who had no
bicycle. Perhaps some woman who was conspicu-
ously late for the train. Women were the chief
cyclists nowadays in country places.
Then he forgot about the bicycle and twisted his
neck to watch the station. It was less than a mile


MR. McCUNN - 117
off now, and they had no time to spare, for away
to the south among the hummocks of the bog he
saw the smoke of the train coming from Auchen-
lochan. The postman also saw it and whipped up
his beast into a clumsy canter. Dickson, always
nervous about being late for trains, forced his eyes
away and regarded again the road behind them.
Suddenly the cyclist had become quite plain—a little
more than a mile behind—a man, and pedalling
furiously in spite of the stiff ascent. . . . It could
only be one person—Léon. He must have discov-
ered their visit to the House yesterday and be on
the way to warn Dobson. If he reached the station
before the train, there would be no journey to Glas-
gow that day for one respectable citizen.
Dickson was in a fever of impatience and fright.
He dared not abjure the postman to hurry, lest
Dobson should turn his head and descry his col-
league. But that ancient man had begun to realise
the shortness of time and was urging the cart along
at a fair pace, since they were now on the flatter
shelf of land which carried the railway. Dickson
kept his eyes fixed on the bicycle and his teeth shut
tight on his lower lip. Now it was hidden by the
last dip of hill; now it emerged into view not a
quarter of a mile behind, and its rider gave vent to
a shrill call. Luckily the innkeeper did not hear,
for at that moment with a jolt the cart pulled up
at the station door, accompanied by the roar of the
incoming train.
Dickson whipped down from the back seat and
seized the solitary porter. “Label the box for


118 HUNTINGTOWER
Glasgow and into the van with it. Quick, man, and
there'll be a shilling for you.” He had been doing
some rapid thinking these last minutes and had made
up his mind. If Dobson and he were alone in a
carriage he could not have the box there; that must
be elsewhere, so that Dobson could not examine it
if he were set on violence, somewhere in which it
could still be a focus of suspicion and attract atten-
tion from his person. He took his ticket, and rushed
on to the platform, to find the porter and the box
at the door of the guard's van. Dobson was not
there. With the vigour of a fussy traveller he
shouted directions to the guard to take good care
of his luggage, hurled a shilling at the porter and
ran for a carriage. At that moment he became
aware of Dobson hurrying through the entrance.
He must have met Léon and heard news from him,
for his face was red and his ugly brows darkening.
The train was in motion. “Here, you!” Dob-
son's voice shouted. “Stop! I want a word wi' ye.”
Dickson plunged at a third-class carriage, for he saw
faces behind the misty panes, and above all things
then he feared an empty compartment. He clam-
bered on to the step, but the handle would not turn,
and with a sharp pang of fear he felt the inn-
keeper's grip on his arm. Then some Samaritan
from within let down the window, opened the door
and pulled him up. He fell on a seat and a second
later Dobson staggered in beside him.
Thank Heaven, the dirty little carriage was
nearly full. There were two herds, each with a dog
and a long hazel crook, and an elderly woman who


MR. MCCUNN 119
looked like a ploughman's wife out for a day's mar-
keting. And there was one other whom Dickson
recognised with a peculiar joy—the bagman in the
provision line of business whom he had met three
days before at Kilchrist. -
The recognition was mutual. “Mr. McCunnl”
the bagman exclaimed. “My, but that was running
it fine ! I hope you've had a pleasant holiday, sir?”
“Very pleasant. I've been spending two nights
with friends down hereaways. I've been very for-
tunate in the weather, for it has broke just when
I'm leaving.”
Dickson sank back on the hard cushions. It had
been a near thing, but so far he had won. He
wished his heart did not beat so fast, and he hoped
he did not betray his disorder in his face. Very
deliberately he hunted for his pipe and filled it
slowly. Then he turned to Dobson. “I didn't
know you were travelling the day. What about
your oil-cake?”
“I’ve changed my mind,” was the gruff answer.
“Was that you I heard crying on me, when we
were running for the train?”
“Ay. I thought ye had forgot about your kist.”
“No fear,” said Dickson. “I’m no' likely to
forget my auntie's scones.”
He laughed pleasantly and then turned to the
bagman. Thereafter the compartment hummed
with the technicalities of the grocery trade. He
exerted himself to draw out his companion, to have
him refer to the great firm of D. McCunn, so that
the innkeeper might be ashamed of his suspicions.


120 HUNTINGTOWER
What nonsense to imagine that a noted and wealthy
Glasgow merchant—the bagman's tone was almost
reverential—would concern himself with the affairs
of a forgotten village and a tumbledown house!
Presently the train drew up at Kirkmichael sta-
tion. The woman descended, and Dobson, after
making sure that no one else meant to follow her
example, also left the carriage. A porter was shout-
ing: “Fast train to Glasgow—Glasgow next stop.”
Dickson watched the innkeeper shoulder his way
through the crowd in the direction of the booking
office. “He’s off to send a telegram,” he decided.
“There'll be trouble waiting for me at the other
end.”
When the train moved on he found himself dis-
inclined for further talk. He had suddenly become
meditative, and curled up in a corner with his head
hard against the window pane, watching the wet
fields and glistening roads as they slipped past. He
had his plans made for his conduct at Glasgow, but
Lord! how he loathed the whole business! Last
night he had had a kind of gusto in his desire to
circumvent villainy; at Dalquharter station he had
enjoyed a momentary sense of triumph; now he
felt very small, lonely and forlorn. Only one
thought far at the back of his mind cropped up now
and then to give him comfort. He was entering on
the last lap. Once get this detestable errand done
and he would be a free man, free to go back to the
kindly humdrum life from which he should never
have strayed. Never again, he vowed, never again.
Rather would he spend the rest of his days in hydro-


122 HUNTINGTOWER
He re-entered the station, strolled to the bookstall
and bought a Glasgow Herald. His steps then
tended to the refreshment room, where he ordered
a cup of coffee and two Bath buns, and seated him-
self at a small table. There he was soon immersed
in the financial news, and though he sipped his coffee
he left the buns untasted. He took out a penknife
and cut various extracts from the Herald, bestowing
them carefully in his pocket. An observer would
have seen an elderly gentleman absorbed in market
quotations.
After a quarter of an hour had been spent in this
performance he happened to glance at the clock and
rose with an exclamation. He bustled out to his
taxi and found the driver still intent upon his read-
ing. “Here I am at last,” he said cheerily, and had
a foot on the step, when he stopped suddenly with
a cry. It was a cry of alarm, but also of satisfac-
tion.
“What's become of my pack? I left it on the
seat, and now it's gonel There's been a thief here.”
The driver, roused from his lethargy, protested
in the name of his gods that no one had been near it.
“Ye took it into the station wi' ye,” he urged.
“I did nothing of the kind. Just you wait here
till I see the inspector. A bonny watch you keep on
a gentleman's things.”
But Dickson did not interview the railway au-
thorities. Instead he hurried to the left-luggage
office. “I deposited a small box here a short time
ago. I mind the number. Is it there still?”
The attendant glanced at a shelf. “A wee deal


MR. McCUNN 123
box with iron bands. It was took out ten minutes
syne. A man brought the ticket and took it away
on his shoulder.”
“Thank you. There's been a mistake, but the
blame's mine. My man mistook my orders.”
Then he returned to the now nervous taxi-driver.
“I’ve taken it up with the station-master and he's
putting the police on. You'll likely be wanted, so
I gave him your number. It's a fair disgrace that
there should be so many thieves about this station.
It's not the first time I've lost things. Drive me to
West George Street and look sharp.” And he
slammed the door with the violence of an angry
Iman.
But his reflections were not violent, for he smiled
to himself. “That was pretty neat. They'll take
some time to get the kist open, for I dropped the
key out of the train after we left Kirkmichael.
That gives me a fair start. If I hadn't thought of
that, they'd have found some way to grip me and
ripe me long before I got to the Bank.” He shud-
dered as he thought of the dangers he had escaped.
“As it is, they're off the track for half an hour at
least, while they're rummaging among Auntie
Phemie's scones.” At the thought he laughed
heartily, and when he brought the taxi-cab to a
standstill by rapping on the front window, he left
it with a temper apparently restored. Obviously
he had no grudge against the driver, who to his
immense surprise was rewarded with ten shillings.
Three minutes later Mr. McCunn might have
been seen entering the head office of the Strathclyde


124 HUNTINGTOWER
Bank, and inquiring for the manager. There was
no hesitation about him now, for his foot was on
his native heath. The chief cashier received him
with deference, in spite of his unorthodox garb, for
he was not the least honoured of the bank's cus-
tomers. As it chanced he had been talking about
him that very morning to a gentleman from London.
“The strength of this city,” he had said, tapping
his eyeglasses on his knuckles, “does not lie in its
dozen very rich men, but in the hundred or two
homely folk who make no parade of wealth. Men
like Dickson McCunn, for example, who live all
their life in a semi-detached villa and die worth half
a million.” And the Londoner had cordially as-
sented.
So Dickson was ushered promptly into an inner
room, and was warmly greeted by Mr. Mackintosh,
the patron of the Gorbals Die-Hards.
“I must thank you for your generous donation,
McCunn. Those boys will get a little fresh air and
quiet after the smoke and din of Glasgow. A little
country peace to smooth out the creases in their poor
little souls.”
“Maybe,” said Dickson, with a vivid recollection
of Dougal as he had last seen him. Somehow he
did not think that peace was likely to be the portion
of that devoted band. “But I've not come here to
speak about that.”
He took off his waterproof; then his coat and
waistcoat; and showed himself a strange figure with
sundry bulges about the middle. The manager's
eyes grew very round. Presently these excrescences


MR. McCUNN 125
were revealed as linen bags sewn on to his shirt,
and fitting into the hollow between ribs and hip.
With some difficulty he slit the bags and extracted
three hide-bound packages.
“See here, Mackintosh,” he said solemnly. “I
hand you over these parcels, and you're to put them
in the innermost corner of your strong room. You
needn't open them. Just put them away as they are,
and write me a receipt for them. Write it now.”
Mr. Mackintosh obediently took pen in hand.
“What'll I call them?” he asked.
“Just the three leather parcels handed to you by
Dickson McCunn, Esq., naming the date.”
Mr. Mackintosh wrote. He signed his name
with his usual flourish and handed the slip to his
client.
“Now,” said Dickson, “you'll put that receipt in
the strong box where you keep my securities, and
you'll give it up to nobody but me in person, and
you'll surrender the parcels only on presentation of
the receipt. D'you understand?”
“Perfectly. May I ask any questions?”
“You’d better not if you don't want to hear lees.”
“What's in the packages?” Mr. Mackintosh
weighed them in his hand.
“That's asking,” said Dickson. “But I'll tell ye
this much. It's jools.”
“Your own P”
“No, but I'm their trustee.”
“Valuable?”
“I was hearing they were worth more than a mil-
lion pounds.”


126 HUNTINGTOWER
“God bless my soul,” said the startled manager.
“I don't like this kind of business, McCunn.”
“No more do I. But you'll do it to oblige an old
friend and a good customer. If you don't know
much about the packages you know all about me.
Now, mind, I trust you.”
Mr. Mackintosh forced himself to a joke. “Did
you maybe steal them?”
Dickson grinned. “Just what I did. And that
being so, I want you to let me out by the back door.”
When he found himself in the street he felt the
huge relief of a boy who had emerged with credit
from the dentist's chair. Remembering that there
would be no midday dinner for him at home, his
first step was to feed heavily at a restaurant. He
had, so far as he could see, surmounted all his trou-
bles, his one regret being that he had lost his pack,
which contained among other things his Izaak
Walton and his safety razor. He bought another
razor and a new Walton, and mounted an electric
tram-car en route for home.
Very contented with himself he felt as the car
swung across the Clyde bridge. He had done well
—but of that he did not want to think, for the whole
beastly thing was over. He was going to bury that
memory, to be resurrected perhaps on a later day
when the unpleasantness had been forgotten. Heri-
tage had his address, and knew where to come when
it was time to claim the jewels. As for the watchers,
they must have ceased to suspect him, when they
discovered the innocent contents of his knapsack
and Mrs. Morran's box. Home for him, and a


MR. McCUNN 127
luxurious tea by his own fireside; and then an eve-
ning with his books, for Heritage's nonsense had
stimulated his literary fervour. He would dip into
his old favourites again to confirm his faith. To-
morrow he would go for a jaunt somewhere—per-
haps down the Clyde, or to the South of England,
which he had heard was a pleasant, thickly peopled
country. No more lonely inns and deserted villages
for him; henceforth he would make certain of com-
fort and peace.
The rain had stopped, and, as the car moved
down the dreary vista of Eglinton Street, the sky
opened into fields of blue and the April sun silvered
the puddles. It was in such place and under such
weather that Dickson suffered an overwhelming
experience.
It is beyond my skill, being all unlearned in the
game of psycho-analysis, to explain how this thing
happened. I concern myself only with facts. Sud-
denly the pretty veil of self-satisfaction was rent
from top to bottom, and Dickson saw a figure of
himself within, a smug leaden little figure which
simpered and preened itself and was hollow as a
rotten nut. And he hated it.
The horrid truth burst on him that Heritage had
been right. He only played with life. That imbe-
cile image was a mere spectator, content to applaud,
but shrinking from the contact of reality. It had
been all right as a provision merchant, but when it
fancied itself capable of higher things it had de-
ceived itself. Foolish little image with its brave
dreams and its swelling words from Browning! All


128 HUNTINGTOWER
make-believe of the feeblest. He was a coward,
running away at the first threat of danger. It was
as if he were watching a tall stranger with a wand
pointing to the embarrassed phantom that was him-
self, and ruthlessly exposing its frailties! And yet
the pitiless showman was himself too—himself as
he wanted to be, cheerful, brave, resourceful, in-
domitable.
Dickson suffered a spasm of mortal agony. “Oh,
I'm surely not so bad as all that,” he groaned. But
the hurt was not only in his pride. He saw himself
being forced to new decisions, and each alternative
was of the blackest. He fairly shivered with the
horror of it. The car slipped past a suburban sta-
tion from which passengers were emerging—com-
fortable black-coated men such as he had once been.
He was bitterly angry with Providence for picking
him out of the great crowd of sedentary folk for
this sore ordeal. “Why was I tethered to sich a
conscience?” was his moan. But there was that
stern inquisitor with his pointer exploring his soul.
“You flatter yourself you have done your share,”
he was saying. “You will make pretty stories about
it to yourself, and some day you may tell your
friends, modestly disclaiming any special credit.
But you will be a liar, for you know you are afraid.
You are running away when the work is scarcely
begun, and leaving it to a few boys and a poet whom
you had the impudence the other day to despise.
I think you are worse than a coward. I think you
are a cad.”
His fellow-passengers on the top of the car saw


NIR. MCCUNN 129
an absorbed middle-aged gentleman who seemed to
have something the matter with his bronchial tubes.
They could not guess at the tortured soul. The de-
cision was coming nearer, the alternatives loomed
up dark and inevitable. On one side was submis-
sion to ignominy, on the other a return to that place,
which he detested, and yet loathed himself for de-
testing. “It seems I'm not likely to have much
peace either way,” he reflected dismally.
How the conflict would have ended had it con-
tinued on these lines I cannot say. The soul of Mr.
McCunn was being assailed by moral and meta-
physical adversaries with which he had not been
trained to deal. But suddenly it leapt from nega-
tives to positives. He saw the face of the girl in
the shuttered House, so fair and young and yet so
haggard. It seemed to be appealing to him to
rescue it from a great loneliness and fear. Yes, he
had been right, it had a strange look of his Janet
—the wide-open eyes, the solemn mouth. What
was to become of that child if he failed her in her
great need?
Now Dickson was a practical man and this view
of the case brought him into a world which he
understood. “It's fair ridiculous,” he reflected.
“Nobody there to take a grip of things. Just a
wheen Gorbals keelies and the lad Heritage. Not
a business man among the lot.”
The alternatives, which hove before him like two
great banks of cloud, were altering their appear-
ance. One was becoming faint and tenuous; the
other, solid as ever, was just a shade less black.


130 HUNTINGTOWER
He lifted his eyes and saw in the near distance the
corner of the road which led to his home. “I must
decide before I reach that corner,” he told him-
self.
Then his mind became apathetic. He began to
whistle dismally through his teeth, watching the
corner as it came nearer. The car stopped with a
jerk. “I’ll go back,” he said aloud, clambering
down the steps. The truth was he had decided five
minutes before when he first saw Janet's face.
He walked briskly to his house, entirely refusing
to waste any more energy on reflection. “This is
a business proposition,” he told himself, “and I'm
going to handle it as sich.” Tibby was surprised
to see him and offered him tea in vain. “I’m just
back for a few minutes. Let's see the letters.”
There was one from his wife. She proposed to
stay another week at the Neuk Hydropathic and
suggested that he might join her and bring her
home. He sat down and wrote a long affectionate
reply, declining, but expressing his delight that she
was soon returning. “That's very likely the last
time Mamma will hear from me,” he reflected, but
—oddly enough—without any great fluttering of
the heart.
Then he proceeded to be furiously busy. He sent
out Tibby to buy another knapsack and to order
a cab and to cash a considerable cheque. In the
knapsack he packed a fresh change of clothing and
the new safety razor, but no books, for he was past
the need of them. That done, he drove to his
solicitors.


132 HUNTINGTOWER
would like a telegram sent at once to Mr. Loudon
introducing him. He's Mr. Dickson McCunn of
Mearns Street—the great provision merchant, you
know. Oh, yes! Good for any rent. Refer if you
like to the Strathclyde Bank, but you can take my
word for it. Thank you. Then that's settled.
Good-bye.”
Dickson's next visit was to a gunmaker who was
a fellow-elder with him in the Guthrie Memorial
Kirk.
“I want a pistol and a lot of cartridges,” he an-
nounced. “I’m not caring what kind it is, so long
as it is a good one and not too big.”
“For yourself?” the gunmaker asked. “You
must have a licence, I doubt, and there's a lot of
new regulations.”
“I can't wait on a licence. It's for a cousin of
mine who's off to Mexico at once. You've got to
find some way of obliging an old friend, Mr.
McNair.”
Mr. McNair scratched his head. “I don't see
how I can sell you one. But I'll tell you what I'll
do—I’ll lend you one. It belongs to my nephew,
Peter Tait, and has been lying in a drawer ever since
he came back from the front. He has no use for
it now that he's a placed minister.”
So Dickson bestowed in the pockets of his water-
proof a service revolver and fifty cartridges, and
bade his cab take him to the shop in Mearns Street.
For a moment the sight of the familiar place struck
a pang to his breast, but he choked down unavailing
regrets. He ordered a great hamper of foodstuffs


MR. McCUNN 133
—the most delicate kind of tinned goods, two per-
fect hams, tongues, Strassburg pies, chocolate, cakes,
biscuits and, as a last thought, half a dozen bottles
of old liqueur brandy. It was to be carefully \
packed, addressed to Mrs. Morran, Dalquharter \
Station, and delivered in time for him to take down
by the 7.33 train. Then he drove to the terminus
and dined with something like a desperate peace in
his heart.
On this occasion he took a first-class ticket, for
he wanted to be alone. As the lights began to be
lit in the wayside stations and the clear April dusk
darkened into night, his thoughts were sombre yet
resigned. He opened the window and let the sharp
air of the Renfrewshire uplands fill the carriage.
It was fine weather again after the rain, and a bright
constellation—perhaps Dougal's friend O'Brien—
hung in the western sky. How happy he would
have been a week ago had he been starting thus for
a country holiday! He could sniff the faint scent
of moor-burn and ploughed earth which had always
been his first reminder of spring. But he had been
pitchforked out of that old happy world and could
never enter it again. Alas! for the roadside fire,
the cosy inn, the Compleat Angler, the Chavender
or Chub l
And yet—and yet! He had done the right thing,
though the Lord alone knew how it would end.
He began to pluck courage from his very melan-
choly and hope from his reflections upon the transi-
toriness of life. He was austerely following Ro-
mance as he conceived it, and if that capricious lady


134 HUNTINGTOWER
had taken one dream from him she might yet
reward him with a better. Tags of poetry came
into his head which seemed to favour this philos-
ophy—particularly some lines of Browning on
which he used to discourse to his Kirk Literary
Society. Uncommon silly, he considered, these
homilies of his must have been, mere twitterings
of the unfledged. But now he saw more in the lines,
a deeper interpretation which he had earned the
right to make.
“Oh, world, where all things change and nought abides,
Oh, life, the long mutation—is it so?
Is it with life as with the body's change?—
Where, e'en tho’ better follow, good must pass.”
That was as far as he could get, though he cudgelled
his memory to continue. Moralising thus, he be-
came drowsy, and was almost asleep when the train
drew up at the station of Kirkmichael.


CHAPTER VII
SUNDRY DOINGS IN THE MIRK
ROM Kirkmichael on the train stopped at every
station, but no passenger seemed to leave or
arrive at the little platforms white in the moon. At
Dalquharter the case of provisions was safely trans-
ferred to the porter with instructions to take charge
of it till it was sent for. During the next ten min-
utes Dickson's mind began to work upon his prob-
lem with a certain briskness. It was all nonsense
that the law of Scotland could not be summoned
to the defence. The jewels had been safely got rid
of, and who was to dispute their possession? Not
Dobson and his crew, who had no sort of title, and
were out for naked robbery. The girl had spoken
of greater dangers from new enemies—kidnapping
perhaps. Well, that was felony, and the police
must be brought in. Probably if all were known
the three watchers had criminal records, pages long,
filed at Scotland Yard. The man to deal with that
side of the business was Loudon the factor, and to
him he was bound in the first place. He had made
a clear picture in his head of this Loudon—a dere-
lict old country writer, formal, pedantic, lazy,
anxious only to get an unprofitable business off his
hands with the least possible trouble, never going
near the place himself, and ably supported in his
135


136 HUNTINGTOWER
lethargy by conceited Edinburgh Writers to the
Signet. “Sich notions of business!” he murmured.
“I wonder that there's a single county family in
Scotland no' in the bankruptcy court!” It was his
mission to wake up Mr. James Loudon.
Arrived at Auchenlochan he went first to the
Salutation Hotel, a pretentious place sacred to
golfers. There he engaged a bedroom for the
night and, having certain scruples, paid for it in
advance. He also had some sandwiches prepared
which he stowed in his pack, and filled his flask with
whisky. “I’m going home to Glasgow by the first
train to-morrow,” he told the landlady, “and now
I've got to see a friend. I'll not be back till late.”
He was assured that there would be no difficulty
about his admittance at any hour, and directed how
to find Mr. Loudon's dwelling.
It was an old house fronting direct on the street,
with a fanlight above the door and a neat brass
plate bearing the legend “Mr. James Loudon,
Writer.” A lane ran up one side leading appar-
ently to a garden, for the moonlight showed the
dusk of trees. In front was the main street of
Auchenlochan, now deserted save for a single
roysterer, and opposite stood the ancient town
house, with arches where the country folk came at
the spring and autumn hiring fairs. Dickson rang
the antiquated bell, and was presently admitted to
a dark hall floored with oil-cloth, where a single
gas-jet showed that on one side was the business
office and on the other the living-rooms. Mr.
Loudon was at supper, he was told, and he sent in


SUNDRY DOINGS IN THE MIRK 137
his card. Almost at once the door at the end on
the left side was flung open and a large figure ap-
peared flourishing a napkin. “Come in, sir, come
in,” it cried. “I’ve just finished a bite of meat.
Very glad to see you. Here, Maggie, what d'you
mean by keeping the gentleman standing in that
outer darkness?”
The room into which Dickson was ushered was
small and bright, with a red paper on the walls, a
fire burning and a big oil lamp in the centre of a
table. Clearly Mr. Loudon had no wife, for it was
a bachelor's den in every line of it. A cloth was
laid on a corner of the table, on which stood the
remnants of a meal. Mr. Loudon seemed to have
been about to make a brew of punch, for a kettle
simmered by the fire, and lemons and sugar flanked
a pot-bellied whisky decanter of the type that used
to be known as a “mason's mell.”
The sight of the lawyer was a surprise to Dick-
son and dissipated his notions of an aged and
lethargic incompetent. Mr. Loudon was a strongly
built man who could not be a year over fifty. He
had a ruddy face, clean-shaven except for a grizzled
moustache; his grizzled hair was thinning round the
temples; but his skin was unwrinkled and his eyes
had all the vigour of youth. His tweed suit was
well cut, and the buff waistcoat with flaps and
pockets and the plain leather watchguard hinted at
the sportsman, as did the half-dozen racing prints
on the wall. A pleasant high-coloured figure he
made; his voice had the frank ring due to much use
out of doors; and his expression had the singular


188 HUNTINGTOWER
candour which comes from grey eyes with large
pupils and a narrow iris.
“Sit down, Mr. McCunn. Take the arm-chair by
the fire. I've had a wire from Glendonan and
Speirs about you. I was just going to have a glass
of toddy—a grand thing for these uncertain April
nights. You'll join me? No? Well, you'll smoke
anyway. There's cigars at your elbow. Certainly,
a pipe if you like. This is Liberty Hall.”
Dickson found some difficulty in the part for
which he had cast himself. He had expected to
condescend upon an elderly inept and give him
sharp instructions; instead he found himself faced
with a jovial, virile figure which certainly did not
suggest incompetence. It has been mentioned al-
ready that he had always great difficulty in looking
any one in the face, and this difficulty was intensified
when he found himself confronted with bold and
candid eyes. He felt abashed and a little nervous.
“I’ve come to see you about Huntingtower
House,” he began.
“I know. So Glendonans informed me. Well,
I'm very glad to hear it. The place has been stand-
ing empty far too long, and that is worse for a new
house than an old house. There's not much money
to spend on it either, unless we can make sure of
a good tenant. How did you hear about it?”
“I was taking a bit holiday and I spent a night
at Dalquharter with an old auntie of mine. You
must understand I've just retired from business,
and I'm thinking of finding a country place. I
used to have the big provision shop in Mearns


SUNDRY DOINGS IN THE MIRK 139
Street—now the United Supply Stores, Limited.
You've maybe heard of it?”
The other bowed and smiled. “Who hasn't?
The name of Dickson McCunn is known far be-
yond the city of Glasgow.” -
Dickson was not insensible of the flattery, and he
continued with more freedom. “I took a walk and
got a glisk of the House and I liked the look of it.
You see, I want a quiet bit a good long way from
a town, and at the same time a house with all mod-
ern conveniences. I suppose Huntingtower has
that?”
“When it was built fifteen years ago it was con-
sidered a model—six bathrooms, its own electric
light plant, steam heating, an independent boiler
for hot water, the whole bag of tricks. I won't
say but what some of these contrivances will want
looking to, for the place has been some time empty,
but there can be nothing very far wrong, and I can
guarantee that the bones of the house are good.”
“Well, that's all right,” said Dickson. “I don't
mind spending a little money myself if the place
suits me. But of that, of course, I'm not yet cer-
tain, for I’ve only had a glimpse of the outside. I
wanted to get into the policies, but a man at the
lodge wouldn't let me. They're a mighty uncivil
lot down there.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” said Mr. Loudon
in a tone of concern.
“Ay, and if I take the place I'll stipulate that
you get rid of the lodgekeepers.”
“There won't be the slightest difficulty about


140 HUNTINGTOWER
that, for they are only weekly tenants. But I'm
vexed to hear they were uncivil. I was glad to get
any tenant that offered, and they were well recom-
mended to me.”
“They're foreigners.”
“One of them is a Belgian refugee that Lady
Morewood took an interest in. But the other—
Spittal, they call him—I thought he was Scotch.”
“He’s not that. And I don’t like the innkeeper
either. I would want him shifted.”
Mr. Loudon laughed. “I dare say Dobson is a
rough diamond. There's worse folk in the world
all the same, but I don't think he will want to stay.
He only went there to pass the time till he heard
from his brother in Vancouver. He's a roving
spirit, and will be off overseas again.”
“That's all right!” said Dickson, who was be-
ginning to have horrid suspicions that he might be
on a wild-goose chase after all. “Well, the next
thing is for me to see over the House.”
“Certainly. I'd like to go with you myself.
What day would suit you? Let me see. This is
Friday. What about this day week?”
“I was thinking of to-morrow. Since I’m down
in these parts I may as well get the job done.”
Mr. Loudon looked puzzled. “I quite see that.
But I don't think it's possible. You see, I have to
consult the owners and get their consent to a lease.
Of course they have the general purpose of letting,
but—well, they're queer folk the Kennedys,” and
his face wore the half-embarrassed smile of an
honest man preparing to make confidences. “When


SUNDRY DOINGS IN THE MIRK 141
poor Mr. Quentin died, the place went to his two
sisters in joint ownership. A very bad arrangement,
as you can imagine. It isn't entailed, and I've al-
ways been pressing them to sell, but so far they
won't hear of it. They both married Englishmen,
so it will take a day or two to get in touch with
them. One, Mrs. Stukely, lives in Devonshire.
The other—Miss Katie that was—married Sir
Francis Morewood, the general, and I hear that
she's expected back in London next Monday from
the Riviera. I'll wire and write first thing to-
morrow morning. But you must give me a day or
two.”
Dickson felt himself waking up. His doubts
about his own sanity were dissolving, for, as his
mind reasoned, the factor was prepared to do any-
thing he asked—but only after a week had gone.
What he was concerned with was the next few
days.
“All the same I would like to have a look at
the place to-morrow, even if nothing comes of it.”
Mr. Loudon looked seriously perplexed. “You
will think me absurdly fussy, Mr. McCunn, but I
must really beg of you to give up the idea. The
Kennedys, as I have said, are—well, not exactly like
other people, and I have the strictest orders not to
let any one visit the house without their express
leave. It sounds a ridiculous rule, but I assure you
it's as much as my job is worth to disregard it.”
“D'you mean to say not a soul is allowed inside
the House?”
“Not a soul.”


SUNDRY DOINGS IN THE MIRK 148
his forehead. “Nothing violent, you understand,
but just not quite “wise and world-like,' as the old
folk say. Well, there's a certain old lady, an aunt
of Mr. Quentin and his sisters, who has always been
about tenpence in the shilling. Usually she lives at
Bournemouth, but one of her crazes is a passion for
Huntingtower, and the Kennedys have always hu-
moured her and had her to stay every spring. When
the House was shut up that became impossible, but
this year she took such a craving to come back, that
Lady Morewood asked me to arrange it. It had
to be kept very quiet, but the poor old thing is per-
fectly harmless, and just sits and knits with her
maid and looks out of the seaward windows. Now
you see why I can't take you there to-morrow. I
have to get rid of the old lady, who in any case was
travelling south early next week. Do you under-
stand?”
“Perfectly,” said Dickson with some fervour.
He had learned exactly what he wanted. The fac-
tor was telling him lies. Now he knew where to
place Mr. Loudon.
He always looked back upon what followed as a
very creditable piece of play-acting for a man who
had small experience in that line. .
“Is the old lady a wee wizened body, with a black
cap and something like a white cashmere shawl
round her shoulders?”
“You describe her exactly,” Mr. Loudon replied
eagerly.
“That would explain the foreigners.”
“Of course. . We couldn't have natives who


144 HUNTINGTOWER
would make the thing the clash of the country-
side.”
“Of course not. But it must be a difficult job to
keep a business like that quiet. Any wandering
policeman might start inquiries. And supposing the
lady became violent?”
“Oh, there's no fear of that. Besides, I've a
position in this county—Deputy Fiscal and so forth
—and a friend of the Chief Constable. I think I
may be trusted to do a little private explaining if
the need arose.”
“I see,” said Dickson. He saw, indeed, a great
deal which would give him food for furious thought.
“Well, I must just possess my soul in patience.
Here's my Glasgow address, and I look to you to
send me a telegram whenever you're ready for me.
I’m at the Salutation to-night, and go home to-
morrow with the first train. Wait a minute”—and
he pulled out his watch—“there's a train stops at
Auchenlochan at Io. 17. I think I'll catch that.
. . . Well, Mr. Loudon, I'm very much obliged to
you, and I'm glad to think that it'll no be long till
we renew our acquaintance.”
The factor accompanied him to the door, diffus-
ing geniality. “Very pleased indeed to have met
you. A pleasant journey and a quick return.”
The street was still empty. Into a corner of the
arches opposite the moon was shining, and Dickson
retired thither to consult his map of the neighbour-
hood. He found what he wanted and, as he lifted
his eyes, caught sight of a man coming down the
causeway. Promptly he retired into the shadow


SUNDRY DOINGS IN THE MIRK 145
and watched the new-comer. There could be no
mistake about the figure; the bulk, the walk, the
carriage of the head marked it for Dobson. The
inn-keeper went slowly past the factor's house; then
halted and retraced his steps; then, making sure that
the street was empty, turned into the side lane
which led to the garden.
This was what sailors call a cross-bearing, and
strengthened Dickson's conviction. He delayed no
longer, but hurried down the side street by which
the north road leaves the town.
He had crossed the bridge of Lochan and was
climbing the steep ascent which led to the heathy
plateau separating that stream from the Garple
before he had got his mind quite clear on the case.
First, Loudon was in the plot, whatever it was; re-
sponsible for the details of the girl's imprisonment,
but not the main author. That must be the Un-
known who was still to come, from whom Spidel
took his orders. Dobson was probably Loudon's
special henchman, working directly under him.
Secondly, the immediate object had been the jewels,
and they were happily safe in the vaults of the in-
corruptible Mackintosh. But, third—and this only
on Saskia's evidence—the worst danger to her be-
gan with the arrival of the Unknown. What could
that be? Probably, kidnapping. He was prepared
to believe anything of people like Bolsheviks. And,
fourth, this danger was due within the next day or
two. Loudon had been quite willing to let him into
the house and to sack all the watchers within a week
from that date. The natural and right thing was


146 HUNTINGTOWER
to summon the aid of the law, but, fifth, that would
be a slow business with Loudon able to put spokes
in the wheels and befog the authorities, and the
mischief would be done before a single policeman
showed his face in Dalquharter. Therefore, sixth,
he and Heritage must hold the fort in the mean-
time, and he would send a wire to his lawyer, Mr.
Caw, to get to work with the constabulary. Sev-
enth, he himself was probably free from suspicion
in both Loudon's and Dobson's minds as a harm-
less fool. But that freedom would not survive his
reappearance in Dalquharter. He could say, to be
sure, that he had come back to see his auntie, but
that would not satisfy the watchers, since, so far
as they knew, he was the only man outside the gang
who was aware that people were dwelling in the
House. They would not tolerate his presence in
the neighbourhood.
He formulated his conclusions as if it were an
ordinary business deal, and rather to his surprise
was not conscious of any fear. As he pulled to-
gether the belt of his waterproof he felt the re-
assuring bulges in its pockets which were his pistol
and cartridges. He reflected that it must be very
difficult to miss with a pistol if you fired it at, say,
three yards, and if there was to be shooting that
would be his range. Mr. McCunn had stumbled
on the precious truth that the best way to be rid
of quaking knees is to keep a busy mind.
He crossed the ridge of the plateau and looked
down on the Garple glen. There were the lights of
Dalquharter—or rather a single light, for the in-


SUNDRY DOINGS IN THE MIRK 147
habitants went early to bed. His intention was to
seek quarters with Mrs. Morran, when his eye
caught a gleam in a hollow of the moor a little to
the east. He knew it for the camp-fire around
which Dougal's warriors bivouacked. The notion
came to him to go there instead, and hear the news
of the day before entering the cottage. So he
crossed the bridge, skirted a plantation of firs, and
scrambled through the broom and heather in what
he took to be the right direction.
The moon had gone down, and the quest was
not easy. Dickson had come to the conclusion
that he was on the wrong road, when he was sum-
moned by a voice which seemed to arise out of the
ground.
“Who goes there?”
“What's that you say?”
“Who goes there?” The point of a pole was
held firmly against his chest.
“I'm Mr. McCunn, a friend of Dougal's.”
“Stand, friend.” The shadow before him whis-
tled and another shadow appeared. “Report to the
Chief that there's a man here, name o' McCunn,
seekin' for him.”
Presently the messenger returned with Dougal
and a cheap lantern which he flashed in Dickson's
face.
“Oh, it's you,” said that leader, who had his jaw
bound up as if he had the toothache. “What are
ye doing back here?” -
“To tell the truth, Dougal,” was the answer, “I
couldn't stay away. I was fair miserable when I


148 HUNTINGTOWER
thought of Mr. Heritage and you laddies left to
yourselves. My conscience simply wouldn't let me
stop at home, so here I am.”
Dougal grunted, but clearly he approved, for
from that moment he treated Dickson with a new
respect. Formerly when he had referred to him at
all it had been as “auld McCunn.” Now it was
“Mister McCunn.” He was given rank as a
worthy civilian ally.
The bivouac was a cheerful place in the wet night.
A great fire of pine roots and old paling posts
hissed in the fine rain, and around it crouched sev-
eral urchins busy making oatmeal cakes in the
embers. On one side a respectable lean-to had been
constructed by nailing a plank to two fir-trees, run-
ning sloping poles thence to the ground, and thatch-
ing the whole with spruce branches and heather.
On the other side two small dilapidated home-made
tents were pitched. Dougal motioned his com-
panion into the lean-to, where they had some pri-
vacy from the rest of the band.
“Well, what's your news?” Dickson asked. He
noticed that the Chieftain seemed to have been
comprehensively in the wars, for apart from the
bandage on his jaw, he had numerous small cuts on
his brow, and a great rent in one of his shirt
sleeves. Also he appeared to be going lame, and
when he spoke a new gap was revealed in his large
teeth.
“Things,” said Dougal solemnly, “has come to
a bonny cripus. This very night we've been in a
battle.”


SUNDRY DOINGS IN THE MIRK 149
He spat fiercely, and the light of war burned in
his eyes.
“It was the tinklers from the Garple Dean. They
yokit on us about seven o'clock, just at the dark-
enin'. First they tried to bounce us. We weren't
wanted here, they said, so we'd better clear. I
telled them that it was them that wasn't wanted.
“Awa’ to Finnick,' says I. ‘D'ye think we take our
orders from dirty ne'er-do-weels like you?” “By
God,' says they, we'll cut your lights out,’ and then
the battle started.”
“What happened?” Dickson asked excitedly.
“They were four muckle men against six laddies,
and they thought they had an easy job! Little they
kenned the Gorbals Die-Hards ! I had been ex-
pectin' something of the kind, and had made my
plans. They first tried to pu' down our tents and
burn them. I let them get within five yards, re-
servin' my fire. The first volley—stones from our
hands and our catties—halted them, and before
they could recover three of us had got hold o'
burnin' sticks frae the fire and were lammin' into
them. We kinnled their claes, and they fell back
swearin' and stampin' to get the fire out. Then I
gave the word and we were on them wi' our poles,
usin' the points accordin' to instructions. My
orders was to keep a good distance, for if they had
grippit one o' us he'd ha’ been done for. They
were roarin' mad by now, and twae had out their
knives, but they couldn't do muckle, for it was
gettin' dark, and they didn't ken the ground like us,
and were aye trippin'" and tumblin'. But they


150 HUNTINGTOWER
pressed us hard, and one o' them landed me an
awful clype on the jaw. They were still aiming at
our tents, and I saw that if they got near the fire
again it would be the end o' us. So I blew my
whistle for Thomas Yownie, who was in command
o' the other half of us, with instructions to fall
upon their rear. That brought Thomas up, and
the tinklers had to face round about and fight a
battle on two fronts. We charged them and they
broke, and the last seen o' them they were coolin'
their burns in the Garple.”
“Well done, man. Had you many casualties?”
“We're a' a wee thing battered, but nothing to
hurt. I'm the worst, for one o' them had a grip
o' me for about three seconds, and Gosh! he was
fierce.”
“They're beaten off for the night, anyway?”
“Ay, for the night. But they'll come back, never
fear. That's why I said that things had coine to
a cripus.”
“What's the news from the House?”
“A quiet day, and no word o' Lean or Dobson.”
Dickson nodded. “They were hunting me.”
“Mr. Heritage has gone to bide in the Hoose.
They were watchin' the Garple Dean, so I took him
round by the Laver foot and up the rocks. He's
a grand climber, yon. We fund a road up the rocks
and got in by the verandy. Did ye ken that the
lassie had a pistol? Well, she has, and it seems
that Mr. Heritage is a good shot wi' a pistol, so
there's some hope thereaways. . . . Are the jools
safe?”


SUNDRY DOINGS IN THE MIRK 151
“Safe in the bank. But the jools were not the
main thing.”
Dougal nodded. “So I was thinkin'. The lassie
wasn't muckle the easier for gettin' rid o' them. I
didn't just quite understand what she said to Mr.
Heritage, for they were aye wanderin' into foreign
langwidges, but it seems she's terrible feared o'
somebody that may turn up any moment. What's
the reason I can't say. She's maybe got a secret,
or maybe it's just that she's ower bonny.”
“That's the trouble,” said Dickson and proceeded
to recount his interview with the factor, to which
Dougal gave close attention. “Now the way I read
the thing is this. There's a plot to kidnap that
lady, for some infernal purpose, and it depends on
the arrival of some person or persons, and it's due
to happen in the next day or two. If we try to
work it through the police alone, they'll beat us, for
Loudon will manage to hang the business up till
it's too late. So we must take up the job ourselves.
We must stand a siege, Mr. Heritage and me and
you laddies, and for that purpose we'd better all
keep together. It won't be extra easy to carry her
off from all of us, and if they do manage it we'll
stick to their heels. . . . Man, Dougal, isn't it a
queer thing that whiles law-abiding folk have to
make their own laws? . . . So my plan is that the
lot of us get into the House and form a garrison.
If you don't, the tinklers will come back and you'll
no' beat them in the daylight.”
“I doubt no’,” said Dougal. “But what about
our meat?”


152 HUNTINGTOWER
“We must lay in provisions. We'll get what we
can from Mrs. Morran, and I’ve left a big box
of fancy things at Dalquharter station. Can you
laddies manage to get it down here?”
Dougal reflected. “Ay, we can hire Mrs. Sem-
pill's powny, the same that fetched our kit.”
“Well, that's your job to-morrow. See, I'll
write you a line to the station-master. And will
you undertake to get it some way into the House?”
“There's just the one road open—by the rocks.
It'll have to be done. It can be done.”
“And I've another job. I'm writing this tele-
gram to a friend in Glasgow who will put a spoke
in Mr. Loudon's wheel. I want one of you to go
to Kirkmichael to send it from the telegraph office
there.”
Dougal placed the wire to Mr. Caw in his bosom.
“What about yourself? We want somebody out-
side to keep his eyes open. It's bad strawtegy to
cut off your communications.”
Dickson thought for a moment. “I believe
you're right. I believe the best plan for me is to
go back to Mrs. Morran's as soon as the old body's
like to be awake. You can always get at me there,
for it's easy to slip into her back kitchen without
anybody in the village seeing you. . . . Yes, I'll do
that, and you'll come and report developments to
me. And now I'm for a bite and a pipe. It's hun-
gry work travelling the country in the small hours.”
“I’m going to introjuice ye to the rest o' us,” said
Dougal. “Here, men!” he called, and four figures
rose from the side of the fire. As Dickson munched


SUNDRY DOINGS IN THE MIRK 153
a sandwich he passed in review the whole company
of the Gorbals Die-Hards, for the pickets were also
brought in, two others taking their places. There
was Thomas Yownie, the Chief of Staff, with a
wrist wound up in the handkerchief which he had
borrowed from his neck. There was a burly lad
who wore trousers much too large for him, and
who was known as Peer Pairson, a contraction pre-
sumably for Peter Paterson. After him came a
lean tall boy who answered to the name of Na-
poleon. There was a midget of a child, desperately
sooty in the face either from battle or from fire-
tending, who was presented as Wee Jaikie. Last
came the picket who had held his pole at Dickson's
chest, a sandy-haired warrior with a snub nose and
the mouth and jaw of a pug-dog. He was Old Bill,
or in Dougal's parlance “Auld Bull.”
The Chieftain viewed his scarred following with
a grim content. “That's a tough lot for ye, Mr.
McCunn. Used a' their days wi' sleepin' in coal-
rees and dunnies and dodgin' the polis. Ye'll no
beat the Gorbals Die-Hards.”
“You're right, Dougal,” said Dickson. “There's
just the six of you... If there were a dozen, I think
this country would be needing some new kind of a
government.”


A MIDDLE-AGED CRUSADER 155
He woke between nine and ten to the sound of
rain lashing against the garret window. As he
picked his way out of the mazes of sleep and re-
covered the skein of his immediate past, he found
to his disgust that he had lost his composure. All
the flock of fears that had left him when, on the top
of the Glasgow tram-car, he had made the great
decision had flown back again and settled like black
crows on his spirit. He was running a horrible risk
and all for a whim. What business had he to be
mixing himself up in things he did not understand?
It might be a huge mistake, and then he would be
a laughing stock; for a moment he repented his
telegram to Mr. Caw. Then he recanted that sus-
picion; there could be no mistake, except the fatal
one that he had taken on a job too big for him. He
sat on the edge of his bed and shivered, with his
eyes on the grey drift of rain. He would have felt
more stout-hearted had the sun been shining.
He shuffled to the window and looked out. There
in the village street was Dobson, and Dobson saw
him. That was a bad blunder, for his reason told
him that he should have kept his presence in Dal-
quharter hid as long as possible.
There was a knock at the cottage door, and pres-
ently Mrs. Morran appeared.
“It's the man frae the inn,” she announced.
“He’s wantin' a word wi' ye. Speakin' verra
ceevil, too.”
“Tell him to come up,” said Dickson. He might
as well get the interview over. Dobson had seen
Loudon and must know of their conversation. The


156 HUNTINGTOWER
sight of himself back again when he had pretended
to be off to Glasgow would remove him effectually
from the class of the unsuspected. He wondered
just what line Dobson would take.
The innkeeper obtruded his bulk through the low
door. His face was wrinkled into a smile, which
nevertheless left the small eyes ungenial. His voice
had a loud vulgar cordiality. Suddenly Dickson
was conscious of a resemblance, a resemblance to
somebody whom he had recently seen. It was
Loudon. There was the same thrusting of the chin
forward, the same odd cheek-bones, the same
unctuous heartiness of speech. The innkeeper, well
washed and polished and dressed, would be no bad
copy of the factor. They must be near kin, per-
haps brothers.
“Good morning to you, Mr. McCunn. Man, it's
pitifu' weather, and just when the farmers are want-
ing a dry seed-bed. What brings ye back here?
Ye travel the country like a drover.”
“Oh, I'm a free man now and I took a fancy to
this place. An idle body has nothing to do but
please himself.”
“I hear ye're taking a lease of Huntingtower?”
“Now who told you that?”
“Just the clash of the place. Is it true?”
Dickson looked sly and a little annoyed.
“I maybe had half a thought of it, but I'll thank
you not to repeat the story. It's a big house for
a plain man like me, and I haven't properly in-
spected it.”
“Oh, I'll keep mum, never fear. But if ye’ve


A MIDDLE-AGED CRUSADER 157
that sort of notion, I can understand you not being
able to keep away from the place.”
“That's maybe the fact,” Dickson admitted.
“Well! It's just on that point I want a word
with you.” The innkeeper seated himself unbidden
on the chair which held Dickson's modest raiment.
He leaned forward and with a coarse forefinger
tapped Dickson's pyjama-clad knees. “I can't have
ye wandering about the place. I'm very sorry, but
I've got my orders from Mr. Loudon. So if you
think that by bidin' here ye can see more of the
House and the policies, ye're wrong, Mr. McCunn.
It can't be allowed, for we're no' ready for ye yet.
D'ye understand? That's Mr. Loudon's orders.
. . . Now, would it not be a far better plan if ye
went back to Glasgow and came back in a week's
time? I'm thinking of your own comfort, Mr.
McCunn.”
Dickson was cogitating hard. This man was
clearly instructed to get rid of him at all costs for
the next few days. The neighbourhood had to be
cleared for some black business. The tinklers had
been deputed to drive out the Gorbals Die-Hards,
and as for Heritage they seemed to have lost track
of him. He, Dickson, was now the chief object of
their care. But what could Dobson do if he re-
fused? He dared not show his true hand. Yet he
might, if sufficiently irritated. It became Dickson's
immediate object to get the innkeeper to reveal him-
self by rousing his temper. He did not stop to con-
sider the policy of this course; he imperatively
wanted things cleared up and the issue made plain.


158 HUNTINGTOWER
“I’m sure I'm much obliged to you for thinking
so much about my comfort,” he said in a voice into
which he hoped he had insinuated a sneer. “But
I'm bound to say you're awful suspicious folk about
here. You needn't be feared for your old policies.
There's plenty of nice walks about the roads, and
I want to explore the sea-coast.”
The last words seemed to annoy the innkeeper.
“That's no' allowed either,” he said. “The shore's
as private as the policies. . . . Well, I wish ye joy
tramping the roads in the glaur.”
“It's a queer thing,” said Dickson meditatively,
“that you should keep an hotel and yet be set on
discouraging people from visiting this neighbour-
hood. I tell you what, I believe that hotel of yours
is all sham. You've some other business, you and
these lodgekeepers, and in my opinion it's not a very
creditable one.”
“What d'ye mean?” asked Dobson sharply.
“Just what I say. You must expect a body to be
suspicious, if you treat him as you're treating me.”
Loudon must have told this man the story with
which he had been fobbed off about the half-witted
Kennedy relative. Would Dobson refer to that?
The innkeeper had an ugly look on his face, but
he controlled his temper with an effort. “There's
no cause for suspicion,” he said. “As far as I’m
concerned it's all honest and aboveboard.”
“It doesn't look like it. It looks as if you were
hiding something up in the House which you don't
want me to see.”


A MIDDLE-AGED CRUSADER 159
Dobson jumped from his chair, his face pale with
anger. A man in pyjamas on a raw morning does
not feel at his bravest, and Dickson quailed under
the expectation of assault. But even in his fright
he realised that Loudon could not have told Dobson
the tale of the half-witted lady. The last remark
had cut clean through all camouflage and reached
the quick.
“What the hell d' ye mean?” he cried. “Ye're
a spy, are ye? Ye fat little fool, for two cents I’d
wring your neck.”
Now it is an odd trait of certain mild people that
a suspicion of threat, a hint of bullying, will rouse
some unsuspected obstinacy deep down in their
souls. The insolence of the man's speech woke a
quiet but efficient little devil in Dickson.
“That's a bonny tone to adopt in addressing a
gentleman. If you've nothing to hide what way are
you so touchy? I can't be a spy unless there's
something to spy on.”
The innkeeper pulled himself together. He was
apparently acting on instructions, and had not yet
come to the end of them. He made an attempt at
a smile.
“I’m sure I beg your pardon if I spoke too hot.
But it nettled me to hear ye say that. . . . I'll be
quite frank with ye, Mr. McCunn, and, believe me,
I'm speaking in your best interests. I give ye my
word there's nothing wrong up at the House. I'm
on the side of the law, and when I tell ye the whole
story ye'll admit it. But I can't tell it ye yet. . . .


160 HUNTINGTOWER
This is a wild, lonely bit and very few folk bide
in it. And these are wild times, when a lot of queer
things happen that never get into the papers. I tell
ye it's for your own good to leave Dalquharter for
the present. More I can't say, but I ask ye to look
at it as a sensible man. Ye're one that's accus-
tomed to a quiet life and no’ meant for rough work.
Ye'll do no good if you stay, and, maybe, ye'll land
yourself in bad trouble.”
“Mercy on us!” Dickson exclaimed. “What is
it you're expecting? Sinn Fein?”
The innkeeper nodded. “Something like that.”
“Did you ever hear the like? I never did think.
much of the Irish.”
“Then ye'll take my advice and go home? Tell
ye what, I'll drive ye to the station.”
Dickson got up from the bed, found his new
safety-razor and began to strop it. “No, I think
I'll bide. If you're right there'll be more to see
than glaury roads.”
“I’m warning ye, fair and honest. Ye . . .
can't . . . be . . . allowed . . . to . . . stay . . .
here !”
“Well, I never!” said Dickson. “Is there any
law in Scotland, think you, that forbids a man to
stop a day or two with his auntie?”
“Ye'll stay?”
“Ay, I'll stay.”
“By God, we'll see about that.”
For a moment Dickson thought that he would be
attacked, and he measured the distance that sepa-
rated him from the peg whence hung his waterproof


A MIDDLE-AGED CRUSADER 161
with the pistol in its pocket. But the man restrained
himself and moved to the door. There he stood
and cursed him with a violence and a venom which
Dickson had not believed possible. The full hand
was on the table now.
“Ye wee pot-bellied, pig-heided Glasgow grocer,”
(I paraphrase), “would you set up to defy me? I
tell ye, I'll make ye rue the day ye were born.”
His parting words were a brilliant sketch of the
maltreatment in store for the body of the defiant
One.
“Impident dog,” said Dickson without heat. He
noted with pleasure that the innkeeper hit his head
violently against the low lintel, and, missing a step,
fell down the loft stairs into the kitchen, where
Mrs. Morran's tongue could be heard speeding him
trenchantly from the premises.
Left to himself, Dickson dressed leisurely, and by
and by went down to the kitchen and watched his
hostess making broth. The fracas with Dobson
had done him all the good in the world, for it had
cleared the problem of dubieties and had put an
edge on his temper. But he realised that it made
his continued stay in the cottage undesirable. He
was now the focus of all suspicion, and the inn-
keeper would be as good as his word and try to
drive him out of the place by force. Kidnapping,
most likely, and that would be highly unpleasant,
besides putting an end to his usefulness. Clearly
he must join the others. The soul of Dickson
hungered at the moment for human companionship.
He felt that his courage would be sufficient for any


162 HUNTINGTOWER
team-work, but might waver again if he were left
to play a lone hand.
He lunched nobly off three plates of Mrs. Mor-
ran's kail—an early lunch, for that lady, having
breakfasted at five, partook of the midday meal
about eleven. Then he explored her library, and
settled himself by the fire with a volume of Cove-
nanting tales, entitled Gleanings among the Moun-
tains. It was a most practical work for one in his
position, for it told how various eminent saints of
that era escaped the attention of Claverhouse's
dragoons. Dickson stored up in his memory sev-
eral of the incidents in case they should come in
handy. He wondered if any of his forbears had
been Covenanters; it comforted him to think that
some old progenitor might have hunkered behind
turf walls and been chased for his life in the
heather. “Just like me,” he reflected. “But the
dragoons weren't foreigners, and there was a kind
of decency about Claverhouse too.”
About four o'clock Dougal presented himself in
the back kitchen. He was an even wilder figure
than usual, for his bare legs were mud to the knees,
his kilt and shirt clung sopping to his body, and,
having lost his hat, his wet hair was plastered over
his eyes. Mrs. Morran said, not unkindly, that he
looked “like a wull-cat glowerin' through a whin
buss.” .
“How are you, Dougal?” Dickson asked genially.
“Is the peace of nature smoothing out the creases
in your poor little soul?”
“What's that ye say?”


164 HUNTINGTOWER
he wouldn't listen. Then they cried out where were
the rest, and he telled them they were feared for
their lives and had run away. After that they
offered to catch him, but ye'll no' catch Jaikie in a
hurry. When he had run round about them till
they were wappit, he out wi' his catty and got one
o' them on the lug. Syne he made for the Laver-
foot and reported.”
“Man, Dougal, you've managed fine. Now I've
something to tell you,” and Dickson recounted his
interview with the innkeeper. “I don't think it's
safe for me to bide here, and if I did, I wouldn't
be any use, hiding in cellars and such like, and not
daring to stir a foot. I'm coming with you to the
House. Now tell me how to get there.”
Dougal agreed to this view. “There's been
nothing doing at the Hoose the day, but they're
keepin' a close watch on the policies. The cripus
may come any moment. There's no doubt, Mr.
McCunn, that ye're in danger, for they'll serve you
as the tinklers tried to serve us. Listen to me.
Ye'll walk up the station road, and take the second
turn on your left, a wee grass road that'll bring ye
to the ford at the herd's hoose. Cross the Laver—
there's a plank bridge—and take straight across the
moor in the direction of the peakit hill they call
Grey Carrick. Ye'll come to a big burn, which ye
must follow till ye get to the shore. Then turn
south, keepin' the water's edge till ye reach the
Laver, where, you'll find one o' us to show ye the
rest of the road. . . . I must be off now, and I
advise ye not to be slow of startin', for wi' this rain


A MIDDLE-AGED CRUSADER 165
the water's risin' quick. It's a mercy it's such
coarse weather, for it spoils the veesibility.”
“Auntie Phemie,” said Dickson a few minutes
later, “will you oblige me by coming for a short
walk?”
“The man's daft,” was the answer.
“I’m not. I'll explain if you'll listen. . . . You
see,” he concluded, “the dangerous bit for me is
just the mile out of the village. They'll no’ be so
likely to try violence if there's somebody with me
that could be a witness. Besides, they'll maybe
suspect less if they just see a decent body out for
a breath of air with his auntie.”
Mrs. Morran said nothing, but retired, and re-
turned presently equipped for the road. She had
indued her feet with goloshes and pinned up her
skirts till they looked like some demented Paris
mode. An ancient bonnet was tied under her chin
with strings, and her equipment was completed by
an exceedingly smart tortoise-shell-handled um-
brella, which, she explained, had been a Christmas
present from her son.
“I’ll convoy ye as far as the Laverfoot herd's,
she announced. “The wife's a freend o' mine and
will set me a bit on the road back. Ye needna fash
for me. I’m used to a' weathers.” -
The rain had declined to a fine drizzle, but a
tearing wind from the south-west scoured the land.
Beyond the shelter of the trees the moor was a
battle-ground of gusts which swept the puddles into
spindrift and gave to the stagnant bog-pools the
appearance of running water. The wind was behind
3 *


166 HUNTINGTOWER
the travellers, and Mrs. Morran, like a full-rigged
ship, was hustled before it, so that Dickson, who
had linked arms with her, was sometimes compelled
to trot.
“However will you get home, mistress?” he mur-
mured anxiously.
“Fine. The wind will fa’ at the darkenin'.
This’ll be a sair time for ships at sea.”
Not a soul was about, as they breasted the
ascent of the station road and turned down the
grassy bypath to the Laverfoot herd's. The herd's
wife saw them from afar and was at the door to
receive them.
“Megstyl Phemie Morran!” she shrilled. “Wha
wad ettle to see ye on a day like this? John's awa’
at Dumfries, buyin' tups. Come in, the baith o'
ye. The kettle's on the boil.”
“This is my nevoy Dickson,” said Mrs. Morran.
“He’s gaun to stretch his legs ayont the burn, and
come back by the Ayr road. But I'll be blithe to
tak’ my tea wi' ye, Elspeth. . . . Now, Dickson,
I'll expect ye back on the chap o' seeven.”
He crossed the rising stream on a swaying plank
and struck into the moorland, as Dougal had
ordered, keeping the bald top of Grey Carrick be-
fore him. In that wild place with the tempest
battling overhead he had no fear of human enemies.
Steadily he covered the ground, till he reached the
west-flowing burn that was to lead him to the shore.
He found it an entertaining companion, swirling
into black pools, foaming over little falls, and lying
in dark canal-like stretches in the flats. Presently


162 HUNTINGTOWER
Dickson obeyed, feeling very chilly, and rather
improper. “Now, follow me,” said the guide. The
next moment he was stepping delicately on very
sharp pebbles, holding on to the end of the scout's
pole, while an icy stream ran to his knees.
The Laver as it reaches the sea broadens out to
the width of fifty or sixty yards and tumbles over
little shelves of rock to meet the waves. Usually
it is shallow, but now it was swollen to an average
depth of a foot or more, and there were deeper
pockets. Dickson made the passage slowly and
miserably, sometimes crying out with pain as his
toes struck a sharper flint, once or twice sitting
down on a boulder to blow like a whale, once slip-
ping on his knees and wetting the strange excres-
cence about his middle, which was his tucked-up
waterproof. But the crossing was at length
achieved, and on a patch of sea-pinks he dried him-
self perfunctorily and hastily put on his garments.
Old Bill, who seemed to be regardless of wind or
water, squatted beside him and whistled through
his teeth.
Above them hung the sheer cliffs of the Hunting-
tower cape, so sheer that a man below was com-
pletely hidden from any watcher on the top.
Dickson's heart fell, for he did not profess to be
a cragsman and had indeed a horror of precipitous
places. But as the two scrambled along the foot,
they passed deep-cut gullies and fissures, most of
them unclimbable, but offering something more
hopeful than the face. At one of these Old Bill
halted and led the way up and over a chaos of fallen


A MIDDLE-AGED CRUSADER 169
rock and loose sand. The grey weather had
brought on the dark prematurely, and in the half-
light it seemed that this ravine was blocked by an
unscalable mass of rock. Here Old Bill whistled,
and there was a reply from above. Round the
corner of the mass came Dougal.
“Up here,” he commanded. “It was Mr. Heri-
tage that fund this road.”
Dickson and his guide squeezed themselves be-
tween the mass and the cliff up a spout of stones,
and found themselves in an upper storey of the
gulley, very steep but practicable even for one who
was no cragsman. This in turn ran out against a
wall up which there led only a narrow chimney. At
the foot of this were two of the Die-Hards, and
there were others above, for a rope hung down by
the aid of which a package was even now ascending.
“That's the top,” said Dougal, pointing to the
rim of sky, “and that's the last o' the supplies.”
Dickson noticed that he spoke in a whisper, and
that all the movements of the Die-Hards were
judicious and stealthy. “Now, it's your turn. Take
a good grip o' the rope, and ye'll find plenty holes
for your feet. It's no more than ten yards and
ye're well held above.”
Dickson made the attempt and found it easier
than he expected. The only trouble was his pack
and waterproof, which had a tendency to catch on
jags of rock. A hand was reached out to him, he
was pulled over the edge, and then pushed down
on his face.
When he lifted his head Dougal and the others


170 HUNTINGTOWER
had joined him and the whole company of the Dei-
Hards was assembled on a patch of grass which
was concealed from the landward view by a thicket
of hazels. Another, whom he recognised as Heri-
tage, was coiling up the rope.
“We'd better get all the stuff into the old Tower
for the present,” Heritage was saying. “It’s too
risky to move it into the House now. We'll need
the thickest darkness for that, after the moon is
down. Quick, for the beastly thing will be rising
soon and before that we must all be indoors.”
Then he turned to Dickson, and gripped his hand.
“You’re a high class of sportsman, Dogson. And
I think you're just in time.”
“Are they due to-night?” Dickson asked in an
excited whisper, faint against the wind.
“I don't know about They. But I’ve got a notion
that some devilish queer things will happen before
to-morrow morning.”


CHAPTER IX
THE FIRST BATTLE of THE CRUIves
THE old keep of Huntingtower stood some
three hundred yards from the edge of the
cliffs, a gnarled wood of hazels and oaks protecting
it from the sea-winds. It was still in fair preserva-
tion, having till twenty years before been an adjunct
of the house of Dalquharter, and used as kitchen,
buttery and servants' quarters. There had been
residential wings attached, dating from the mid-
eighteenth century, but these had been pulled down
and used for the foundations of the new mansion.
Now it stood a lonely shell, its three storeys, each
a single great room connected by a spiral stone
staircase, being dedicated to lumber and the storage
of produce. But it was dry and intact, its massive
oak doors defied any weapon short of artillery, its
narrow unglazed windows would scarcely have ad-
mitted a cat—a place portentously strong, gloomy,
but yet habitable.
Dougal opened the main door with a massy key.
“The lassie fund it,” he whispered to Dickson,
“somewhere about the kitchen—and I guessed it
was the key o' this castle. I was thinkin' that if
things got ower hot it would be a good plan to flit
here. Change our base, like.” The Chieftain's
occasional studies in war had trained his tongue to
a military jargon.
171


172 HUNTINGTOWER
In the ground room lay a fine assortment of odd-
ments, including old bedsteads and servants' furni-
ture, and what looked like ancient discarded deer-
skin rugs. Dust lay thick over everything, and they
heard the scurry of rats. A dismal place, indeed,
but Dickson felt only its strangeness. The comfort
of being back again among allies had quickened his
spirit to an adventurous mood. The old lords of
Huntingtower had once quarrelled and revelled and
plotted here, and now here he was at the same game.
Present and past joined hands over the gulf of
years. The saga of Huntingtower was not
ended.
The Die-Hards had brought with them their
scanty bedding, their lanterns and camp kettles.
These and the provisions from Mearns Street were
stowed away in a corner.
“Now for the Hoose, men,” said Dougal. They
stole over the downs to the shrubbery, and Dickson
found himself almost in the same place as he had
lain in three days before, watching a dusky lawn,
while the wet earth soaked through his trouser
knees and the drip from the azaleas trickled over
his spine. Two of the boys fetched the ladder and
placed it against the verandah wall. Heritage first,
then Dickson darted across the lawn and made the
ascent. The six scouts followed, and the ladder
was pulled up and hidden among the verandah litter.
For a second the whole eight stood still and listened.
There was no sound except the murmur of the now
falling wind and the melancholy hooting of owls.
The garrison had entered the Dark Tower.


THE FIRST BATTLE OF THE CRUIVES 173
A council in whispers was held in the garden
TOOm.
“Nobody must show a light,” Heritage observed.
“It mustn't be known that we're here. Only the
Princess will have a lamp. Yes”—this in answer
to Dickson, “she knows that we're coming—you
too. We'll hunt for quarters later upstairs. You
scouts, you must picket every possible entrance.
The windows are safe, I think, for they are locked
from the inside. So is the main door. But there's
the verandah door, of which they have a key, and
the back door beside the kitchen, and I'm not at all
sure that there's not a way in by the boiler-house.
You understand. We're holding this place against
all comers. We must barricade the danger points.
The headquarters of the garrison will be in the hall,
where a scout must be always on duty. You've all
got whistles? Well, if there's an attempt on the
verandah door the picket will whistle once, if at the
back door twice, if anywhere else three times, and
it's everybody's duty, except the picket who whis-
tles, to get back to the hall for orders.”
“That's so,” assented Dougal.
“If the enemy forces an entrance we must over-
power him. Any means you like. Sticks or fists,
and remember that if it's a scrap in the dark make
for the man's throat. I expect you little devils have
eyes like cats. The scoundrels must be kept away
from the ladies at all costs. If the worst comes to
the worst, the Princess has a revolver.”
“So have I,” said Dickson. “I got it in Glas-
gow.”


174 HUNTINGTOWER
“The deuce you have I Can you use it?”
“I don't know.”
“Well, you can hand it over to me, if you like.
But it oughtn't to come to shooting, if it's only the
three of them. The eight of us should be able to
manage three and one of them lame. If the others
turn up—well, God help us all! But we've got
to make sure of one thing, that no one lays hands
on the Princess so long as there's one of us left
alive to hit out.”
“Ye needn't be feared for that,” said Dougal.
There was no light in the room, but Dickson was
certain that the morose face of the Chieftain was
lit with unholy joy.
“Then off with you. Mr. McCunn and I will
explain matters to the ladies.”
When they were alone, Heritage's voice took a
different key. “We’re in for it, Dogson, old man.
There's no doubt these three scoundrels expect re-
inforcements at any moment, and with them will be
one who is the devil incarnate. He's the only thing
on earth that that brave girl fears. It seems he
is in love with her and has pestered her for years.
She hated the sight of him, but he wouldn't take no,
and being a powerful man—rich and well-born and
all the rest of it—she had a desperate time. I
gather he was pretty high in favour with the old
Court. Then when the Bolsheviks started he went
over to them, like plenty of other grandees, and now
he's one of their chief brains—none of your callow
revolutionaries, but a man of the world, a kind of
genius, she says, who can hold his own anywhere.


THE FIRST BATTLE OF THE CRUIVES 175
She believes him to be in this country, and only wait-
ing the right moment to turn up. Oh, it sounds
ridiculous, I know, in Britain in the twentieth cen-
tury, but I learned in the war that civilisation any-
where is a very thin crust. There are a hundred
ways by which that kind of fellow could bamboozle
all our law and police and spirit her away. That's
the kind of crowd we have to face.”
“Did she say what he was like in appearance?”
“A face like an angel—a lost angel, she says.”
Dickson suddenly had an inspiration.
“D'you mind the man you said was an Australian
—at Kirkmichael? I thought myself he was a for-
eigner. Well, he was asking for a place he called
Darkwater, and there's no sich place in the country-
side. I believe he meant Dalquharter. I believe
he's the man she's feared of.”
A gasped “By Jovel” came from the darkness.
“Dogson, you've hit it. That was five days ago,
and he must have got on the right trail by this time.
He'll be here to-night. That's why the three have
been lying so quiet to-day. Well, we'll go through
with it, even if we haven't a dog's chance. Only
I'm sorry that you should be mixed up in such a
hopeless business.”
“Why me more than you?”
“Because it's all pure pride and joy for me to
be here. Good God, I wouldn't be elsewhere for
worlds. It's the great hour of my life. I would
gladly die for her.”
“Tuts, that's no' the way to talk, man. Time
enough to speak about dying when there's no other


176 HUNTINGTOWER
way out. I'm looking at this thing in a business
way. We'd better be seeing the ladies.”
They groped into the pitchy hall, somewhere in
which a Die-Hard was on picket, and down the pas-
sage to the smoking-room. Dickson blinked in the
light of a very feeble lamp and Heritage saw that
his hands were cumbered with packages. He de-
posited them on a sofa and made a ducking bow.
“I’ve come back, Mem, and glad to be back.
Your jools are in safe keeping, and not all the blag-
yirds in creation could get at them. I've come to
tell you to cheer up—a stout heart to a stey brae,
as the old folk say. I'm handling this affair as a
business proposition, so don't be feared, Mem. If
there are enemies seeking you, there's friends on the
road too. . . . Now, you'll have had your dinner,
but you'd maybe like a little dessert.”
He spread before them a huge box of chocolates,
the best that Mearns Street could produce, a box
of candied fruits, and another of salted almonds.
Then from his hideously overcrowded pockets he
took another box, which he offered rather shyly.
“That's some powder for your complexion. They
tell me that ladies find it useful whiles.”
The girl's strained face watched him at first in
mystification, and then broke slowly into a smile.
Youth came back to it, the smile changed to a laugh,
a low rippling laugh like far-away bells. She took
both his hands.
“You are kind,” she said, “you are kind and
brave. You are a de-ar.”
And then she kissed him.


THE FIRST BATTLE OF THE CRUIVES 177
Now, as far as Dickson could remember, no one
had ever kissed him except his wife. The light
touch of her lips on his forehead was like the press-
ing of an electric button which explodes some pow-
erful charge and alters the face of a countryside.
He blushed scarlet; then he wanted to cry; then he
wanted to sing. An immense exhilaration seized
him, and I am certain that if at that moment the
serried ranks of Bolshevism had appeared in the
doorway, Dickson would have hurled himself upon
them with a joyful shout.
Cousin Eugènie was earnestly eating chocolates,
but Saskia had other business.
“You will hold the house?” she asked.
“Please God, yes,” said Heritage. “I look at it
this way. The time is very near when your three
gaolers expect the others, their masters. They have
not troubled you in the past two days as they threat-
ened, because it was not worth while. But they
won't want to let you out of their sight in the final
hours, so they will almost certainly come here to
be on the spot. Our object is to keep them out and
confuse their plans. Somewhere in this neighbour-
hood, probably very near, is the man you fear most.
If we nonplus the three watchers, they'll have to
revise their policy, and that means a delay, and
every hour's delay is a gain. Mr. McCunn has
found out that the factor Loudon is in the plot, and
he has purchase enough, it seems, to blanket for a
time any appeal to the law. But Mr. McCunn has
taken steps to circumvent him, and in twenty-four
hours we should have help here.”


THE FIRST BATTLE OF THE CRUIVES 179
quiet was his conscience and so weary his body from
the buffetings of the past days, was almost instantly
asleep. It seemed to him that he had scarcely
closed his eyes when he was awakened by Dougal's
hand pinching his shoulder. He gathered that
the moon was setting, for the room was pitchy
dark.
“The three o' them is approachin' the kitchen
door,” whispered the Chieftain. “I seen them from
a spy-hole I made out o' a ventilator.”
“Is it barricaded?” asked Heritage, who had
apparently not been asleep.
“Ay, but I've thought o' a far better plan. Why
should we keep them out? They'll be safer inside.
Listen! We might manage to get them in one at
a time. If they can't get in at the kitchen door,
they'll send one o' them round to get in by another
door and open to them. That gives us a chance to
get them separated, and lock them up. There's
walth o' closets and hidy-holes all over the place,
each with good doors and good keys to them. Sup-
posin' we get the three o' them shut up—the others,
when they come, will have nobody to guide them.
Of course some time or other the three will break
out, but it may be ower late for them. At present
we're besieged and they're roamin' the country.
Would it no’ be far better if they were the ones
lockit up and we were goin' loose?”
“Supposing they don't come in one at a time?”
Dickson objected.
“We'll make them,” said Dougal firmly. “There's
no time to waste. Are ye for it?”


180 HUNTINGTOWER
“Yes,” said Heritage. “Who's at the kitchen
door?”
“Peter Paterson. I told him no' to whistle, but
to wait on me. . . . Keep your boots off. Ye're
better in your stockin' feet. Wait you in the hall
and see ye're well hidden, for likely whoever comes
in will have a lantern. Just you keep quiet unless
I give ye a cry. I've planned it a' out, and we're
ready for them.”
Dougal disappeared, and Dickson and Heritage,
with their boots tied round their necks by their
laces, crept out to the upper landing. The hall was
impenetrably dark, but full of voices, for the wind
was talking in the ceiling beams, and murmuring
through the long passages. The walls creaked and
muttered and little bits of plaster fluttered down.
The noise was an advantage for the game of hide-
and-seek they proposed to play, but it made it hard
to detect the enemy's approach. Dickson, in order
to get properly wakened, adventured as far as the
smoking-room. It was black with night, but below
the door of the adjacent room a faint line of light
showed where the Princess's lamp was burning. He
advanced to the window, and heard distinctly a foot
on the gravel path that led to the verandah. This
sent him back to the hall in search of Dougal, whom
he encountered in the passage. That boy could cer-
tainly see in the dark, for he caught Dickson's wrist
without hesitation.
“We've got Spittal in the wine-cellar,” he whis-
pered triumphantly. “The kitchen door was barri-
caded, and when they tried it, it wouldn't open.


182 HUNTINGTOWER
*
could have seen these things if there had been any
light, which there was not. He heard the soft
flitting of bare feet, for a delicate sound is often
audible in a din when a loud noise is obscured. Then
a gale of wind blew towards him, as from an open
door, and far away gleamed the flickering light of
a lantern.
Suddenly the light disappeared and there was a
clatter on the floor and a breaking of glass. Either
the wind or Thomas Yownie.
The verandah door was shut, a match spluttered
and the lantern was relit. Dobson and Léon came
into the hall, both clad in long mackintoshes which
glistened from the weather. Dobson halted and
listened to the wind howling in the upper spaces.
He cursed it bitterly, looked at his watch, and then
made an observation which woke the liveliest in-
terest in Dickson lurking beside the awmry and
Heritage ensconced in the shadow of a window-seat.
“He’s late. He should have been here five min-
utes syne. It would be a dirty road for his car.”
So the Unknown was coming that night. The
news made Dickson the more resolved to get the
watchers under lock and key before reinforcements
arrived, and so put grit in their wheels. Then his
party must escape—flee anywhere so long as it was
far from Dalquharter.
“You stop here,” said Dobson, “I’ll go down and
let Spidel in. We want another lamp. Get the one
that the women use and for God's sake get a
move on.”
The sound of his feet died in the kitchen passage


THE FIRST BATTLE OF THE CRUIVES 183
and then rung again on the stone stairs. Dickson's
ear of faith heard also the soft patter of naked feet
as the Die-Hards preceded and followed him. He
was delivering himself blind and bound into their
hands.
For a minute or two there was no sound but the
wind, which had found a loose chimney cowl on the
roof and screwed out of it an odd sound like the
drone of a bagpipe. Dickson, unable to remain any
longer in one place, moved into the centre of the
hall, believing that Léon had gone to the smoking-
room. It was a dangerous thing to do, for suddenly
a match was lit a yard from him. He had the sense
to drop low, and so was out of the main glare of the
light. The man with the match apparently had no
more, judging by his execrations. Dickson stood
stock still, longing for the wind to fall so that he
might hear the sound of the fellow's boots on the
stone floor. He gathered that they were moving
towards the smoking-room.
“Heritage,” he whispered as loud as he dared,
but there was no answer.
Then suddenly a moving body collided with him.
He jumped a step back and then stood at attention.
“Is that you, Dobson?” a voice asked.
Now behold the occasional advantage of a nick-
name. Dickson thought he was being addressed as
“Dogson” after the Poet's fashion. Had he
dreamed it was Léon he would not have replied,
but fluttered off into the shadows and so missed a
piece of vital news.
“Ay, it's me,” he whispered.


184 HUNTINGTOWER
His voice and accent were Scotch, like Dobson's,
and Léon suspected nothing.
“I do not like this wind,” he grumbled. “The
Captain's letter said at dawn, but there is no chance
of the Danish brig making your little harbour in
this weather. She must lie off and land the men
by boats. That I do not like. It is too public.”
The news—tremendous news, for it told that the
new-comers would come by sea, which had never
before entered Dickson's head—so interested him
that he stood dumb and ruminating. The silence
made the Belgian suspect; he put out a hand and
felt a waterproofed arm which might have been
Dobson's. But the height of the shoulder proved
that it was not the burly innkeeper. There was an
oath, a quick movement, and Dickson went down
with a knee on his chest and two hands at his throat.
“Heritage,” he gasped. “Help!”
There was a sound of furniture scraped violently
on the floor. A gurgle from Dickson served as a
guide, and the Poet suddenly cascaded over the
combatants. He felt for a head, found Léon's,
and gripped the neck so savagely that the owner
loosened his hold on Dickson. The last-named
found himself being buffeted violently by heavy-
shod feet which seemed to be manoeuvring before
an unseen enemy. He rolled out of the road and
encountered another pair of feet, this time unshod.
Then came a sound of a concussion, as if metal or
wood had struck some part of a human frame, and
then a stumble and fall. :
After that a good many things all seemed to


THE FIRST BATTLE OF THE CRUIVES 185
happen at once. There was a sudden light, which
showed Léon blinking with a short loaded life-
preserver in his hand, and Heritage prone in front
of him on the floor. It also showed Dickson the
figure of Dougal, and more than one Die-Hard in
the background. The light went out as suddenly
as it had appeared. There was a whistle, and a
hoarse “Come on, men,” and then for two seconds
there was a desperate silent combat. It ended with
Léon's head meeting the floor so violently that its
possessor became oblivious of further proceedings.
He was dragged into a cubby-hole, which had once
been used for coats and rugs, and the door locked
on him. Then the light sprang forth again. It re-
vealed Dougal and five Die-Hards, somewhat the
worse for wear; it revealed also Dickson squatted
with outspread waterproof very like a sitting hen.
“Where's Dobson?” he asked.
“In the boiler-house,” and for once Dougal's
gravity had laughter in it. “Govey Dick! but yon
was a fecht! Me and Peter Paterson and Wee
Jaikie started it, but it was the whole company afore
the end. Are ye better, Jaikie?”
“Ay, I'm better,” said a pallid midge.
“He kickit Jaikie in the stomach and Jaikie was
seeck,” Dougal explained. “That's the three ac-
counted for. Now they're safe for five hours at
the least. I think mysel' that Dobson will be the
first to get out, but he'll have his work letting out
the others. Now, I'm for flittin' to the old Tower.
They'll no ken where we are for a long time, and
anyway yon place will be far easier to defend.


186 HUNTINGTOWER
Without they kindle a fire and smoke us out, I don't
see how they'll beat us. Our provisions are a' there,
and there's a grand well o' water inside. Forbye
there's the road down the rocks that'll keep our
communications open. . . . But what's come to Mr.
Heritage?”
Dickson to his shame had forgotten all about his
friend. The Poet lay very quiet with his head on
one side and his legs crooked limply. Blood
trickled over his eyes from an ugly scar on his fore-
head. Dickson felt his heart and pulse and found
them faint but regular. The man had got a swing-
ing blow and might have a slight concussion; for
the present he was unconscious.
“All the more reason why we should flit,” said
Dougal. “What d'ye say, Mr. McCunn?”
“Flit, of course, but further than the old Tower.
What's the time?” He lifted Heritage's wrist and
saw from his watch that it was half-past three.
“Mercy! It's nearly morning. Afore we put these
blagyirds away, they were conversing, at least
Léon and Dobson were. They said that they ex-
pected somebody every moment, but that the car
would be late. We've still got that Somebody to
tackle. Then Léon spoke to me in the dark, think-
ing I was Dobson, and cursed the wind, saying it
would keep the Danish brig from getting in at dawn
as had been intended. D'you see what that means?
The worst of the lot, the ones the ladies are in
terror of, are coming by sea. Ay, and they can
return by sea. We thought that the attack would
be by land, and that even if they succeeded we could


188 HUNTINGTOWER
all the three up, and they are now the imprisoned?”
“Well, it was the boys that, properly speaking,
did the locking up.”
“It is a great—how do you say?—a turning of
the tables. Ah—what is that?”
At the end of the verandah there was a clattering
down of pots which could not be due to the wind,
since the place was sheltered. There was still only
the faintest hint of light, and black night still
lurked in the crannies. Followed another fall of
pots, as from a clumsy intruder, and then a man
appeared, clear against the glass door by which the
path descended to the rock garden.
It was the fourth man, whom the three prisoners
had awaited. Dickson had no doubt at all about
his identity. He was that villain from whom all
the others took their orders, the man whom the
Princess shuddered at. Before starting he had
loaded his pistol. Now he tugged it from his
waterproof pocket, pointed it at the other and fired.
The man seemed to be hit, for he spun round and
clapped a hand to his left arm. Then he fled
through the door, which he left open.
Dickson was after him like a hound. At the door
he saw him running and raised his pistol for an-
other shot. Then he dropped it, for he saw some-
thing in the crouching, dodging figure which was
familiar.
“A mistake,” he explained to Jaikie when he re-
turned. “But the shot wasn't wasted. I've just
had a good try at killing the factor!”


CHAPTER X
DEALS WITH AN ESCAPE AND A JOURNEY
IVE scouts' lanterns burned smokily in the
ground room of the keep when Dickson ushered
his charges through its cavernous door. The lights
flickered in the gusts that swept after them and
whistled through the slits of window, so that the
place was full of monstrous shadows, and its accus-
tomed odour of mould and disuse was changed to
a salty freshness. Upstairs on the first floor
Thomas Yownie had deposited the ladies' baggage,
and was busy making beds out of derelict iron bed-
steads and the wraps brought from their room. On
the ground floor on a heap of litter covered by an
old scout's blanket lay Heritage, with Dougal in
attendance.
The Chieftain had washed the blood from the
Poet's brow and the touch of cold water was bring-
ing back his senses. Saskia with a cry flew to him,
and waved off Dickson who had fetched one of the
bottles of liqueur brandy. She slipped a hand inside
his shirt and felt the beating of his heart. Then
her slim fingers ran over his forehead.
“A bad blow,” she muttered, “but I do not think
he is ill. There is no fracture. When I nursed in
the Alexander Hospital I learnt much about head
wounds. Do not give him cognac if you value his
life.”
189


190 HUNTINGTOWER
Heritage was talking now and with strange
tongues. Phrases like “lined digesters” and “free
sulphurous acid” came from his lips. He implored
some one to tell him if “the first cook” was finished,
and he upbraided some one else for “cooling off.”
too fast.
The girl raised her head. “But I fear he has
become mad,” she said. -
“Wheesht, Mem,” said Dickson, who recognised
the jargon. “He’s a paper maker.”
Saskia sat down on the litter and lifted his head
so that it rested on her breast. Dougal at her bid-
ding brought a certain case from her baggage, and
with swift, capable hands she made a bandage and
rubbed the wound with ointment before tying it up.
Then her fingers seemed to play about his temples
and along his cheeks and neck. She was the pro-
fessional nurse now, absorbed, sexless. Heritage
ceased to babble, his eyes shut and he was asleep.
She remained where she was, so that the Poet,
when a few minutes later he woke, found himself
lying with his head in her lap. She spoke first, in
an imperative tone: “You are well now. Your head
does not ache. You are strong again.”
“No. Yes,” he murmured. Then more clearly:
“Where am I? Oh, I remember, I caught a lick
on the head. What's become of the brutes?”
Dickson, who had extracted food from the
Mearns Street box and was pressing it on the others,
replied through a mouthful of biscuit: “We're in the
old Tower. The three are lockit up in the House.
Are you feeling better, Mr. Heritage?”


DEALS WITH AN ESCAPE AND JOURNEY 191
The Poet suddenly realised Saskia's position and
the blood came to his pale face. He got to his feet
with an effort and held out a hand to the girl.
“I’m all right now, I think. Only a little dicky on
my legs. A thousand thanks, Princess. I've given
• you a lot of trouble.”
She smiled at him tenderly. “You say that when
you have risked your life for me.”
“There's no time to waste,” the relentless Dougal
broke in. “Comin' over here, I heard a shot.
What was it?”
“It was me,” said Dickson. “I was shootin' at
the factor.”
“Did ye hit him?”
“I think so, but I'm sorry to say not badly.
When I last saw him he was running too quick for
a sore hurt man. When I fired I thought it was the
other man—the one they were expecting.”
Dickson marvelled at himself, yet his speech was
not bravado but the honest expression of his mind.
He was keyed up to a mood in which he feared
nothing very much, certainly not the laws of his
country. If he fell in with the Unknown, he was
entirely resolved, if his Maker permitted him, to
do murder as being the simplest and justest solution.
And if in the pursuit of this laudable intention he
happened to wing lesser game it was no fault of his.
“Well, it's a pity ye didn't get him,” said Dougal,
“him being what we ken him to be. . . . I'm for
holding a council o' war, and considerin' the whole
position. So far we haven't done that badly.
We've shifted our base without serious casualties.


192 HUNTINGTOWER
We've got a far better position to hold, for there's
too many ways into yon Hoose, and here there's
just one. Besides, we've fickled the enemy. They'll
take some time to find out where we've gone. But,
mind you, we can't count on their staying long shut
up. Dobson's no' safe in the boiler-house, for
there's a skylight far up and he'll see it when the
light comes and maybe before. So we'd better get
our plans ready. A word with ye, Mr. McCunn,”
and he led Dickson aside.
“D'ye ken what these blagyirds were up to,” he
whispered fiercely in Dickson's ear. “They were
goin' to pushion the lassie. How do I ken, says
you? Because Thomas Yownie heard Dobson say
to Lean at the scullery door, ‘Have ye got the
dope?' he says, and Lean says, “Ay.' Thomas
mindit the word for he had heard about it at the
Picters.”
Dickson exclaimed in horror.
“What d'ye make o' that? I'll tell ye. They
wanted to make sure of her, but they wouldn't have
thought o' dope unless the men they expectit were
due to arrive any moment. As I see it, we've to
face a siege not by the three but by a dozen or
more, and it'll no’ be long till it starts. Now, isn't
it a mercy we're safe in here?”
Dickson returned to the others with a grave face.
“Where d'you think the new folk are coming
from?” he asked.
Heritage answered, “From Auchenlochan, I sup-
pose? Or perhaps down from the hills?”
“You're wrong.” And he told of Léon's mis-


DEALS WITH AN ESCAPE AND JOURNEY 193
taken confidences to him in the darkness. “They
are coming from the sea, just like the old pirates.”
“The sea,” Heritage repeated in a dazed voice.
“Ay, the sea. Think what that means. If they
had been coming by the roads, we could have kept
track of them, even if they beat us, and some of
these laddies could have stuck to them and followed
them up till help came. It can't be such an easy
job to carry a young lady against her will along
Scotch roads. But the sea's a different matter. If
they've got a fast boat they could be out of the
Firth and away beyond the law before we could
wake up a single policeman. Ay, and even if the
Government took it up and warned all the ports
and ships at sea, what's to hinder them to find a
hidy-hole about Ireland—or Norway? I tell you,
it's a far more desperate business than I thought,
and it'll no’ do to wait on and trust that the Chief
Constable will turn up afore the mischief's done.”
“The moral,” said Heritage, “is that there can
be no surrender. We've got to stick it out in this
old place at all costs.”
“No,” said Dickson emphatically. “The moral
is that we must shift the ladies. We've got the
chance while Dobson and his friends are locked up.
Let's get them as far away as we can from the sea.
They're far safer tramping the moors, and it's no’
likely the new folk will dare to follow us.”
“But I cannot go.” Saskia, who had been listen-
ing intently, shook her head. “I promised to wait
here till my friend came. If I leave I shall never
find him.”


194 HUNTINGTOWER
“If you stay you certainly never will, for you'll
be away with the ruffians. Take a sensible view,
Mem. You'll be no good to your friend or your
friend to you if before night you're rocking in a
ship.”
The girl shook her head again, gently but deci-
sively. “It was our arrangement. I cannot break
it. Besides, I am sure that he will come in time,
for he has never failed **
There was a desperate finality about the quiet
tones and the weary face with the shadow of a smile
On 11.
Then Heritage spoke. “I don't think your plan
will quite do, Dogson. Supposing we all break for
the hinterland and the Danish brig finds the birds
flown, that won't end the trouble. They will get
on the Princess's trail, and the whole persecution
will start again. I want to see things brought to a
head here and now. If we can stick it out here long
enough, we may trap the whole push and rid the
world of a pretty gang of miscreants. Once let
them show their hand, and then, if the police are
here by that time, we can jug the lot for piracy or
something worse.”
“That's all right,” said Dougal, “but we'd put
up a better fight if we had the women off our mind.
I've aye read that when a castle was going to be
besieged the first thing was to rid get of the
civilians.” -
“Sensible to the last, Dougal,” said Dickson ap-
provingly. “That's just what I'm saying. I'm


196 HUNTINGTOWER
The girl looked at Heritage, who nodded. “It's
the only way,” he said. “Get every man jack you
can raise, and if it's humanly possible get a gun or
two. I believe there's time enough, for I don't see
the brig arriving in broad daylight.”
“D'you not?” Dickson asked rudely. “Have
you considered what day this is? It's the Sabbath,
the best of days for an ill deed. There's no kirk
hereaways, and everybody in the parish will be sit-
ting indoors by the fire.” He looked at his watch.
“In half an hour it'll be light. Haste you, Mem,
and get ready. Dougal, what's the weather?”
The Chieftain swung open the door, and sniffed
the air. The wind had fallen for the time being,
and the surge of the tides below the rocks rose like
the clamour of a mob. With the lull, mist and a
thin drizzle had cloaked the world again.
To Dickson's surprise Dougal seemed to be in
good spirits. He began to sing to a hymn tune a
strange ditty.
“Class-conscious we are, and class-conscious wull be
Till our fit's on the neck o' the Boorjoyzee.”
“What on earth are you singing?” Dickson
inquired.
Dougal grinned. “Wee Jaikie went to a Socialist
Sunday school last winter because he heard they
were for fechtin' battles. Ay, and they telled him
he was to jine a thing called an International, and
Jaikie thought it was a fitba' club. But when he
fund out there was no magic lantern or swaree at


DEALS WITH AN ESCAPE AND JOURNEY 197
Christmas he gie'd it the chuck. They learned him
a heap o' queer songs. That's one.”
“What does the last word mean?”
“I don't ken. Jaikie thought it was some kind
of a draigon.”
“It's a daft-like thing anyway. . . . When's high
water?”
Dougal answered that to the best of his knowl-
edge it fell between four and five in the afternoon.
“Then that's when we may expect the foreign
gentry if they think to bring their boat in to the
Garple foot. . . . Dougal, lad, I trust you to keep
a most careful and prayerful watch. You had
better get the Die-Hards out of the Tower and all
round the place afore Dobson and Co. get loose,
or you'll no' get a chance later. Don't lose your
mobility, as the sodgers say. Mr. Heritage can
hold the fort, but you laddies should be spread out
like a screen.”
“That was my notion,” said Dougal. “I’ll detail
two Die-Hards—Thomas Yownie and Wee Jaikie
—to keep in touch with ye and watch for ye comin'
back. Thomas ye ken already; ye'll no fickle
Thomas Yownie. But don't be mistook about Wee
Jaikie. He's terrible fond of greetin', but it's no
fright with him but excitement. It's just a habit
he's gotten. When ye see Jaikie begin to greet, ye
may be sure that Jaikie's gettin' dangerous.”
The door shut behind them and Dickson found
himself with his two charges in a world dim with
fog and rain and the still lingering darkness. The
air was raw, and had the sour smell which comes


198 HUNTINGTOWER
from soaked earth and wet boughs when the leaves
are not yet fledged. Both the women were miser-
ably equipped for such an expedition. Cousin Eu-
génie trailed heavy furs, Saskia's only wrap was a
bright-coloured shawl about her shoulders, and both
wore thin foreign shoes. Dickson insisted on strip-
ping off his trusty waterproof and forcing it on the
Princess, on whose slim body it hung very loose and
very short. The elder woman stumbled and whim-
pered and needed the constant support of his arm,
walking like a townswoman from the knees. But
Saskia swung from the hips like a free woman, and
Dickson had much ado to keep up with her. She
seemed to delight in the bitter freshness of the
dawn, inhaling deep breaths of it, and humming
fragments of a tune. -
Guided by Thomas Yownie they took the road
which Dickson and Heritage had travelled the first
evening, through the shrubberies on the north side
of the House and the side avenue beyond which the
ground fell to the Laver glen. On their right the
House rose like a dark cloud, but Dickson had lost
his terror of it. There were three angry men inside
it, he remembered: long let them stay there. He
marvelled at his mood, and also rejoiced, for his
worst fear had always been that he might prove a
coward. Now he was puzzled to think how he could
ever be frightened again, for his one object was
to succeed, and in that absorption fear seemed
to him merely a waste of time. “It all comes of
treating the thing as a business proposition,” he
told himself.


DEALS WITH AN ESCAPE AND JOURNEY 199
But there was far more in his heart than this
sober resolution. He was intoxicated with the re-
surgence of youth and felt a rapture of audacity
which he never remembered in his decorous boy-
hood. “I haven't been doing badly for an old
man,” he reflected with glee. What, oh, what had
become of the pillar of commerce, the man who
might have been a Bailie had he sought municipal
honours, the elder in the Guthrie Memorial Kirk,
the instructor of literary young men? In the past
three days he had levanted with jewels which had
once been an Emperor's and certainly were not his;
he had burglariously entered and made free of a
strange house; he had played hide-and-seek at the
risk of his neck and had wrestled in the dark with
a foreign miscreant; he had shot at an eminent
solicitor with intent to kill; and he was now engaged
in tramping the world with a fairy-tale Princess.
I blush to confess that of each of his doings he was
unashamedly proud, and thirsted for many more in
the same line. “Gosh, but I'm seeing life,” was his
unregenerate conclusion.
Without sight or sound of a human being, they
descended to the Laver, climbed again by the cart
track, and passed the deserted West Lodge and inn
to the village. It was almost full dawn when the
three stood in Mrs. Morran's kitchen.
“I’ve brought you two ladies, Auntie Phemie,”
said Dickson.
They made an odd group in that cheerful place,
where the new-lit fire was crackling in the big grate
—the wet undignified form of Dickson, unshaven


202 HUNTINGTOWER
be an awfu' wild callant, a freend o' puir Maister
Quentin, and up to ony deevilry. But they tell me
he's a quieter lad since the war, and sair lamed by
fa'in oot o' an airyplane.”
“Will he be at the Mains just now?”. Dickson
asked.
“I wadna wonder. He has a muckle place in
England, but he aye used to come here in the back-
end for the shootin' and in Aprile for birds. He's
clean daft about birds. He'll be out a' day at the
Craig watchin' solans, or lyin' a' mornin' i' the moss
lookin' at bog-blitters.”
“Will he help, think you?”
“I’ll wager he'll help. Onyway it's your best
chance, and better a wee bush than nae beild. Now,
sit in to your breakfast.”
It was a merry meal. Mrs. Morran dispensed
tea and gnomic wisdom. Saskia ate heartily, speak-
ing little, but once or twice laying her hand softly
on her hostess's gnarled fingers. Dickson was in
such spirits that he gobbled shamelessly, being both
hungry and hurried, and he spoke of the still uncon-
quered enemy with ease and disrespect, so that Mrs.
Morran was moved to observe that there was
“naething sae bauld as a blind mear.” But when
in a sudden return of modesty he belittled his use-
fulness and talked sombrely of his mature years he
was told that he “wad never be auld wi' sae muckle
honesty.” Indeed it was very clear that Mrs.
Morran approved of her nephew.
They did not linger over breakfast, for both were
impatient to be on the road. Mrs. Morran assisted


204 HUNTINGTOWER
So he kept up a good pace, half-running, half-
striding, till they had passed the railway, and he
found himself gasping with a stitch in his side, and
compelled to rest in the lee of what had once been
a sheepfold. Saskia amazed him. She moved over
the rough heather like a deer, and it was her hand
that helped him across the deeper hags. Before
such youth and vigour he felt clumsy and old. She
stood looking down at him as he recovered his
breath, cool, unruffled, alert as Diana. His mind
fled to Heritage, and it occurred to him suddenly
that the Poet had set his affections very high.
Loyalty drove him to speak a word for his friend.
“I’ve got the easy job,” he said. “Mr. Heritage
will have the whole pack on him in that old Tower,
and him with such a sore clout on his head. I've
left him my pistol. He's a terrible brave man!”
She smiled.
“Ay, and he's a poet too.”
“So?” she said. “I did not know. He is very
young.”
“He’s a man of very high ideels.”
She puzzled at the word, and then smiled. “I
know him. He is like many of our young men in
Russia, the students—his mind is in a ferment
and he does not know what he wants. But he is
brave.”
This seemed to Dickson's loyal soul but a chilly
tribute.
“I think he is in love with me,” she continued.
He looked up startled and saw in her face that
which gave him a view into a strange new world.
93


DEALS WITH AN ESCAPE AND JOURNEY 205
He had thought that women blushed when they
talked of love, but her eyes were as grave and
candid as a boy's. Here was one who had gone
through waters so deep that she had lost the foibles
of sex. Love to her was only a word of ill omen,
a threat on the lips of brutes, an extra battalion of
peril in an army of perplexities. He felt like some
homely rustic who finds himself swept unwittingly
into the moonlight hunt of Artemis and her
maidens.
“He is a romantic,” she said. “I have known
so many like him.”
“He’s no' that,” said Dickson shortly. “Why,
he used to be aye laughing at me for being ro-
mantic. He's one that's looking for truth and
reality, he says, and he's terrible down on the kind
of poetry I like myself.”
She smiled. “They all talk so. But you, my
friend Dickson” (she pronounced the name in two
staccato syllables ever so prettily), “you are dif-
ferent. Tell me about yourself.”
“I’m just what you see—a middle-aged retired
grocer. - -
“Grocer?” she queried. “Ah, yes, épicier. But
you are a very remarkable épicier. Mr. Heritage
I understand, but you and those little boys—no. I
am sure of one thing—you are not a romantic. You
are too humorous and—and I think you are
like Ulysses, for it would not be easy to defeat
you.”
Her eyes were kind, nay affectionate, and Dickson
experienced a preposterous rapture in his soul, fol-


206 HUNTINGTOWER
lowed by a sinking, as he realised how far the job
was still from being completed.
“We must be getting on, Mem,” he said hastily,
and the two plunged again into the heather.
The Ayr road was crossed, and the fir wood
around the Mains became visible, and presently the
white gates of the entrance. A wind-blown spire of
smoke beyond the trees proclaimed that the house
was not untenanted. As they entered the drive the
Scots firs were tossing in the gale, which blew
fiercely at this altitude, but, the dwelling itself being
more in the hollow, the daffodil clumps on the lawn
were but mildly fluttered.
The door was opened by a one-armed butler who
bore all the marks of the old regular soldier. Dick-
son produced a card and asked to see his master on
urgent business. Sir Archibald was at home, he
was told, and had just finished breakfast. The two
were led into a large bare chamber which had all
the chill and mustiness of a bachelor's drawing-
room. The butler returned, and said Sir Archibald
would see him. “I'd better go myself first and pre-
pare the way, Mem,” Dickson whispered and fol-
lowed the man across the hall.
He found himself ushered into a fair-sized room
where a bright fire was burning. On a table lay the
remains of breakfast, and the odour of food min-
gled pleasantly with the scent of peat. The horns
and heads of big game, foxes' masks, the model of
a gigantic salmon and several bookcases adorned
the wall, and books and maps were mixed with
decanters and cigar-boxes on the long sideboard.


DEALS WITH AN ESCAPE AND JOURNEY 207
After the wild out of doors the place, seemed the
very shrine of comfort. A young man sat in an
armchair by the fire with a leg on a stool; he was
smoking a pipe, and reading the Field, and on
another stool at his elbow was a pile of new novels.
He was a pleasant brown-faced young man, with
remarkably smooth hair and a roving humorous eye.
“Come in, Mr. McCunn. Very glad to see you.
If, as I take it, you're the grocer, you're a house-
hold name in these parts. I get all my supplies
from you, and I've just been makin' inroads on one
of your divine hams. Now, what can I do for
you?”
“I’m very proud to hear what you say, Sir
Archibald. But I've not come on business. I've
come with the queerest story you ever heard in your
life, and I've come to ask your help.”
“Go ahead. A good story is just what I want
this vile mornin'.”
“I’m not here alone. I've a lady with me.”
“God bless my soul! A lady!”
“Ay, a princess. She's in the next room.”
The young man looked wildly at him and waved
the book he had been reading.
“Excuse me, Mr. McCunn, but are you quite
sober 2 I beg your pardon. I see you are. But
you know, it isn't done. Princesses don't as a rule
come here after breakfast to pass the time of day.
It's more absurd than this shocker I've been
readin’.”
“All the same it's a fact. She'll tell you the story
herself, and you'll believe her quick enough. But


208 HUNTINGTOWER
to prepare your mind I'll just give you a sketch of
the events of the last few days.”
Before the sketch was concluded the young man
had violently rung the bell. “Sime,” he shouted
to the servant, “clear away this mess and lay the
table again. Order more breakfast, all the break-
fast you can get. Open the windows and get the
tobacco smoke out of the air. Tidy up the place for
there's a lady comin'. Quick, you juggins !”
He was on his feet now, and, with his arm in
Dickson's, was heading for the door.
“My sainted auntl And you topped off with
pottin' at the factor. I've seen a few things in my
day, but I'm blessed if I ever met a bird like you!”


CHAPTER XI *
GRAVITY OUT OF BED
T is probable that Sir Archibald Roylance did not
altogether believe Dickson's tale; it may be that
he considered him an agreeable romancer, or a little
mad, or no more than a relief to the tedium of a
wet Sunday morning. But his incredulity did not
survive one glance at Saskia as she stood in that
bleak drawing-room among Victorian water-colours
and faded chintzes. The young man's boyishness
deserted him. He stopped short in his tracks, and
made a profound and awkward bow. “I am at your
service, Mademoiselle,” he said, amazed at himself.
The words seemed to have come out of a confused
memory of plays and novels.
She inclined her head—a little on one side, and
looked towards Dickson.
“Sir Archibald's going to do his best for us,” said
that squire of dames. “I was telling him that we
had had our breakfast.”
“Let's get out of this sepulchre,” said their host,
who was recovering himself. “There's a roasting
fire in my den. Of course you'll have something to
eat—hot coffee, anyhow—I've trained my cook to
make coffee like a Frenchwoman. The housekeeper
will take charge of you, if you want to tidy up, and
you must excuse our ramshackle ways, please. I
don't believe there's ever been a lady in this house
before, you know.”
209


210 HUNTINGTOWER
He led her to the smoking-room and ensconced
her in the great chair by the fire. Smilingly she
refused a series of offers which ranged from a
sheepskin mantle which he had got in the Pamirs
and which he thought might fit her, to hot whisky
and water as a specific against a chill. But she ac-
cepted a pair of slippers and deftly kicked off the
brogues provided by Mrs. Morran. Also, while
Dickson started rapaciously on a second breakfast,
she allowed him to pour her out a cup of coffee.
“You are a soldier?” she asked.
“Two years infantry—5th Battalion Lennox
Highlanders, and then Flying Corps. Top-hole
time I had too, till the day before the Armistice
when my luck gave out and I took a nasty toss.
Consequently I'm not as fast on my legs now as
I'd like to be.”
“You were a friend of Captain Kennedy?”
“His oldest. We were at the same private
school, and he was at m' tutor's, and we were never
much separated till he went abroad to cram for the
Diplomatic and I started east to shoot things.”
“Then I will tell you what I told Captain Ken-
nedy.” Saskia, looking into the heart of the peats,
began the story of which we have already heard a
version, but she told it differently, for she was tell-
ing it to one who more or less belonged to her own
world. She mentioned names at which the other
nodded. She spoke of a certain Paul Abreskov. “I
heard of him at Bokhara in 1912,” said Sir Archie,
and his face grew solemn. Sometimes she lapsed
into French, and her hearer's brow wrinkled, but


GRAVITY OUT OF BED 211
he appeared to follow. When she had finished he
drew a long breath.
“My Aunt! What a time you've been through!
I've seen pluck in my day, but yours! It's not
thinkable. D'you mind if I ask a question, Prin-
cess? Bolshevism we know all about, and I admit
Trotsky and his friends are a pretty effective push;
but how on earth have they got a world-wide graft
going in the time so that they can stretch their net
to an out-of-the-way spot like this? It looks as if
they had struck a Napoleon somewhere.”
“You do not understand,” she said. “I cannot
make any one understand—except a Russian. My
country has been broken to pieces, and there is no
law in it; therefore it is a nursery of crime. So
would England be, or France, if you had suffered
the same misfortunes. My people are not wickeder
than others, but for the moment they are sick and
have no strength. As for the government of the
Bolsheviki it matters little, for it will pass. Some
parts of it may remain, but it is a government of the
sick and fevered, and cannot endure in health.
Lenin may be a good man—I do not think so, but
I do not know—but if he were an archangel he
could not alter things. Russia is mortally sick and
therefore all evil is unchained, and the criminals
have no one to check them. There is crime every-
where in the world, and the unfettered crime in
Russia is so powerful that it stretches its hand to
crime throughout the globe and there is a great
mobilising everywhere of wicked men. Once you
boasted that law was international and that the


212 HUNTINGTOWER
police in one land worked with the police of all
others. To-day that is true about criminals. After
a war evil passions are loosed, and, since Russia is
broken, in her they can make their headquarters.
. . . It is not Bolshevism, the theory, you need
fear, for that is a weak and dying thing. It is
crime, which to-day finds its seat in my country, but
is not only Russian. It has no fatherland. It is
as old as human nature and as wide as the earth.”
“I see,” said Sir Archie. “Gad, here have I
been vegetatin' and thinkin' that all excitement had
gone out of life with the war, and sometimes even
regrettin' that the beastly old thing was over, and
all the while the world fairly hummin' with interest.
And Loudon too !”
“I would like your candid opinion on yon factor,
Sir Archibald,” said Dickson.
“I can't say I ever liked him, and I’ve once or
twice had a row with him, for he used to bring his
pals to shoot over Dalquharter and he didn't quite
play the game by me. But I know dashed little
about him, for I've been a lot away. Bit hairy
about the heels, of course. A great figure at local
race-meetin's, and used to toady old Carforth and
the huntin' crowd. He has a pretty big reputation
as a sharp lawyer and some of the thick-headed
lairds swear by him, but Quentin never could stick
him. It's quite likely he's been gettin' into Queer
Street, for he was always speculatin' in horse-flesh,
and I fancy he plunged a bit on the Turf. But I
can't think how he got mixed up in this show.” "
“I’m positive Dobson's his brother.”


GRAVITY OUT OF BED 213
“And put this business in his way. That would
explain it all right. . . . He must be runnin' for
pretty big stakes, for that kind of lad don't dabble
in crime for six-and-eightpence. . . . Now for the
layout. You've got three men shut up in Dalqu-
harter House, who by this time have probably
escaped. One of you—what's his name?—Heri-
tage?—is in the old Tower, and you think that they
think the Princess is still there and will sit round
the place like terriers. Sometime to-day the Danish
brig will arrive with reinforcements, and then there
will be a hefty fight. Well, the first thing to be
done is to get rid of Loudon's stymie with the au-
thorities. Princess, I'm going to carry you off in
my car to the Chief Constable. The second thing
is for you after that to stay on here. It's a deadly
place on a wet day, but it's safe enough.”
Saskia shook her head and Dickson spoke for her.
“You'll no' get her to stop here. I've done my
best, but she's determined to be back at Dalquharter.
You see she's expecting a friend, and besides, if
there's going to be a battle she'd like to be in it.
Is that so, Mem?”
Sir Archie looked helplessly around him, and the
sight of the girl's face convinced him that argument
would be fruitless. “Anyhow she must come with
me to the Chief Constable. Lethington's a slow
bird on the wing, and I don't see myself convincin'
him that he must get busy unless I can produce the
Princess. Even then it may be a tough job, for it's
Sunday, and in these parts people go to sleep till
3 * >
Monday mornin'.


GRAVITY OUT OF BED 215
no good, for one's seventy and the other is in bed
with jaundice. The Mains can produce four men,
but they're rather a job lot.”
“They'll do fine,” said Dickson heartily. “All
sodgers, and no doubt all good shots. Have you
plenty guns f"
Sir Archie burst into uproarious laughter. “Mr.
McCunn, you're a man after my own heart. I'm
under your orders. If I had a boy I’d put him into
the provision trade, for it's the place to see fightin'.
Yes, we've no end of guns. I advise shot-guns, for
they've more stoppin' power in a rush than a rifle,
and I take it it's a rough-and-tumble we're lookin'
for.”
“Right,” said Dickson. “I saw a bicycle in the
hall. I want you to lend it me, for I must be get-
ting back. You'll take the Princess and do the
best you can with the Chief Constable.”
“And then P”
“Then you'll load up your car with your folk,
and come down the hill to Dalquharter. There'll
be a laddie, or maybe more than one, waiting for
you on this side the village to give you instructions.
Take your orders from them. If it's a red-haired
ruffian called Dougal you'll be wise to heed what
he says, for he has a grand head for battles.”
Five minutes later Dickson was pursuing a quav-
ering course like a snipe down the avenue. He was
a miserable performer on a bicycle. Not for twenty
years had he bestridden one, and he did not under-
stand such new devices as free-wheels and change
of gears. The mounting had been the worst part


216 HUNTINGTOWER
and it had only been achieved by the help of a
rockery. He had begun by cutting into two flower-
beds, and missing a birch tree by inches. But he
clung on desperately, well knowing that if he fell
off it would be hard to remount, and at length he
gained the avenue. When he passed the lodge
gates he was riding fairly straight, and when he
turned off the Ayr highway to the side road that
led to Dalquharter he was more or less master of
his machine.
He crossed the Garple by an ancient hunch-backed
bridge, observing even in his absorption with the
handle-bars that the stream was in roaring spate.
He wrestled up the further hill, with aching calf-
muscles, and got to the top just before his strength
gave out. Then as the road turned seaward he had
the slope with him, and enjoyed some respite. It
was no case for putting up his feet, for the gale
was blowing hard on his right cheek, but the down-
ward grade enabled him to keep his course with
little exertion. His anxiety to get back to the scene
of action was for the moment appeased, since he
knew he was making as good speed as the weather
allowed, so he had leisure for thought.
But the mind of this preposterous being was not
on the business before him. He dallied with irrele-
vant things—with the problems of youth and love.
He was beginning to be very nervous about Heri-
tage, not as the solitary garrison of the old Tower,
but as the lover of Saskia. That everybody should
be in love with her appeared to him only proper,
for he had never met her like, and assumed that it


GRAVITY OUT OF BED 217
did not exist. The desire of the moth for the star
seemed to him a reasonable thing, since hopeless
loyalty and unrequited passion were the eternal
stock-in-trade of romance. He wished he were
twenty-five himself to have the chance of indulging
in such sentimentality for such a lady. But Heri-
tage was not like him and would never be content
with a romantic folly. . . . He had been in love
with her for two years—a long time. He spoke
about wanting to die for her, which was a flight
beyond Dickson himself. “I doubt it will be what
they call a “grand passion,’ ” he reflected with rev-
erence. But it was hopeless; he saw quite clearly
that it was hopeless.
Why, he could not have explained, for Dickson's
instincts were subtler than his intelligence. He
recognised that the two belonged to different circles
of being, which nowhere intersected. That mys-
terious lady, whose eyes had looked through life to
the other side, was no mate for the Poet. His
faithful soul was agitated, for he had developed
for Heritage a sincere affection. It would break
his heart, poor man. There was he holding the
fort alone and cheering himself with delightful
fancies about one remoter than the moon. Dickson
wanted happy endings, and here there was no hope
of such. He hated to admit that life could be
crooked, but the optimist in him was now fairly
dashed.
Sir Archie might be the fortunate man, for of
course he would soon be in love with her, if he were
not so already. Dickson like all his class had a pro-


218 HUNTINGTOWER
found regard for the country gentry. The business
Scot does not usually revere wealth, though he may
pursue it earnestly, nor does he specially admire
rank in the common sense. But for ancient race he
has respect in his bones, though it may happen
that in public he denies it, and the laird has for him
a secular association with good family. . . . Sir
Archie might do. He was young, good-looking,
obviously gallant. . . . But no l He was not quite
right either. Just a trifle too light in weight, too
boyish and callow. The Princess must have youth,
but it should be mighty youth, the youth of a Na-
poleon or a Caesar. He reflected that the Great
Montrose, for whom he had a special veneration,
might have filled the bill. Or young Harry with
his beaver up? Or Claverhouse in the picture with
the flush of temper on his cheek?
The meditations of the match-making Dickson
came to an abrupt end. He had been riding negli-
gently, his head bent against the wind, and his eyes
vaguely fixed on the wet hill-gravel of the road.
Of his immediate environs he was pretty well un-
conscious. Suddenly he was aware of figures on
each side of him who advanced menacingly. Stung
to activity he attempted to increase his pace, which
was already good, for the road at this point de-
scended steeply. Then, before he could prevent it,
a stick was thrust into his front wheel, and the next
second he was describing a curve through the air.
His head took the ground, he felt a spasm of blind-
ing pain, and then a sense of horrible suffocation
before his wits left him.


GRAVITY OUT OF BED 219
“Are ye sure it's the richt man, Ecky?” said a
voice which he did not hear.
“Sure. It's the Glesca body Dobson telled us to
look for yesterday. It's a pund note atween us for
this job. We'll tie him up in the wud till we've
time to attend to him.”
“Is he bad?” -
“It doesna maitter,” said the one called Ecky.
“He'll be deid onyway long afore the morn.”
Mrs. Morran all forenoon was in a state of un-
Sabbatical disquiet. After she had seen Saskia and
Dickson start she finished her housewifely duties,
took Cousin Eugènie her breakfast, and made
preparation for the midday dinner. The invalid
in the bed in the parlour was not a repaying sub-
ject. Cousin Eugènie belonged to that type of
elderly women who, having been spoiled in youth,
find the rest of life fall far short of their expecta-
tions. Her voice had acquired a perpetual wail,
and the corners of what had once been a pretty
mouth drooped in an eternal peevishness. She
found herself in a morass of misery and shabby
discomfort, but had her days continued in an even
tenor she would still have lamented. “A dingy
body,” was Mrs. Morran's comment, but she la-
boured in kindness. Unhappily they had no com-
mon language, and it was only by signs that the
hostess could discover her wants and show her
goodwill. She fed her and bathed her face, saw
to the fire and left her to sleep. “I’m boilin' a hen
to mak' broth for your denner, Mem. Try and get


GRAVITY OUT OF BED 221
to the tune of “Annie Laurie” one of the ditties of
his quondam Sunday school:
“The Boorjoys' brays are bonny,
Too-roo-ra-roo-raloo,
But the Worrkers o' the Worrld
Wull gar them a' look blue,
Wull gar them a' look blue,
And droon them in the sea,
And—for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'll lay me down and dee.”
“Losh, laddie,” she cried, “that's cauld food for
the stamach. Come indoors about midday and I'll
gie ye a plate o' broth l’” The Die-Hard saluted
and continued on the turnip.
She took the Auchenlochan road across the
Garple bridge, for that was the best road to the
Mains and by it Dickson and the others might be
returning. Her equanimity at all seasons was like
a Turk's, and she would not have admitted that
anything mortal had power to upset or excite her:
nevertheless it was a fast-beating heart that she now
bore beneath her Sunday jacket. Great events, she
felt, were on the eve of happening, and of them
she was a part. Dickson's anxiety was hers, to
bring things to a business-like conclusion. The
honour of Huntingtower was at stake and of the
old Kennedys. She was carrying out Mr. Quentin's
commands, the dead boy who used to clamour for
her treacle scones. And there was more than duty


222 HUNTINGTOWER
in it, for youth was not dead in her old heart, and
adventure had still power to quicken it.
Mrs. Morran walked well, with the steady long
paces of the Scots countrywoman. She left the
Auchenlochan road and took the side path along the
tableland to the Mains. But for the surge of the
gale and the far-borne boom of the furious sea there
was little noise; not a bird cried in the uneasy air.
With the wind behind her Mrs. Morran breasted
the ascent till she had on her right the moorland
running south to the Lochan valley and on her left
Garple chafing in its deep forested gorges. Her
eyes were quick and she noted with interest a weasel
creeping from a fern-clad cairn. A little way on
she passed an old ewe in difficulties and assisted it
to rise. “But for me, my wumman, ye’d hae been
braxy ere nicht,” she told it as it departed bleating.
Then she realised that she had come a certain dis-
tance. “Losh, I maun be gettin' back or the hen
will be spiled,” she cried, and was on the verge of
turning.
But something caught her eye a hundred yards
further on the road. It was something which moved
with the wind like a wounded bird, fluttering from
the roadside to a puddle and then back to the
rushes. She advanced to it, missed it, and caught it.
It was an old dingy green felt hat, and she recog-
nised it as Dickson's.
Mrs. Morran's brain, after a second of confu-
sion, worked fast and clearly. She examined the
road and saw that a little way on the gravel had
been violently agitated. She detected several prints


GRAVITY OUT OF BED 223
of hobnailed boots. There were prints too, on a
patch of peat on the south side behind a tall bank
of sods. “That's where they were hidin’,” she con-
cluded. Then she explored on the other side in a
thicket of hazels and wild raspberries, and presently
her perseverance was rewarded. The scrub was all
crushed and pressed as if several persons had been
forcing a passage. In a hollow was a gleam of
something white. She moved towards it with a
quaking heart, and was relieved to find that it was
only a new and expensive bicycle with the front
wheel badly buckled.
Mrs. Morran delayed no longer. If she had
walked well on her out journey, she beat all records
on the return. Sometimes she would run till
her breath failed; then she would slow down till
anxiety once more quickened her pace. To her joy
on the Dalquharter side of the Garple bridge she
observed the figure of a Die-Hard. Breathless,
flushed, with her bonnet awry and her umbrella held
like a scimitar, she seized on the boy.
“Awfu' doin's They've grippit Maister Mc-
Cunn up the Mains road just afore the second mile-
stone and forenent the auld bucht. I fund his hat,
and a bicycle's lyin' broken in the wud. Haste ye,
man, and get the rest and awa’ and seek him. It'll
be the tinklers frae the Dean. I’d gang mysel', but
my legs are ower auld. Oh, laddie, dinna stop to
speir questions. They'll hae him murdered or awa’
to sea. And maybe the leddy was wi' him and
they've got them baith. Wae's me! Wae's me!”
The Die-Hard, who was Wee Jaikie, did not


224 HUNTINGTOWER
delay. His eyes had filled with tears at her news,
which we know to have been his habit. When Mrs.
Morran, after indulging in a moment of barbaric
keening, looked back the road she had come, she
saw a small figure trotting up the hill like a terrier
who has been left behind. As he trotted he wept
bitterly. Jaikie was getting dangerous.


}
CHAPTER XII
HOW MR. MCCUNN COMMITTED AN ASSAULT
UPON AN ALLY
DICKSON always maintained that his senses did
not leave him for more than a second or two,
but he admitted that he did not remember very
clearly the events of the next few hours. He was
conscious of a bad pain above his eyes, and some-
thing wet trickling down his cheek. There was a
perpetual sound of water in his ears and of men's
voices. He found himself dropped roughly on the
ground and forced to walk, and was aware that his
legs were inclined to wobble. Somebody had a grip
on each arm, so that he could not defend his face
from the brambles, and that worried him, for his
whole head seemed one aching bruise and he
dreaded anything touching it. But all the time he
did not open his mouth, for silence was the one duty
that his muddled wits enforced. He felt that he
was not the master of his mind, and he dreaded
what he might disclose if he began to babble.
Presently there came a blank space of which he
had no recollection at all. The movement had
stopped, and he was allowed to sprawl on the
ground. He thought that his head had got another
whack from a bough, and that the pain put him
into a stupor. When he awoke he was alone.
He discovered that he was strapped very tightly
225


AN ASSAULT UPON AN ALLY 227
himself. But they were of good tarry cord and
did not give a fraction of an inch. Tears of bitter
rage filled his eyes and made furrows on his en-
crusted cheeks. Idiot that he had been, he had
wrecked everything! What would Saskia and
Dougal and Sir Archie do without a business man
by their side? There would be a muddle, and the
little party would walk into a trap. He saw it all
very clearly. The men from the sea would over-
power them, there would be murder done, and an
easy capture of the Princess; and the police would
turn up at long last to find an empty headland.
He had also most comprehensively wrecked him-
self, and at the thought the most genuine panic
seized him. There was no earthly chance of escape,
for he was tucked away in this infernal jungle till
such time as his enemies had time to deal with him.
As to what that dealing would be like he had no
doubts, for they knew that he had been their chief
opponent. Those desperate rufians would not
scruple to put an end to him. His mind dwelt with
horrible fascination upon throat-cutting, no doubt
because of the presence of the cord below his chin.
He had heard it was not a painful death; at any
rate he remembered a clerk he had once had, a
feeble, timid creature, who had twice attempted
suicide that way. Surely it could not be very bad,
and it would soon be over.
But another thought came to him. They would
carry him off in the ship and settle with him at their
leisure. No swift merciful death for him. He had
read dreadful tales of the Bolsheviks' skill in tor-


228 HUNTINGTOWER
ture, and now they all came back to him—stories
of Chinese mercenaries, and men buried alive, and
death by agonising inches. He felt suddenly very
cold and sick, and hung in his bonds for he had no
strength in his limbs. Then the pressure on his
throat braced him, and also quickened his numb
mind. The liveliest terror ran like quicksilver
through his veins.
He endured some moments of this anguish, till
after many despairing clutches at his wits he man-
aged to attain a measure of self-control. He cer-
tainly wasn't going to allow himself to become mad.
Death was death whatever form it took, and he
had to face death as many better men had done
before him. He had often thought about it and
wondered how he should behave if the thing came
to him. Respectably, he had hoped; heroically, he
had sworn in his moments of confidence. But he
had never for an instant dreamed of this cold,
lonely, dreadful business. Last Sunday, he remem-
bered, he had been basking in the afternoon sun in
his little garden and reading about the end of
Fergus MacIvor in Waverley and thrilling to the
romance of it; and then Tibby had come out and
summoned him in to tea. Then he had rather
wanted to be a Jacobite in the '45 and in peril of
his neck, and now Providence had taken him most
terribly at his word.
A week ago ! He groaned at the remem-
brance of that sunny garden. In seven days he had
found a new world and tried a new life, and had
come now to the end of it. He did not want to die,


230 HUNTINGTOWER
He watched for the first sign of the beast, and
thought he caught a glimpse of tawny fur. Yes,
there it was—pale dirty yellow, a weasel clearly.
Then suddenly the patch grew larger, and to his
amazement he looked at a human face—the face of
a pallid small boy.
A head disentangled itself, followed by thin
shoulders, and then by a pair of very dirty bare
legs. The figure raised itself and looked sharply
round to make certain that the coast was clear.
Then it stood up and saluted, revealing the well-
known lineaments of Wee Jaikie.
At the sight Dickson knew that he was safe by
that certainty of instinct which is independent of
proof, like the man who prays for a sign and has
his prayer answered. He observed that the boy
was quietly sobbing. Jaikie surveyed the position
for an instant with red-rimmed eyes and then un-
clasped a knife, feeling the edge of the blade on his
thumb. He darted behind the fir, and a second
later Dickson's wrists were free. Then he sawed
at the legs, and cut the shackles which tied them
together, and then—most circumspectly—assaulted
the cord which bound Dickson's neck to the trunk.
There now remained only the two bonds which
fastened the legs and the body to the tree.
There was a sound in the wood different from
the wind and stream. Jaikie listened like a startled
hind.
“They're comin' back,” he gasped. “Just you
bide where ye are and let on ye're still tied up.”
He disappeared in the scrub as inconspicuously as


AN ASSAULT UPON AN ALLY 231
a rat, while two of the tinklers came up the slope
from the waterside. Dickson in a fever of impa-
tience cursed Wee Jaikie for not cutting his remain-
ing bonds so that he could at least have made a
dash for freedom. And then he realised that the
boy had been right. Feeble and cramped as he was,
he would have stood no chance in a race.
One of the tinklers was the man called Ecky.
He had been running hard, and was mopping his
brow. |
“Hob's seen the brig,” he said. “It's droppin'
anchor ayont the Dookits whaur there's a beild frae
the wund and deep water. They'll be landit in half
an 'oor. Awa’ you up to the Hoose and tell
Dobson, and me and Sim and Hob will meet the
boats at the Garplefit.”
The other cast a glance towards Dickson.
“What about him?” he asked.
The two scrutinised their prisoner from a distance
of a few paces. Dickson, well aware of his peril,
held himself as stiff as if every bond had been in
place. The thought flashed on him that if he were
too immobile they might think he was dying or
dead, and come close to examine him. If they only
kept their distance, the dusk of the wood would
prevent them detecting Jaikie's handiwork.
“What'll you take to let me go?” he asked
plaintively.
“Naething that you could offer, my mannie,”
said Ecky.
“I’ll give you a five-pound note apiece.”
“Produce the siller,” said the other.


232 HUNTINGTOWER
“It's in my pocket.”
“It's no' that. We riped your pooches lang
syne.”
“I’ll take you to Glasgow with me and pay you
there. Honour bright.”
Ecky spat. “D'ye think we're gowks? Man,
there's no siller ye could pay wad mak' it worth
our while to lowse ye. Bide quiet there and ye'll
see some queer things ere nicht. C'way, Davie.”
The two set off at a good pace down the stream,
while Dickson's pulsing heart returned to its normal
rhythm. As the sound of their feet died away Wee
Jaikie crawled out from cover, dry-eyed now and
very business-like. He slit the last thongs, and
Dickson fell limply on his face.
“Losh, laddie, I'm awful stiff,” he groaned.
“Now, listen. Away all your pith to Dougal, and
tell him that the brig's in and the men will be land-
ing inside the hour. Tell him I’m coming as fast
as my legs will let me. The Princess will likely be
there already and Sir Archibald and his men, but
if they're no’, tell Dougal they're coming. Haste
you, Jaikie. And see here, I’ll never forget what
you've done for me the day. You're a fine wee
laddie!” -
The obedient Die-Hard disappeared, and Dick-
son painfully and laboriously set himself to climb
the slope. He decided that his quickest and safest
route lay by the highroad, and he had also some
hopes of recovering his bicycle. On examining his
body he seemed to have sustained no very great
damage, except a painful cramping of legs and


AN ASSAULT UPON AN ALLY 233
arms and a certain dizziness in the head. His
pockets had been thoroughly rifled, and he reflected
with amusement that he, the well-to-do Mr. Mc-
Cunn, did not possess at the moment a single copper.
But his spirits were soaring, for somehow his
escape had given him an assurance of ultimate suc-
cess. Providence had directly interfered on his
behalf by the hand of Wee Jaikie, and that surely
meant that it would see him through. But his chief
emotion was an ardour of impatience to get to the
scene of action. He must be at Dalquharter before
the men from the sea; he must find Dougal and
discover his dispositions. Heritage would be on
guard in the Tower and in a very little the enemy
would be round it. It would be just like the Prin-
cess to try and enter there, but at all costs that
must be hindered. She and Sir Archie must not be
cornered in stone walls, but must keep their com-
munications open and fall on the enemy's flank.
Oh, if the police would only come in time, what a
rounding-up of miscreants that day would see!
As the trees thinned on the brow of the slope and
he saw the sky, he realised that the afternoon was
far advanced. It must be well on for five o'clock.
The wind still blew furiously, and the oaks on the
fringes of the wood were whipped like saplings.
Ruefully he admitted that the gale would not defeat
the enemy. If the brig found a sheltered anchorage
on the south side of the headland beyond the Gar-
ple, it would be easy enough for boats to make the
Garple mouth, though it might be a difficult job to
get out again. The thought quickened his steps,


234 HUNTINGTOWER
and he came out of cover on to the public road
without a prior reconnaissance.
Just in front of him stood a motor-bicycle. Some-
thing had gone wrong with it for its owner was
tinkering at it, on the side farthest from Dickson.
A wild hope seized him that this might be the van-
guard of the police, and he went boldly towards it.
The owner, who was kneeling, raised his face at the
sound of footsteps and Dickson looked into his
eyes. -
He recognised them only too well. They be-
longed to the man he had seen in the inn at Kirk-
michael, the man whom Heritage had decided was
an Australian, but whom they now knew to be their
arch-enemy—the man called Paul who had perse-
cuted the Princess for years and whom alone of all
beings on earth she feared. He had been expected
before, but had arrived now in the nick of time
while the brig was casting anchor. Saskia had said
that he had a devil's brain, and Dickson, as he
stared at him, saw a fiendish cleverness in his
straight brows and a remorseless cruelty in his stiff
jaw and his pale eyes.
He achieved the bravest act of his life. Shaky
and dizzy as he was, with freedom newly opened to
him and the mental torments of his captivity still
an awful recollection, he did not hesitate. He saw
before him the villain of the drama, the one man
that stood between the Princess and peace of mind.
He regarded no consequences, gave no heed to his
own fate, and thought only how to put his enemy
out of action. There was a big spanner lying on


AN ASSAULT UPON AN ALLY 239
pushing up from the Garplefoot, and a brig lying
waiting to carry off the ladies. Likewise there's
the police, somewhere on the road, though the dear
kens when they'll turn up. It's awful the incom-
petence of our Government, and the rates and taxes
that highl . . . And there's you and me by this
roadside, and I'm no more use than a tattie-bogle.
. . . That's the situation, and the question is what's
our plan to be 2 We must keep the blagyirds in
play till the police come, and at the same time we
must keep the Princess out of danger. That's why
I'm wanting back, for they've sore need of a busi-
ness head. Yon Sir Archibald's a fine fellow, but
I doubt he'll be a bit rash, and the Princess is no’
to hold or bind. Our first job is to find Dougal
and get a grip of the facts.”
“I am going to the Princess,” said the Russian.
“Ay, that'll be best. You'll be maybe able to
manage her, for you'll be well acquaint.”
“She is my kinswoman. She is also my affianced
wife.” w }
“Keep us !” Dickson exclaimed, with a doleful
thought of Heritage. “What ailed you then no' to
look after her better?”
“We have been long separated, because it was
her will. She had work to do and disappeared from
me, though I searched all Europe for her. Then
she sent me word, when the danger became extreme,
and summoned me to her aid. But she gave me
poor directions, for she did not know her own plans
very clearly. She spoke of a place called Dark-
water, and I have been hunting half Scotland for it.


AN ASSAULT UPON AN ALLY 241
rider round the middle. The machine started, but
it was evidently in a bad way, for it made poor
going till the descent towards the main Auchen-
lochan road. On the slope it warmed up and they
crossed the Garple bridge at a fair pace. There
was to be no pleasant April twilight, for the stormy
sky had already made dusk, and in a very little the
dark would fall. So sombre was the evening that
Dickson did not notice a figure in the shadow of
the roadside pines till it whistled shrilly on its
fingers. He cried on Alexis to stop, and, this being
accomplished with some suddenness, fell off at
Dougal's feet.
“What's the news?” he demanded.
Dougal glanced at Alexis and seemed to approve
his looks.
“Napoleon has just reported that three boat-
loads, making either twenty-three or twenty-four
men—they were gey ill to count—has landed at
Garplefit and is makin' their way to the auld Tower.
The tinklers warned Dobson and soon it'll be a'
bye wi' Heritage.”
“The Princess is not there?” was Dickson's
anxious inquiry.
“Na, na. Heritage is there his lone. They were
for joinin' him, but I wouldn't let them. She came
wi' a man they call Sir Erchibald and three gem-
keepers wi' guns. I stoppit their cawr up the road
and tell't them the lie o' the land. Yon Sir Erchi-
bald has poor notions o' strawtegy. He was for
bangin' into the auld Tower straight away and
shootin' Dobson if he tried to stop them. ‘Havers,'


CHAPTER XIII
THE COMING OF THE DANISH BRIG
MR. JOHN HERITAGE, solitary in the old
Tower, found much to occupy his mind. His
giddiness was passing, though the dregs of a head-
ache remained, and his spirits rose with his respon-
sibilities. At daybreak he breakfasted out of the
Mearns Street provision box, and made tea in one
of the Die-Hards' camp kettles. Next he gave some
attention to his toilet, necessary after the rough-
and-tumble of the night. He made shift to bathe
in icy water from the Tower well, shaved, tidied
up his clothes and found a clean shirt from his
pack. He carefully brushed his hair, reminding
himself that thus had the Spartans done before
Thermopylae. The neat and somewhat pallid young
man that emerged from these rites then ascended
to the first floor to reconnoitre the landscape from
the narrow unglazed windows.
If any one had told him a week ago that he
would be in so strange a world he would have quar-
relled violently with his informant. A week ago
he was a cynical clear-sighted modern, a contemner
of illusions, a swallower of formulas, a breaker of
shams—one who had seen through the heroical and
found it silly. Romance and such-like toys were
playthings for fatted middle-age, not for strenuous
244


246 HUNTINGTOWER
should not get in, and he got Dickson's pistol ready
with the firm intention of shooting them if neces-
sary. But they did nothing, except to hold a con-
ference in the hazel clump a hundred yards to the
north, when Dobson seemed to be laying down the
law, and Léon spoke rapidly with a great fluttering
of hands. They were obviously puzzled by the
sight of Heritage, whom they believed to have left
the neighbourhood. Then Dobson went off, leaving
Léon and Spidel on guard, one at the edge of the
shrubberies between the Tower and the House, the
other on the side nearest the Laver glen. These
were their posts, but they did sentry-go around the
building, and passed so close to Heritage's window
that he could have tossed a cigarette on their heads.
It occurred to him that he ought to get busy with
camouflage. They must be convinced that the
Princess was in the place, for he wanted their whole
mind to be devoted to the siege. He rummaged
among the ladies' baggage, and extracted a skirt
and a coloured scarf. The latter he managed to
flutter so that it could be seen at the window the
next time one of the watchers came within sight.
He also fixed up the skirt so that the fringe of it
could be seen, and, when Léon appeared below, he
was in the shadow talking rapid French in a very
fair imitation of the tones of Cousin Eugènie. The
ruse had its effect, for Léon promptly went off to
tell Spidel, and when Dobson appeared he too was
given the news. This seemed to settle their plans,
for all three remained on guard, Dobson nearest
to the Tower, seated on an outcrop of rock with


THE COMING OF THE DANISH BRIG 247
his mackintosh collar turned up, and his eyes
usually turned to the misty sea.
By this time it was eleven o'clock, and the next
three hours passed slowly with Heritage. He fell
to picturing the fortunes of his friends. Dickson
and the Princess should by this time be far inland,
out of danger and in the way of finding succour.
He was confident that they would return, but he
trusted not too soon, for he hoped for a run for his
money as Horatius in the Gate. After that he was
a little torn in his mind. He wanted the Princess
to come back and to be somewhere near if there
was a fight going, so that she might be a witness of
his devotion. But she must not herself run any risk,
and he became anxious when he remembered her
terrible sangfroid. Dickson could no more restrain
her than a child could hold a greyhound. . . . But
of course it would never come to that. The police
would turn up long before the brig appeared—
Tougal had thought that would not be till high tide,
between four and five—and the only danger would
be to the pirates. The three watchers would be put
in the bag, and the men from the sea would walk
into a neat trap. This reflection seemed to take all
the colour out of Heritage's prospect. Peril and
heroism were not to be his lot—only boredom.
A little after twelve two of the tinklers appeared
with some news which made Dobson laugh and pat
them on the shoulder. He seemed to be giving
them directions, pointing seaward and southward.
He nodded to the Tower, where Heritage took
the opportunity of again fluttering Saskia's scarf


248 HUNTINGTOWER
athwart the window. The tinklers departed at a
trot, and Dobson lit his pipe as if well pleased. He
had some trouble with it in the wind, which had
risen to an uncanny violence. Even the solid Tower
rocked with it, and the sea was a waste of spindrift
and low scurrying cloud. Heritage discovered a
new anxiety—this time about the possibility of the
brig landing at all. He wanted a complete bag,
and it would be tragic if they got only the three
seedy ruffians now circumambulating his fortress.
About one o'clock he was greatly cheered by the
sight of Dougal. At the moment Dobson was
lunching off a hunk of bread and cheese directly be-
tween the Tower and the House, just short of the
crest of the ridge on the other side of which lay
the stables and the shrubberies; Léon was on the
north side opposite the Tower door, and Spidel was
at the south end near the edge of the Garple glen.
Heritage, watching the ridge behind Dobson and
the upper windows of the House which appeared
over it, saw on the very crest something like a tuft
of rusty bracken which he had not noticed before.
Presently the tuft moved, and a hand shot up from
it waving a rag of some sort. Dobson at the mo-
ment was engaged with a bottle of porter, and
Heritage could safely wave a hand in reply. He
could now make out clearly the red head of
Dougal.
The Chieftain, having located the three watchers,
proceeded to give an exhibition of his prowess for
the benefit of the lonely inmate of the Tower.
Using as cover a drift of bracken, he wormed his


250 HUNTINGTOWER
squatted like an Eskimo, and trees dancing like a
witch-wood in the gale. All the vigour of the morn-
ing seemed to have gone out of his blood; he felt
lonely and apprehensive and puzzled. He wished
he had Dickson beside him, for that little man's
cheerful voice and complacent triviality would be a
comfort. . . . Also, he was abominably cold. He
put on his waterproof, and turned his attention to
the fire. It needed re-kindling, and he hunted in his
pockets for paper, finding only the slim volume let-
tered Whorls.
I set it down as the most significant commentary
on his state of mind. He regarded the book with
intense disfavour, tore it in two, and used a handful
of its fine deckle-edged leaves to get the fire going.
They burned well, and presently the rest followed.
Well for Dickson's peace of mind that he was not
a witness of such vandalism.
A little warmer but in no way more cheerful, he
resumed his watch near the window. The day was
getting darker, and promised an early dusk. His
watch told him that it was after four, and still noth-
ing had happened. Where on earth were Dickson
and the Princess? Where in the name of all that
was holy were the police? Any minute now the brig
might arrive and land its men, and he would be left
there as a burnt-offering to their wrath. There
must have been an infernal muddle somewhere.
. . . Anyhow the Princess was out of the trouble,
but where the Lord alone knew. . . . Perhaps the
reinforcements were lying in wait for the boats at
the Garplefoot. That struck him as a likely ex-


256 HUNTINGTOWER
turned and ran back, and after her up the slopes
went the pursuit bunched like hounds on a good
Scent.
Mr. John Heritage, swearing terribly, started to
retrace his steps.


THE SECOND BATTLE OF THE CRUIVES 259
there's five Die-Hards somewhere about, and
though they've never tried it afore they can be
trusted to loose off a gun. My advice is to hide
at the Garplefoot and stop the boats landin'. We'd
have the tinklers on our flank, no doubt, but I'm
not muckle feared o' them. It wouldn't be easy for
the boats to get in wi' this tearin’ wind and us firin'
volleys from the shore.”
Sir Archie stared at him with admiration.
“You’re a hearty young fire-eater. But Great
Scott! we can't go pottin' at strangers before we
find out their business. This is a law-abidin' coun-
try, and we're not entitled to start shootin' except
in self-defence. You can wash that plan out, for
it ain't feasible.”
Dougal spat cynically. “For all that it's the right
strawtegy. Man, we might sink the lot, and then
turn and settle wi' Dobson, and all afore the first
polisman showed his neb. It would be a grand per-
formance. But I was feared ye wouldn't be for it.
. . . Well, there's just the one other thing to do.
We must get inside the Hoose and put it in a state
of defence. Heritage has McCunn's pistol, and
he'll keep them busy for a bit. When they've
finished wi' him and find the place is empty, they'll
try the Hoose and we'll give them a warm recep-
tion. That should keep us goin' till the polis arrive,
unless they're comin' wi' the blind carrier.”
Sir Archie nodded. “But why put ourselves in
their power at all? They're at present barking up
the wrong tree. Let them bark up another wrong
'un. Why shouldn't the House remain empty? I


260 HUNTINGTOWER
take it we're here to protect the Princess. Well,
we'll have done that if they go off empty-handed.”
Dougal looked up to the heavens. “I wish Mc-
Cunn was here,” he sighed. “Ay, we've got to
protect the Princess, and there's just the one way
to do it, and that's to put an end to this crowd o'
blagyirds. If they gang empty-handed, they'll
come again another day, either here or somewhere
else, and it won't be long afore they get the lassie.
But if we finish with them now she can sit down
wi' an easy mind. That's why we've got to hang
on to them till the polis comes. There's no way
out o' this business but a battle.”
He found an ally. “Dougal is right,” said
Saskia. “If I am to have peace, by some way or
other the fangs of my enemies must be drawn for
ever.”
He swung round and addressed her formally.
“Mem, I'm askin' ye for the last time. Will ye
keep out of this business? Will ye gang back and
sit doun aside Mrs. Morran's fire and have your
tea and wait till we come for ye? Ye can do no
good, and ye're puttin' yourself terrible in the
enemy's power. If we're beat and ye're no' there,
they get very little satisfaction, but if they get you
they get what they've come seekin'. I tell ye
straight—ye're an encumbrance.”
She laughed mischievously. “I can shoot better
than you,” she said.
He ignored the taunt. “Will ye listen to sense
and fall to the rear?”
“I will not,” she said.


THE SECOND BATTLE OF THE CRUIVES 261
“Then gang your own gait. I'm ower wise to
argy-bargy wi' women. The Hoose be it!”
It was a journey which sorely tried Dougal's
temper. The only way in was by the verandah, but
the door at the west end had been locked, and the
ladder had disappeared. Now of his party three
were lame, one lacked an arm, and one was a girl;
besides, there were the guns and cartridges to trans-
port. Moreover, at more than one point before the
verandah was reached the route was commanded
by a point on the ridge near the old Tower, and
that had been Spidel's position when Dougal made
his last reconnaissance. It behoved to pass these
points swiftly and unobtrusively, and his company
was neither swift nor unobtrusive. McGuffog had
a genius for tripping over obstacles, and Sir Archie
was for ever proffering his aid to Saskia, who was
in a position to give rather than to receive, being
far the most active of the party. Once Dougal had
to take the gamekeeper's head and’ force it down,
a performance which would have led to an immedi-
ate assault but for Sir Archie's presence. Nor did
the latter escape. “Will ye stop heedin' the lassie,
and attend to your own job,” the Chieftain growled.
“Ye're makin' as much noise as a road-roller.”
Arrived at the foot of the verandah wall there
remained the problem of the escalade. Dougal
clambered up like a squirrel by the help of cracks
in the stones, and he could be heard trying the
handle of the door into the House. He was absent
for about five minutes and then his head peeped
over the edge accompanied by the hooks of an iron


THE SECOND BATTLE OF THE CRUIVES 268
to the several doors. Sime and Carfrae attended
to the kitchen entrance, while he himself made a
tour of the ground-floor windows. For half an
hour the empty house was loud with strange sounds.
McGuffog, who was a giant in strength, filled the
passage at the verandah end with an assortment of
furniture ranging from a grand piano to a vast
mahogany sofa, while Saskia and Sir Archie pillaged
the bedrooms and packed up the interstices with
mattresses in lieu of sandbags. Dougal on his re-
turn saw fit to approve their work. -
“That'll fickle the blagyirds. Down at the
kitchen door we've got a mangle, five wash-tubs and
the best part of a ton o' coal. It's the windies I'm
anxious about, for they're ower big to fill up. But
I've gotten tubs o' water below them and a lot o'
wire-nettin' I fund in the cellar.”
Sir Archie morosely wiped his brow. “I can't
say I ever hated a job more,” he told Saskia. “It
seems pretty cool to march into somebody else's
house and make free with his furniture. I hope to
goodness our friends from the sea do turn up, or
we'll look pretty foolish. Loudon will have a score
against me he won't forget.”
“Ye're no’ weakenin'?” asked Dougal fiercely.
“Not a bit. Only hopin' somebody hasn't made
a mighty big mistake.”
“Ye needn't be feared for that. Now you listen
to your instructions. We're terrible few for such
a big place, but we maun make up for shortness o'
numbers by extra mobility. The gemkeeper will
keep the windy that looks on the verandy, and fell


THE SECOND BATTLE OF THE CRUIVES 265
“Good Lord, we'll get into a horrible row. The
whole thing may be a mistake, and we'll be had up
for wholesale homicide. No man shall fire unless
I give the word.”
The Commander-in-Chief looked at him darkly.
Some bitter retort was on his tongue, but he re-
strained himself.
“It appears,” he said, “that ye think I'm doin'
all this for fun. I’ll no 'argy wi' ye. There can be
just the one general in a battle, but I'll give ye
permission to say the word when to fire. . . . Mac-
greegorl” he muttered, a strange expletive only
used in moments of deep emotion. “I’ll wager
ye'll be for sayin' the word afore I'd say it
mysel'.”
He turned to the Princess. “I hand over to you,
till I am back, for I maun be off and see to the Die-
Hards. I wish I could bring them in here, but I
daren't lose my communications. I'll likely get in
by the boiler-house skylight when I come back, but
it might be as well to keep a road open here unless
ye're actually attacked.”
Dougal clambered over the mattresses and the
grand piano; a flicker of waning daylight appeared
for a second as he squeezed through the door, and
Sir Archie was left staring at the wrathful counte-
nance of McGuffog. He laughed ruefully.
“I’ve been in about forty battles, and here's that
little devil rather worried about my pluck, and
talkin' to me like a corps commander to a newly
joined second-lieutenant. All the same he's a re-
markable child, and we'd better behave as if we


266 HUNTINGTOWER
were in for a real shindy. What do you think,
Princess?”
“I think we are in for what you call a shindy.
I am in command, remember. I order you to serve
out the guns.”
This was done, a shot-gun and a hundred car-
tridges to each, while McGuffog, who was a marks-
man, was also given a sporting Mannlicher, and two
other rifles, a .303 and a small-bore Holland, were
kept in reserve in the hall. Sir Archie, free from
Dougal's compelling presence, gave the gamekeeper
peremptory orders not to shoot till he was bidden,
and Carfrae at the kitchen door was warned to the
same effect. The shuttered house, where the only
light apart from the garden-room was the feeble
spark of the electric torches, had the most disas-
trous effect upon his spirits. The gale which
roared in the chimney and eddied among the rafters
of the hall seemed an infernal commotion in a tomb.
“Let’s go upstairs,” he told Saskia; “there must
be a view from the upper windows.”
“You can see the top of the old Tower, and part
of the sea,” she said. “I know it well, for it was
my only amusement to look at it. On clear days,
too, one could see high mountains far in the west.”
His depression seemed to have affected her, for she
spoke listlessly, unlike the vivid creature who had
led the way in.
In a gaunt west-looking bedroom, the one in
which Heritage and Dickson had camped the night
before, they opened a fold of the shutters and
looked out into a world of grey wrack and driving


THE SECOND BATTLE OF THE CRUIVES 267
rain. The Tower roof showed mistily beyond the
ridge of down, but its environs were not in their
prospect. The lower regions of the House had been
gloomy enough, but this bleak place with its drab
outlook struck a chill to Sir Archie's soul. He dole-
fully lit a cigarette.
“This is a pretty rotten show for you,” he told
her. “It strikes me as a rather unpleasant brand
of nightmare.”
“I have been living with nightmares for three
years,” she said wearily.
He cast his eyes round the room. “I think the
Kennedys were mad to build this confounded bar-
rack. I've always disliked it, and old Quentin
hadn't any use for it either. Cold, cheerless, raw
monstrosity | It hasn't been a very giddy place for
you, Princess.”
“It has been my prison, when I hoped it would
be a sanctuary. But it may yet be my salvation.”
“I'm sure I hope so. I say, you must be jolly
hungry. I don't suppose there's any chance of tea
for you.”
She shook her head. She was looking fixedly at
the Tower, as if she expected something to appear
there, and he followed her eyes.
“Rum old shell, that. Quentin used to keep all
kinds of live stock there, and when we were boys
it was our castle where we played at bein’ robber
chiefs. It'll be dashed queer if the real thing should
turn up this time. I suppose McCunn's Poet is
roostin' there all by his lone. Can't say I envy him
his job.”


268 HUNTINGTOWER
Suddenly she caught his arm. “I see a man,” she
whispered. “There ! He is behind those far
bushes. There is his head again!”
It was clearly a man, but he presently disap-
peared, for he had come round by the south end
of the House, past the stables, and had now gone
over the ridge.
“The cut of his jib is uncommonly like Loudon,
the factor. I thought McCunn had stretched him
on a bed of pain. Lord, if this thing should turn
out a farce, I simply can't face Loudon. . . . I say,
Princess, you don't suppose by any chance that Mc-
Cunn's a little bit wrong in the head?” -
She turned her candid eyes on him. “You are in
a very doubting mood.”
“My feet are cold and I don't mind admittin' it.
Hanged if I know what it is, but I don't feel this
show a bit real. If it isn't, we're in a fair way to
make howlin' idiots of ourselves, and get pretty well
embroiled with the law. It's all right for the red-
haired boy, for he can take everything seriously,
even play. I could do the same thing myself when
I was a kid. I don't mind runnin' some kinds of
risk—I've had a few in my time—but this is so in-
fernally outlandish and I–I don't quite believe in
it. That is to say, I believe in it right enough when
I look at you or listen to McCunn, but as soon as
my eyes are off you I begin to doubt again. I'm
gettin' old and I've a stake in the country, and I
daresay I'm gettin' a bit of a prig–anyway I don't
want to make a jackass of myself. Besides, there's


THE SECOND BATTLE OF THE CRUIVES 269
this foul weather and this beastly house to ice my
feet.”
He broke off with an exclamation, for on the grey
cloud-bounded stage in which the roof of the Tower
was the central feature, actors had appeared. Dim
hurrying shapes showed through the mist, dipping
over the ridge, as if coming from the Garplefoot.
She seized his arm and he saw that her listless-
'ness was gone. Her eyes were shining.
“It is they,” she cried. “The nightmare is real
at last. Do you doubt now?”
He could only stare, for these shapes arriving and
vanishing like wisps of fog still seemed to him
phantasmal. The girl held his arm tightly clutched,
and craned towards the window space. He tried to
open the frame, and succeeded in smashing the glass.
A swirl of wind drove inwards and blew a loose
lock of Saskia's hair across his brow.
“I wish Dougal were back,” he muttered, and
then came the crack of a shot.
The pressure on his arm slackened, and a pale
face was turned to him. “He is alone—Mr. Herit-
age. He has no chance. They will kill him like
a dog.”
“They'll never get in,” he assured her. “Dougal
said the place could hold out for hours.”
Another shot followed and presently a third.
She twined her hands and her eyes were wild.
“We can't leave him to be killed,” she gasped.
“It's the only game. We're playin' for time, re-
member. Besides he won't be killed. Great Scott!”


THE SECOND BATTLE OF THE CRUIVES 271
dropped from the high verandah wall. That re-
minded him that something must be done to make
the wall climbable for her return, so he went down
to McGuffog, and the two squeezed through the
barricaded door to the verandah. The boiler-house
ladder was still in position, but it did not reach half
the height, so McGuffog was adjured to stand by
to help, and in the meantime to wait on duty by the
wall. Then he hurried upstairs to his watch-tower.
The girl was in sight, almost on the crest of the
high ground. There she stood for a moment, one
hand clutching at her errant hair, the other shield-
ing her eyes from the sting of the rain. He heard
her cry, as Heritage had heard her, but since the
wind was blowing towards him the sound came
louder and fuller. Again she cried, and then stood
motionless with her hands above her head. It was
only for an instant, for the next he saw she had
turned and was racing down the slope, jumping the
little scrogs of hazel like a deer. On the ridge
appeared faces, and then over it swept a mob of
IIlen.
She had a start of some fifty yards, and laboured
to increase it, having doubtless the verandah wall
in mind. Sir Archie, sick with anxiety, nevertheless
spared time to admire her prowess. “Gadl she's a
miler,” he ejaculated. “She'll do it. I'm hanged
if she don't do it.”
Against men in seaman's boots and heavy cloth-
ing she had a clear advantage. But two shook
themselves loose from the pack and began to gain
on her. At the main shrubbery they were not thirty


THE SECOND BATTLE OF THE CRUIVES 275
mother with a scared child. Sir Archie, watching
the whole thing in some stupefaction, thought he
had never in his days seen more nobly matched
human creatures.
“It is my friend,” she cried triumphantly, “the
friend whom I appointed to meet me here. Oh, I
did well to trust him. Now we need not fear any-
thing.”
As if in ironical answer came a great crashing at
the verandah door, ahd the twanging of chords
cruelly mishandled. The grand piano was suffering
internally from the assaults of the boiler-house
ladder.
“Wull I gie them a shot?” was McGuffog's hoarse
inquiry.
“Action stations,” Alexis ordered, for the com-
mand seemed to have shifted to him from Dougal.
“The windows are the danger. The boy will patrol
the ground floor, and give us warning, and I and
this man,” pointing to Sime, “will be ready at the
threatened point. And for God's sake no shooting,
unless I give the word. If we take them on at that
game we haven't a chance.”
He said something to Saskia in Russian and she
smiled assent and went to Sir Archie's side. “You
and I must keep this door,” she said.
Sir Archie was never very clear afterwards about .
the events of the next hour. The Princess was in
the maddest spirits, as if the burden of three years
had slipped from her and she was back in her first
girlhood. She sang as she carried more lumber to
the pile—perhaps the song which had once en-


276 HUNTINGTOWER
tranced Heritage, but Sir Archie had no ear for
music. She mocked at the furious blows which
rained at the other end, for the door had gone now,
and in the windy gap could be seen a blur of dark
faces. Oddly enough, he found his own spirits
mounting to meet hers. It was real business at last,
the qualms of the civilian had been forgotten, and
there was rising in him that joy in a scrap which
had once made him one of the most daring airmen
on the Western Front. The only thing that wor-
ried him now was the coyness about shooting.
What on earth were his rifles and shot-guns for
unless to be used? He had seen the enemy from
the verandah wall, and a more ruffianly crew he had
never dreamed of. They meant the uttermost busi-
ness, and against such it was surely the duty of good
citizens to wage whole-hearted war.
The Princess was humming to herself a nursery
rhyme. “The King of Spain's daughter,” she
crooned, “came to visit me, and all for the sake
Oh, that poor piano!” In her clear voice she cried
something in Russian, and the wind carried a laugh
from the verandah. At the sound of it she stopped.
“I had forgotten,” she said. “Paul is there. I had
forgotten.” After that she was very quiet, but she
redoubled her labours at the barricade.
To the man it seemed that the pressure from
without was slackening. He called to McGuffog to
ask about the garden-room window, and the reply
was reassuring. The gamekeeper was gloomily
contemplating Dougal's tubs of water and wire-


278 HUNTINGTOWER
Sir Archie bolted into the hall, and, led by the
sound, reached what had once been the ladies' bed-
room. A strange sight met his eyes, for the whole
framework of one window seemed to have been
thrust inward, and in the gap Alexis was swinging
a fender. Three of the enemy were in the room—
one senseless on the floor, one in the grip of Sime,
whose single hand was tightly clenched on his
throat, and one engaged with Dougal in a corner.
The Die-Hard leader was sore pressed, and to his
help Sir Archie went. The fresh assault made the
seaman duck his head, and Dougal seized the occa-
sion to smite him hard with something which caused
him to roll over. It was Spidel's life-preserver
which he had annexed that afternoon.
Alexis at the window seemed to have for a mo-
ment daunted the attack. “Bring that table,” he
cried, and the thing was jammed into the gap.
“Now you”—this to Sime—“get the man from the
back door to hold this place with his gun. There's
no attack there. It's about time for shooting now,
or we'll have them in our rear. What in heaven is
that?”
It was McGuffog whose great bellow resounded
down the corridor. Sir Archie turned and shuffled
back, to be met by a distressing spectacle. The
lamp, burning as peacefully as it might have burned
on an old lady's tea-table, revealed the window of
the garden-room driven bodily inward, shutters and
all, and now forming an inclined bridge over
Dougal's ineffectual tubs. In front of it stood Mc-
Guffog, swinging his gun by the barrel and yelling


THE SECOND BATTLE OF THE CRUIVES 279
curses, which, being mainly couched in the ver-
nacular, were happily meaningless to Saskia. She
herself stood at the hall door, plucking at some-
thing hidden in her breast. He saw that it was a
little ivory-handled pistol.
The enemy's feint had succeeded, for even as Sir
Archie looked three men leaped into the room. On
the neck of one the butt of McGuffog's gun crashed,
but two scrambled to their feet and made for the
girl. Sir Archie met the first with his fist, a clean
drive on the jaw, followed by a damaging hook
with his left that put him out of action. The other
hesitated for an instant and was lost, for McGuffog
caught him by the waist from behind and sent him
through the broken frame to join his comrades
without. -
“Up the stairs,” Dougal was shouting, for the
little room beyond the hall was clearly impossible.
“Our flank's turned. They're pourin' through the
other windy.” Out of a corner of his eye Sir Archie
caught sight of Alexis, with Sime and Carfrae in
support, being slowly forced towards them along
the corridor. “Upstairs,” he shouted. “Come on,
McGuffog. Lead on, Princess.” He dashed out
the lamp, and the place was in darkness.
With this retreat from the forward trench line
ended the opening phase of the battle. It was
achieved in good order, and position was taken up
on the first-floor landing, dominating the main stair-
case and the passage that led to the back stairs. At
their back was a short corridor ending in a window
which gave on the north side of the House above


280 HUNTINGTOWER
the verandah, and from which an active man might
descend to the verandah roof. It had been care-
fully reconnoitred beforehand by Dougal, and his
were the dispositions.
The odd thing was that the retreating force were
in good heart. The three men from the Mains
were warming to their work, and McGuffog wore
an air of genial ferocity. “Dashed fine position I
call this,” said Sir Archie. Only Alexis was silent
and preoccupied. “We are still at their mercy,” he
said. “Pray God your police come soon.” He
forbade shooting yet awhile. “The lady is our
strong card,” he said. “They won't use their guns
while she is with us, but if it ever comes to shooting
they can wipe us out in a couple of minutes. One
of you watch that window, for Paul Abreskov is no
fool.”
Their exhilaration was short-lived. Below in the
hall it was black darkness save for a greyness at
the entrance of the verandah passage; but the de-
fence was soon aware that the place was thick with
men. Presently there came a scuffling from Car-
frae's post towards the back stairs, and a cry as of
some one choking. And at the same moment a flare
was lit below which brought the whole hall from
floor to rafters into blinding light.
It revealed a crowd of figures, some still in the
hall and some half-way up the stairs, and it revealed,
too, more figures at the end of the upper landing
where Carfrae had been stationed. The shapes
were motionless like mannequins in a shop win-
dow.


282 HUNTINGTOWER
journey. Will you tell my men where to find your
baggage?”
The reply was in Russian. Alexis' voice was as
cool as the other's, and it seemed to wake him to
anger. He replied in a rapid torrent of words, and
appealed to the men below, who shouted back. The
flare was dying down, and shadows again hid most
of the hall.
Dougal crept up behind Sir Archie. “Here, I
think it's the polis. They're whistlin' outbye, and
I hear folk cryin' to each other—no' the for-
eigners.”
Again Alexis spoke, and then Saskia joined in.
What she said rang sharp with contempt, and her
fingers played with her little pistol.
Suddenly before the young man could answer
Dobson bustled towards him. The innkeeper was
labouring under some strong emotion, for he seemed
to be pleading and pointing urgently towards the
door.
“I tell ye it's the polis,” whispered Dougal.
“They're nickit.”
There was a swaying in the crowd and anxious
faces. Men surged in, whispered and went out, and
a clamour arose which the leader stilled with a fierce
gesture.
“You there,” he cried, looking up, “you English.
We mean you no ill, but I require you to hand over
to me the lady and the Russian who is with her. I
give you a minute by my watch to decide. If you
refuse my men are behind you and around you, and
you go with me to be punished at my leisure.”


284 HUNTINGTOWER
of fresh powder, and once more the place was bright
with the uncanny light. . . . The hall was empty
save for the pale man who was in the act of
turning.
He looked back. “If I go now, I will return.
The world is not wide enough to hide you from me,
Saskia.”
“You will never get her,” said Alexis.
A sudden devil flamed into his eyes, the devil of
some ancestral savagery, which would destroy what
is desired but unattainable. He swung round, his
hand went to his pocket, something clicked, and his
arm shot out like a baseball pitcher's.
So intent was the gaze of the others on him, that
they did not see a second figure ascending the stairs.
Just as Alexis flung himself before the Princess, the
new-comer caught the young man's outstretched
arm and wrenched something from his hand. The
next second he had hurled it into a far corner where
stood the great fireplace. There was a blinding
sheet of flame, a dull roar, and then billow upon
billow of acrid smoke. As it cleared they saw that
the fine Italian chimneypiece, the pride of the
builder of the House, was a mass of splinters, and
that a great hole had been blown through the wall
into what had been the dining-room. . . . A figure
was sitting on the bottom step feeling its bruises.
The last enemy had gone.
When Mr. John Heritage raised his eyes he saw
the Princess with a very pale face in the arms of a
tall man whom he had never seen before. If he
was surprised at the sight, he did not show it.


THE SECOND BATTLE OF THE CRUIVES 285
“Nasty little bomb that. Time fuse. I remember
we struck the brand first in July '18.”
“Are they rounded up?” Sir Archie asked.
“They've bolted. Whether they'll get away is
another matter. I left half the mounted police a
minute ago at the top of the West Lodge avenue.
The other lot went to the Garplefoot to cut off the
boats.” -
“Good Lord, man,” Sir Archie cried, “the police
have been here for the last ten minutes.”
“You're wrong. They came with me.”
“Then what on earth P” began the aston-
ished baronet. He stopped short, for he suddenly
got his answer. Into the hall from the verandah
limped a boy. Never was there seen so ruinous a
child. He was dripping wet, his shirt was all but
torn off his back, his bleeding nose was poorly
staunched by a wisp of handkerchief, his breeches
were in ribbons, and his poor bare legs looked as if
they had been comprehensively kicked and scratched.
Limpingly he entered, yet with a kind of pride, like
some small cock-sparrow who has lost most of his
plumage but has vanquished his adversary.
With a yell Dougal went down the stairs. The
boy saluted him, and they gravely shook hands. It
was the meeting of Wellington and Blücher.
The Chieftain's voice shrilled in triumph, but
there was a break in it. The glory was almost too
great to be borne.
“I kenned it,” he cried. “It was the Gorbals
Die-Hards. There stands the man that doue it.
. . . Ye'll no' fickle Thomas Yownie.”


GORBALS DIE-HARDS GO INTO ACTION 287
“Wae's me!” Mrs. Morran keened. “And what
kind o' place is yon for her? Thae laddies tell me
there's boatfu's o' scoondrels landit at the Garplefit.
They'll try the auld Tower, but they'll no’ wait
there when they find it toom, and they'll be inside
the Hoose in a jiffy and awa’ wi' the puir lassie.
Sirs, it maunna be. Ye're lippenin' to the polis, but
in a' my days I never kenned the polis in time. We
maun be up and daein' oorsels. Oh, if I could get
a haud o' that red-heided Dougal. . . .”
As she spoke, there came on the wind the dull
reverberation of an explosion.
“Keep us, what's that?” she cried.
“It's dinnymite,” said Peter Paterson.
“That's the end o' the auld Tower,” observed
Thomas Yownie in his quiet even voice. “And it's
likely the end o' the man Heritage.”
“Lord peety us!” the old woman wailed. “And
us standin' here like stookies and no' liftin' a hand.
Awa' wi' ye, laddies, and dae something. Awa’ you
too, Dickson, or I'll tak’ the road mysel'.”
“I’ve got orders,” said the Chief of Staff, “no' to
move till the sityation's clear. Napoleon's up at the
Tower and Jaikie in the policies. I maun wait on
their reports.”
For a moment Mrs. Morran's attention was dis-
tracted by Dickson, who suddenly felt very faint and
sat down heavily on a kitchen chair. “Man, ye're
as white as a dish-clout,” she exclaimed with com-
punction. “Ye're fair wore out, and ye'll have had
nae meat sin' your breakfast. See, and I'll get ye
a cup o' tea.”


GORBALS DIE-HARDS GO INTO ACTION 289
We'll maybe see a chance. Oh, but I wish I had
my wee pistol.”
“If ye're gaun there, Dickson, I'm comin' wi' ye,”
Mrs. Morran announced.
Her words revealed to Dickson the preposterous-
ness of the whole situation, and for all his anxiety
he laughed. “Five laddies, a middle-aged man
and an auld wife,” he cried. “Dod, it's pretty
hopeless. It's like the thing in the Bible about the
weak things of the world trying to confound the
strong.”
“The Bible's whiles richt,” Mrs. Morran an-
swered drily. “Come on, for there's no time to
lose.”
The door opened again to admit the figure of
Wee Jaikie. There were no tears in his eyes, and
his face was very white.
“They're a' round the Hoose,” he croaked. “I
was up a tree forenent the verandy and seen them.
The lassie ran oot and cried on them from the top
o' the brae, and they a' turned and hunted her back.
Gosh, but it was a near thing. I seen the Captain
sklimmin' the wall, and a muckle man took the lassie
and flung her up the ladder. They got inside just
in time and steekit the door, and now the whole
pack is roarin' round the Hoose seekin' a road in.
They'll no’ be long over the job, neither.”
“What about Mr. Heritage?”
“They're no' heedin' about him any more. The
auld Tower's bleezin'.”
“Worse and worse,” said Dickson. “If the
police don't come in the next ten minutes, they'll be


GORBALS DIE-HARDS GO INTO ACTION 291
parents acknowledged, who slept usually in a coal
cellar, and who had picked up his education among
Gorbals closes and along the wharves of Clyde.
“It's gettin’ dark,” he said, “and the enemy are
that busy tryin' to break into the Hoose that they'll
no' be thinkin' o' their rear. The five o' us Die-
Hards is grand at dodgin' and keepin’ out of sight,
and what hinders us to get in among them, so that
they'll hear us but never see us? We're used to the
ways o' the polis, and can imitate them fine. Forbye
we've all got our whistles, which are the same as a
bobbie's birl, and Old Bill and Peter are grand at
copyin' a man's voice. Since the Captain is shut
up in the Hoose, the command falls to me, and
that's my plan.”
With a piece of chalk he drew on the kitchen floor
a rough sketch of the environs, of Huntingtower.
Peter Paterson was to move from the shrubberies
beyond the verandah, Napoleon from the stables,
Old Bill from the Tower, while Wee Jaikie and
Thomas himself were to advance as if from the
Garplefoot, so that the enemy might fear for his
communications. “As soon as one o' ye gets into
position he's to gie the patrol cry, and when each
o' ye has heard five cries, he's to advance. Begin
birlin' and roarin' afore ye get among them, and
keep it up till ye're at the Hoose wall. If they've
gotten inside, in ye go after them. I trust each
Die-Hard to use his judgment, and above all to keep
out o' sight and no let himsel’ be grippit.”
The plan, like all great tactics, was simple, and
no sooner was it expounded than it was put into


292 HUNTINGTOWER
action. The Die-Hards faded out of the kitchen
like fog-wreaths, and Dickson and Mrs. Morran
were left looking at each other. They did not look
long. The bare feet of Wee Jaikie had not crossed
the threshold fifty seconds, before they were fol-
lowed by Mrs. Morran's out-of-doors boots and
Dickson's tackets. Arm in arm the two hobbled
down the back path behind the village which led
to the South Lodge. The gate was unlocked, for
the warder was busy elsewhere, and they hastened
up the avenue. Far off Dickson thought he saw
shapes fleeting across the park, which he took to be
the shock-troops of his own side, and he seemed to
hear snatches of song. Jaikie was giving tongue,
and this was what he sang:
“Proley Tarians, arise!
Wave the Red Flag to the skies,
Heed nae mair the Fat Man's lees,
Stap them doun his throat!
Nocht to loss except our chains,
We maun drain oor dearest veins—
A’ the worrld shall be our gains—”
But he tripped over a rabbit wire and thereafter
conserved his breath.
The wind was so loud that no sound reached
them from the House, which blank and immense
now loomed before them. Dickson's ears were
alert for the noise of shots or the dull crash of
bombs; hearing nothing, he feared the worst, and
hurried Mrs. Morran at a pace which endangered


294 HUNTINGTOWER
he heard was a shrill whistle cutting into the wind,
and then others in rapid succession from different
quarters, and something which might have been the
hoarse shouting of angry men.
The Gorbals Die-Hards had gone into action.
Dull prose is no medium to tell of that wild ad-
venture. The sober sequence of the military his-
torian is out of place in recording deeds that knew
not sequence or sobriety. Were I a bard, I would
cast this tale in excited verse, with a lilt which would
catch the speed of the reality. I would sing of
Napoleon, not unworthy of his great namesake, who
penetrated to the very window of the ladies' bed-
room, where the framework had been driven in and
men were pouring through; of how there he made
such pandemonium with his whistle that men tum-
bled back and ran about blindly seeking for guid-
ance; of how in the long run his pugnacity mastered
him, so that he engaged in combat with an unknown
figure and the two rolled into what had once been
a fountain. I would hymn Peter Paterson, who
across tracts of darkness engaged Old Bill in a con-
versation which would have done no discredit to a
Gallogate policeman. He pretended to be making
reports and seeking orders. “We’ve gotten three
o' the deevils, sir. What'll we dae wi' them?” he
shouted; and back would come the reply in a slightly
more genteel voice: “Fall them to the rear. Tam-
son has charge of the prisoners.” Or it would be:
“They've gotten pistols, sir. What's the orders?”
and the answer would be: “Stick to your batons.
The guns are posted on the knowe, so we needn't


GORBALS DIE-HARDS GO INTO ACTION 295
hurry.” And over all the din there would be a
perpetual whistling and a yelling of “Hands up !”
I would sing, too, of Wee Jaikie, who was having
the red-letter hour of his life. His fragile form
moved like a lizard in places where no mortal could
be expected, and he varied his duties with impish
assaults upon the persons of such as came in his
way. His whistle blew in a man's ear one second
and the next yards away. Sometimes he was moved
to song, and unearthly fragments of “Class-con-
scious we are” or “Proley Tarians, arise!” mingled
with the din, like the cry of seagulls in a storm. He
saw a bright light flare up within the house which
warned him not to enter, but he got as far as the
garden-room, in whose dark corners he made havoc.
Indeed he was almost too successful, for he created
panic where he went, and one or two fired blindly
at the quarter where he had last been heard. These
shots were followed by frenzied prohibitions from
Spidel and were not repeated. Presently he felt
that aimless surge of men that is the prelude to
flight, and heard Dobson's great voice roaring in
the hall. Convinced that the crisis had come, he
made his way outside, prepared to harass the rear
of any retirement. Tears now flowed down his
face, and he could not have spoken for sobs, but
he had never been so happy. -
But chiefly would I celebrate Thomas Yownie,
for it was he who brought fear into the heart of
Dobson. He had a voice of singular compass, and
from the verandah he made it echo round the
House. The efforts of Old Bill and Peter Paterson


GORBALS DIE-HARDS GO INTO ACTION 297
came a figure, breathing hard and bent apparently
on the same errand. Thomas prepared for battle,
determined that no straggler of the enemy should
now wrest from him victory, but, as the figure came
into the faint glow at the doorway, he recognised
it as Heritage. And at the same moment he heard
something which made his tense nerves relax.
Away on the right came sounds, a thud of gallop-
ing horses on grass and the jingle of bridle reins
and the voices of men. It was the real thing at
last. It is a sad commentary on his career, but now
for the first time in his brief existence Thomas
Yownie felt charitably disposed towards the police.
The Poet, since we left him blaspheming on the
roof of the Tower, had been having a crowded hour
of most inglorious life. He had started to descend
at a furious pace, and his first misadventure was
that he stumbled and dropped Dickson's pistol over
the parapet. He tried to mark where it might have
fallen in the gloom below, and this lost him precious
minutes. When he slithered through the trap into
the attic room, where he had tried to hold up the
attack, he discovered that it was full of smoke which
sought in vain to escape by the narrow window.
Volumes of it were pouring up the stairs, and when
he attempted to descend he found himself choked
and blinded. He rushed gasping to the window,
filled his lungs with fresh air, and tried again, but
he got no further than the first turn, from which
he could see through the cloud red tongues of flame
in the ground room. This was solemn indeed, so


298 HUNTINGTOWER
he sought another way out. He got on the roof,
for he remembered a chimney-stack, cloaked with
ivy, which was built straight from the ground, and
he thought he might climb down it.
He found the chimney and began the descent,
confidently, for he had once borne a good reputa-
tion at the Montanvert and Cortina. At first all
went well, for stones stuck out at decent intervals
like the rungs of a ladder, and roots of ivy supple-
mented their deficiencies. But presently he came to
a place where the masonry had crumbled into a cave,
and left a gap some twenty feet high. Below it he
could dimly see a thick mass of ivy which would
enable him to cover the further forty feet to the
ground, but at that cave he stuck most finally. All
round the lime and stone had lapsed into debris,
and he could find no safe foothold. Worse still, the
block on which he relied proved loose, and only by
a dangerous traverse did he avert disaster.
There he hung for a minute or two, with a cold
void in his stomach. He had always distrusted the
handiwork of man as a place to scramble on, and
now he was planted in the dark on a decomposing
wall, with an excellent chance of breaking his neck,
and with the most urgent need for haste. He could
see the windows of the House and, since he was
sheltered from the gale, he could hear the faint
sound of blows on woodwork. There was clearly
the devil to pay there, and yet here he was helplessly
stuck. . . . Setting his teeth, he started to ascend
again. Better the fire than this cold breakneck
emptiness.


GORBALs DIE-HARDS Go INTO ACTION 299
It took him the better part of half an hour to
get back, and he passed through many moments of
acute fear. Footholds which had seemed secure
enough in the descent now proved impossible, and
more than once he had his heart in his mouth when a
rotten ivy stump or a wedge of stone gave in his
hands, and dropped dully into the pit of night, leav-
ing him crazily spread-eagled. When at last he
reached the top he rolled on his back and felt very
sick. Then, as he realised his safety, his impatience
revived. At all costs he would force his way out
though he should be grilled like a herring.
The smoke was less thick in the attic, and with
his handkerchief wet with the rain and bound across
his mouth he made a dash for the ground room. It
was as hot as a furnace, for everything inflamma-
ble in it seemed to have caught fire, and the lumber
glowed in piles of hot ashes. But the floor and walls
were stone, and only the blazing jambs of the door
stood between him and the outer air. He had
burned himself considerably as he stumbled down-
wards, and the pain drove him to a wild leap
through the broken arch, where he miscalculated the
distance, charred his shins, and brought down a red-
hot fragment of the lintel on his head. But the
thing was done, and a minute later he was rolling
like a dog in the wet bracken to cool his burns and
put out various smouldering patches on his rai-
ment. -
Then he started running for the House, but, con-
fused by the darkness, he bore too much to the
north, and came out in the side avenue from which


GORBALS DIE-HARDS GO INTO ACTION 301
moment twenty paces on his left the van of the re-
treat crashed through the creepers on the garden's
edge and leaped the wall that separated it from the
cliffs of the Garplefoot.
The old woman was on her feet.
“God be thankit, is't the polis?”
“Maybe. Maybe no'. But they're running.”
Another bunch of men raced past, and he heard
Dobson's voice.
“I tell you, they're broke. Listen, it's horses.
Ay, it's the police, but it was the Die-Hards that
did the job. . . . Here! They mustn't escape.
Have the police had the sense to send men to the
Garplefoot?” -
Mrs. Morran, a figure like an ancient prophetess,
with her tartan shawl lashing in the gale, clutched
him by the shoulder.
“Doun to the waterside and stop them. Ye'll no’
be beat by wee laddiesl On wi' ye and I'll follow
There's gaun to be a juidgment on evil-doers this
nicht.”
Dickson needed no urging. His heart was hot
within him, and the weariness and stiffness had gone
from his limbs. He, too, tumbled over the wall,
and made for what he thought was the route by
which he had originally ascended from the stream.
As he ran he made ridiculous efforts to cry like a
whaup in the hope of summoning the Die-Hards.
One, indeed, he found—Napoleon, who had suf-
fered a grievous pounding in the fountain and had
only escaped by an eel-like agility which had afore-
time served him in good stead with the law of his


302 IHUNTINGTOWER
native city. Lucky for Dickson was the meeting,
for he had forgotten the road and would certainly
have broken his neck. Led by the Die-Hard he slid
forty feet over screes and boiler-plates, with the
gale plucking at him, found a path, lost it, and then
tumbled down a raw bank of earth to the flat ground
beside the harbour. During all this performance,
he has told me, he had no thought of fear, nor any
clear notion what he meant to do. He just wanted
to be in at the finish of the job.
Through the narrow entrance the gale blew as
through a funnel, and the usually placid waters of
the harbour were a mass of angry waves. Two
boats had been launched and were plunging furi-
ously, and on one of them a lantern dipped and fell.
By its light he could see men holding a further boat
by the shore. There was no sign of the police; he
reflected that probably they had become tangled in
the Garple Dean. The third boat was waiting for
SOrne One.
Dickson—a new Ajax by the ships—divined who
this some one must be and realised his duty. It was
the leader, the arch-enemy, the man whose escape
must at all costs be stopped. Perhaps he had the
Princess with him, thus snatching victory from
apparent defeat. In any case he must be tackled,
and a fierce anxiety gripped his heart. “Aye finish
a job,” he told himself, ahd peered up into the
darkness of the cliffs, wondering just how he should
set about it, for except in the last few days he had
never engaged in combat with a fellow-creature.
“When he comes, you grip his legs,” he told


GORBALS DIE-HARDS GO INTO ACTION 303
Napoleon, “and get him down. He'll have a pistol,
and we're done if he's on his feet.”
There was a cry from the boats, a shout of guid-
ance, and the light on the water was waved madly.
“They must have good eyesight,” thought Dickson,
for he could see nothing. And then suddenly he
was aware of steps in front of him, and a shape like
a man rising out of the void at his left hand.
In the darkness Napoleon missed his tackle, and
the full shock came on Dickson. He aimed at what
he thought was the enemy's throat, found only an
arm and was shaken off as a mastiff might shake off
a toy terrier. He made another clutch, fell, and in
falling caught his opponent's leg so that he brought
him down. The man was immensely agile, for he
was up in a second and something hot and bright
blew into Dickson's face. The pistol bullet had
passed through the collar of his faithful water-
proof, slightly singeing his neck. But it served its
purpose, for Dickson paused, gasping, to consider
where he had been hit, and before he could resume
the chase the last boat had pushed off into deep
Water.
To be shot at from close quarters is always irri-
tating, and the novelty of the experience increased
Dickson's natural wrath. He fumed on the shore
like a deerhound when the stag has taken to the sea.
So hot was his blood that he would have cheerfully
assaulted the whole crew had they been within his
reach. Napoleon, who had been incapacitated for
speed by having his stomach and bare shanks sav-
agely trampled upon, joined him, and together they


304 HUNTINGTOWER
watched the bobbing black specks as they crawled
out of the estuary into the grey spindrift which
marked the harbour mouth.
But as he looked the wrath died out of Dickson's
soul. For he saw that the boats had indeed sailed
on a desperate venture, and that a pursuer was on
their track more potent than his breathless middle-
age. The tide was on the ebb, and the gale was
driving the Atlantic breakers shoreward, and in the
jaws of the entrance the two waters met in an un-
earthly turmoil. Above the noise of the wind came
the roar of the flooded Garple and the fret of the
harbour, and far beyond all the crashing thunder
of the conflict at the harbour mouth. Even in the
darkness, against the still faintly grey western sky,
the spume could be seen rising like waterspouts.
But it was the ear rather than the eye which made
certain presage of disaster. No boat could face the
challenge of that loud portal.
As Dickson struggled against the wind and stared,
his heart melted and a great awe fell upon him.
He may have wept; it is certain that he prayed.
“Poor souls, poor souls l’” he repeated. “I doubt
the last hour or two has been a poor preparation
for eternity.”
The tide next day brought the dead ashore.
Among them was a young man, different in dress
and appearance from the rest—a young man with
a noble head and a finely-cut classic face, which was
not marred like the others from pounding among
the Garple rocks. His dark hair was washed back


GORBALS DIE-HARDS GO INTO ACTION 305
from his brow, and the mouth, which had been hard
in life, was now relaxed in the strange innocence of
death.
Dickson gazed at the body and observed that
there was a slight deformation between the
shoulders.
“Poor fellow,” he said. “That explains a lot.
. . . As my father used to say, cripples have a
right to be cankered.”


308 HUNTINGTOWER
Cruives during the storm, and had made that fatal
slip which had deprived the shire of a wise coun-
sellor and the best of good fellows.
The tinklers of the Garplefoot took themselves
off, and where they may now be pursuing their
devious courses is unknown to the chronicler. Dob-
son, too, disappeared, for he was not among the
dead from the boats. He knew the neighbourhood
and probably made his way to some port from which
he took passage to one or other of those foreign
lands which had formerly been honoured by his
patronage. Nor did all the Russians perish. Three
were found skulking next morning in the woods,
starving and ignorant of any tongue but their own,
and five more came ashore much battered but alive.
Alexis took charge of the eight survivors, and ar-
ranged to pay their passage to one of the British
Dominions and to give them a start in a new life.
They were broken creatures, with the dazed look
of lost animals, and four of them had been peasants
on Saskia's estates. Alexis spoke to them in their
own language. “In my grandfather's time,” he
said, “you were serfs. Then there came a change,
and for some time you were free men. Now you
have slipped back into being slaves again—the worst
of slaveries, for you have been the serfs of fools
and scoundrels and the black passion of your own
hearts. I give you a chance of becoming free men
once more. You have the task before you of work-
ing out your own salvation. Go, and God be with
you.”
e tº e e - e -


312. HUNTINGTOWER
He repeats the last two lines twice and draws a
deep breath. “How right!” he cries. “How abso-
lutely right! Lord! It's astonishing how that old
bird Tennyson got the goods !”
After that Dickson leaves him and wanders
among the thickets on the edge of the Hunting-
tower policies above the Laver glen. He feels child-
ishly happy, wonderfully young, and at the same
time supernaturally wise. Sometimes he thinks the
past week has been a dream, till he touches the
sticking-plaster on his brow, and finds that his left
thigh is still a mass of bruises and that his right
leg is wofully stiff. With that the past becomes
very real again, and he sees the Garple Dean in
that stormy afternoon, he wrestles again at mid-
night in the dark House, he stands with quaking
heart by the boats to cut off the retreat. He sees
it all, but without terror in the recollection, rather
with gusto and a modest pride. “I’ve surely had
a remarkable time,” he tells himself, and then Ro-
mance, the goddess whom he has worshipped so
long, marries that furious week with the idyllic.
He is supremely content, for he knows that in his
humble way he has not been found wanting. Once
more for him the Chavender or Chub, and long
dreams among summer hills. His mind flies to the
days ahead of him, when he will go wandering with
his pack in many green places. Happy days they
will be, the prospect with which he has always
charmed his mind. Yes, but they will be different
from what he had fancied, for he is another man


A PRINCESS LEAVES A DARK TOWER 313
than the complacent little fellow who set out a week
ago on his travels. He has now assurance of him-
self, assurance of his faith. Romance, he sees, is
one and indivisible. . . .
Below him by the edge of the stream he sees the
encampment of the Gorbals Die-Hards. He calls
and waves a hand, and his signal is answered. It
seems to be washing day, for some scanty and tat-
tered raiment is drying on the sward. The band is
evidently in session, for it is sitting in a circle, deep
in talk.
As he looks at the ancient tents, the humble equip-
ment, the ring of small shockheads, a great tender-
ness comes over him. The Die-Hards are so tiny,
so poor, so pitifully handicapped, and yet so bold in
their meagreness. Not one of them has had any-
thing that might be called a chance. Their few
years have been spent in kennels and closes, always
hungry and hunted, with none to care for them;
their childish ears have been habituated to every
coarseness, their small minds filled with the des-
perate shifts of living. . . . And yet, what a heav-
enly spark was in them l He had always thought
nobly of the soul; now he wants to get on his knees
before the queer greatness of humanity.
A figure disengages itself from the group, and
Dougal makes his way up the hill towards him.
The Chieftain is not more reputable in garb than
when we first saw him, nor is he more cheerful of
countenance. He has one arm in a sling made out
of his neckerchief, and his scraggy little throat rises
bare from his voluminous shirt. All that can be


316 HUNTINGTOWER
too kind,” she gasps. “It must have cost an awful
lot of money.”
“It didn't cost me that much,” is the truthful
anSWer.
She fingers the trinket and then clasps it round
her neck, where the green depths of the stones glow
against the black satin of her bodice. Her eyes are
moist as she looks at him. “You’ve been a kind
man to me,” she says, and she kisses him as she has
not done since Janet's death.
She stands up and admires the necklet in the
mirror. Romance once more, thinks Dickson. That
which has graced the slim throats of princesses in
far-away Courts now adorns an elderly matron in
a semi-detached villa; the jewels of the wild Nau-
sicaa have fallen to the housewife Penelope.
Mrs. McCunn preens herself before the glass. “I
call it very genteel,” she says. “Real stylish. It
might be worn by a queen.”
“I wouldn't say but it has,” says Dickson,
THE END


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