CHAPTER XXX.

THE LETTER FROM THE SHIP

Daylight showed us how solitary the inn stood. It was plainly hard upon

the sea, yet out of all view of it, and beset on every side with

scabbit hills of sand. There was, indeed, only one thing in the nature

of a prospect, where there stood out over a brae the two sails of a

windmill, like an ass’s ears, but with the ass quite hidden. It was

strange (after the wind rose, for at first it was dead calm) to see the

turning and following of each other of these great sails behind the

hillock. Scarce any road came by there; but a number of footways

travelled among the bents in all directions up to Mr. Bazin’s door. The

truth is, he was a man of many trades, not any one of them honest, and

the position of his inn was the best of his livelihood. Smugglers

frequented it; political agents and forfeited persons bound across the

water came there to await their passages; and I daresay there was worse

behind, for a whole family might have been butchered in that house and

nobody the wiser.

I slept little and ill. Long ere it was day, I had slipped from beside

my bedfellow, and was warming myself at the fire or walking to and fro

before the door. Dawn broke mighty sullen; but a little after, sprang

up a wind out of the west, which burst the clouds, let through the sun,

and set the mill to the turning. There was something of spring in the

sunshine, or else it was in my heart; and the appearing of the great

sails one after another from behind the hill, diverted me extremely. At

times I could hear a creak of the machinery; and by half-past eight of

the day, and I thought this dreary, desert place was like a paradise.

For all which, as the day drew on and nobody came near, I began to be

aware of an uneasiness that I could scarce explain. It seemed there was

trouble afoot; the sails of the windmill, as they came up and went down

over the hill, were like persons spying; and outside of all fancy, it

was surely a strange neighbourhood and house for a young lady to be

brought to dwell in.

At breakfast, which we took late, it was manifest that James More was

in some danger or perplexity; manifest that Alan was alive to the same,

and watched him close; and this appearance of duplicity upon the one

side, and vigilance upon the other, held me on live coals. The meal was

no sooner over than James seemed to come began to make apologies. He

had an appointment of a private nature in the town (it was with the

French nobleman, he told me), and we would please excuse him till about

noon. Meanwhile he carried his daughter aside to the far end of the

room, where he seemed to speak rather earnestly and she to listen with

much inclination.

“I am caring less and less about this man James,” said Alan. “There’s

something no right with the man James, and I shouldnae wonder but what

Alan Breck would give an eye to him this day. I would like fine to see

yon French nobleman, Davie; and I daresay you could find an employ to

yoursel, and that would be to speir at the lassie for some news o’ your

affair. Just tell it to her plainly—tell her ye’re a muckle ass at the

off-set; and then, if I were you, and ye could do it naitural, I would

just mint to her I was in some kind of a danger; a’ weemenfolk likes

that.”

“I cannae lee, Alan, I cannae do it naitural,” says I, mocking him.

“The more fool you!” says he. “Then ye’ll can tell her that I

recommended it; that’ll set her to the laughing; and I wouldnae wonder

but what that was the next best. But see to the pair of them! If I

didnae feel just sure of the lassie, and that she was awful pleased and

chief with Alan, I would think there was some kind of hocus-pocus about

you.”

“And is she so pleased with ye, then, Alan?” I asked.

“She thinks a heap of me,” says he. “And I’m no like you: I’m one that

can tell. That she does—she thinks a heap of Alan. And troth! I’m

thinking a good deal of him mysel; and with your permission, Shaws,

I’ll be getting a wee yont amang the bents, so that I can see what way

James goes.”

One after another went, till I was left alone beside the breakfast

table; James to Dunkirk, Alan dogging him, Catriona up the stairs to

her own chamber. I could very well understand how she should avoid to

be alone with me; yet was none the better pleased with it for that, and

bent my mind to entrap her to an interview before the men returned.

Upon the whole, the best appeared to me to do like Alan. If I was out

of view among the sandhills, the fine morning would decoy her forth;

and once I had her in the open, I could please myself.

No sooner said than done; nor was I long under the bield of a hillock

before she appeared at the inn door, looked here and there, and (seeing

nobody) set out by a path that led directly seaward, and by which I

followed her. I was in no haste to make my presence known; the further

she went I made sure of the longer hearing to my suit; and the ground

being all sandy it was easy to follow her unheard. The path rose and

came at last to the head of a knowe. Thence I had a picture for the

first time of what a desolate wilderness that inn stood hidden in;

where was no man to be seen, nor any house of man, except just Bazin’s

and the windmill. Only a little further on, the sea appeared and two or

three ships upon it, pretty as a drawing. One of these was extremely

close in to be so great a vessel; and I was aware of a shock of new

suspicion, when I recognised the trim of the _Seahorse_. What should an

English ship be doing so near in to France? Why was Alan brought into

her neighbourhood, and that in a place so far from any hope of rescue?

and was it by accident, or by design, that the daughter of James More

should walk that day to the seaside?

Presently I came forth behind her in the front of the sandhills and

above the beach. It was here long and solitary; with a man-o’-war’s

boat drawn up about the middle of the prospect, and an officer in

charge and pacing the sands like one who waited. I sat down where the

rough grass a good deal covered me, and looked for what should follow.

Catriona went straight to the boat; the officer met her with

civilities; they had ten words together; I saw a letter changing hands;

and there was Catriona returning. At the same time, as if this were all

her business on the Continent, the boat shoved off and was headed for

the _Seahorse_. But I observed the officer to remain behind and

disappear among the bents.

I liked the business little; and the more I considered of it, liked it

less. Was it Alan the officer was seeking? or Catriona? She drew near

with her head down, looking constantly on the sand, and made so tender

a picture that I could not bear to doubt her innocence. The next, she

raised her face and recognised me; seemed to hesitate, and then came on

again, but more slowly, and I thought with a changed colour. And at

that thought, all else that was upon my bosom—fears, suspicions, the

care of my friend’s life—was clean swallowed up; and I rose to my feet

and stood waiting her in a drunkenness of hope.

I gave her “good morning” as she came up, which she returned with a

good deal of composure.

“Will you forgive my having followed you?” said I.

“I know you are always meaning kindly,” she replied; and then, with a

little outburst, “but why will you be sending money to that man! It

must not be.”

“I never sent it for him,” said I, “but for you, as you know well.”

“And you have no right to be sending it to either one of us,” she said.

“David, it is not right.”

“It is not, it is all wrong,” said I, “and I pray God he will help this

dull fellow (if it be at all possible) to make it better. Catriona,

this is no kind of life for you to lead; and I ask your pardon for the

word, but yon man is no fit father to take care of you.”

“Do not be speaking of him, even!” was her cry.

“And I need speak of him no more; it is not of him that I am thinking,

O, be sure of that!” says I. “I think of the one thing. I have been

alone now this long time in Leyden; and when I was by way of at my

studies, still I was thinking of that. Next Alan came, and I went among

soldier-men to their big dinners; and still I had the same thought. And

it was the same before, when I had her there beside me. Catriona, do

you see this napkin at my throat! You cut a corner from it once and

then cast it from you. They’re _your_ colours now; I wear them in my

heart. My dear, I cannot be wanting you. O, try to put up with me!”

I stepped before her so as to intercept her walking on.

“Try to put up with me,” I was saying, “try and bear me with a little.”

Still she had never the word, and a fear began to rise in me like a

fear of death.

“Catriona,” I cried, gazing on her hard, “is it a mistake again? Am I

quite lost?”

She raised her face to me, breathless.

“Do you want me, Davie, truly?” said she, and I scarce could hear her

say it.

“I do that,” said I. “O, sure you know it—I do that.”

“I have nothing left to give or to keep back,” said she. “I was all

yours from the first day, if you would have had a gift of me!” she

said.

This was on the summit of a brae; the place was windy and conspicuous,

we were to be seen there even from the English ship; but I kneeled down

before her in the sand, and embraced her knees, and burst into that

storm of weeping that I thought it must have broken me. All thought was

wholly beaten from my mind by the vehemency of my discomposure. I knew

not where I was. I had forgot why I was happy; only I knew she stooped,

and I felt her cherish me to her face and bosom, and heard her words

out of a whirl.

“Davie,” she was saying, “O, Davie, is this what you think of me! Is it

so that you were caring for poor me! O, Davie, Davie!”

With that she wept also, and our tears were commingled in a perfect

gladness.

It might have been ten in the day before I came to a clear sense of

what a mercy had befallen me; and sitting over against her, with her

hands in mine, gazed in her face, and laughed out loud for pleasure

like a child, and called her foolish and kind names. I have never seen

the place that looked so pretty as those bents by Dunkirk; and the

windmill sails, as they bobbed over the knowe, were like a tune of

music.

I know not how much longer we might have continued to forget all else

besides ourselves, had I not chanced upon a reference to her father,

which brought us to reality.

“My little friend,” I was calling her again and again, rejoicing to

summon up the past by the sound of it, and to gaze across on her, and

to be a little distant—“My little friend, now you are mine altogether;

mine for good, my little friend and that man’s no longer at all.”

There came a sudden whiteness in her face, she plucked her hands from

mine.

“Davie, take me away from him!” she cried. “There’s something wrong;

he’s not true. There will be something wrong; I have a dreadful terror

here at my heart. What will he be wanting at all events with that

King’s ship? What will this word be saying?” And she held the letter

forth. “My mind misgives me, it will be some ill to Alan. Open it,

Davie—open it and see.”

I took it, and looked at it, and shook my head.

“No,” said I, “it goes against me, I cannot open a man’s letter.”

“Not to save your friend?” she cried.

“I cannae tell,” said I. “I think not. If I was only sure!”

“And you have but to break the seal!” said she.

“I know it,” said I, “but the thing goes against me.”

“Give it here,” said she, “and I will open it myself.”

“Nor you neither,” said I. “You least of all. It concerns your father,

and his honour, dear, which we are both misdoubting. No question but

the place is dangerous-like, and the English ship being here, and your

father having word from it, and yon officer that stayed ashore. He

would not be alone either; there must be more along with him; I daresay

we are spied upon this minute. Ay, no doubt, the letter should be

opened; but somehow, not by you nor me.”

I was about thus far with it, and my spirit very much overcome with a

sense of danger and hidden enemies, when I spied Alan, come back again

from following James and walking by himself among the sand-hills. He

was in his soldier’s coat, of course, and mighty fine; but I could not

avoid to shudder when I thought how little that jacket would avail him,

if he were once caught and flung in a skiff, and carried on board of

the _Seahorse_, a deserter, a rebel, and now a condemned murderer.

“There,” said I, “there is the man that has the best right to open it:

or not, as he thinks fit.”

With which I called upon his name, and we both stood up to be a mark

for him.

“If it is so—if it be more disgrace—will you can bear it?” she asked,

looking upon me with a burning eye.

“I was asked something of the same question when I had seen you but the

once,” said I. “What do you think I answered? That if I liked you as I

thought I did—and O, but I like you better!—I would marry you at his

gallows’ foot.”

The blood rose in her face; she came close up and pressed upon me,

holding my hand: and it was so that we awaited Alan.

He came with one of his queer smiles. “What was I telling ye, David?”

says he.

“There is a time for all things, Alan,” said I, “and this time is

serious. How have you sped? You can speak out plain before this friend

of ours.”

“I have been upon a fool’s errand,” said he.

“I doubt we have done better than you, then,” said I; “and, at least,

here is a great deal of matter that you must judge of. Do you see

that?” I went on, pointing to the ship. “That is the _Seahorse_,

Captain Palliser.”

“I should ken her, too,” says Alan. “I had fyke enough with her when

she was stationed in the Forth. But what ails the man to come so

close?”

“I will tell you why he came there first,” said I. “It was to bring

this letter to James More. Why he stops here now that it’s delivered,

what it’s likely to be about, why there’s an officer hiding in the

bents, and whether or not it’s probable that he’s alone—I would rather

you considered for yourself.”

“A letter to James More?” said he.

“The same,” said I.

“Well, and I can tell ye more than that,” said Alan. “For the last

night, when you were fast asleep, I heard the man colloguing with some

one in the French, and then the door of that inn to be opened and

shut.”

“Alan!” cried I, “you slept all night, and I am here to prove it.”

“Ay, but I would never trust Alan whether he was asleep or waking!”

says he. “But the business looks bad. Let’s see the letter.”

I gave it him.

“Catriona,” said he, “you have to excuse me, my dear; but there’s

nothing less than my fine bones upon the cast of it, and I’ll have to

break this seal.”

“It is my wish,” said Catriona.

He opened it, glanced it through, and flung his hand in the air.

“The stinking brock!” says he, and crammed the paper in his pocket.

“Here, let’s get our things together. This place is fair death to me.”

And he began to walk towards the inn.

It was Catriona that spoke the first. “He has sold you?” she asked.

“Sold me, my dear,” said Alan. “But thanks to you and Davie, I’ll can

jink him yet. Just let me win upon my horse,” he added.

“Catriona must come with us,” said I. “She can have no more traffic

with that man. She and I are to be married.” At which she pressed my

hand to her side.

“Are ye there with it?” says Alan, looking back. “The best day’s work

that ever either of you did yet! And I’m bound to say, my dawtie, ye

make a real, bonny couple.”

The way that he was following brought us close in by the windmill,

where I was aware of a man in seaman’s trousers, who seemed to be

spying from behind it. Only, of course, we took him in the rear.

“See, Alan!”

“Wheesht!” said, he, “this is my affairs.”

The man was, no doubt, a little deafened by the clattering of the mill,

and we got up close before he noticed. Then he turned, and we saw he

was a big fellow with a mahogany face.

“I think, sir,” says Alan, “that you speak the English?”

“_Non_, _monsieur_,” says he, with an incredible bad accent.

“_Non_, _monsieur_,” cries Alan, mocking him. “Is that how they learn

you French on the _Seahorse_? Ye muckle, gutsey hash, here’s a Scots

boot to your English hurdies!”

And bounding on him before he could escape, he dealt the man a kick

that laid him on his nose. Then he stood, with a savage smile, and

watched him scramble to his feet and scamper off into the sand-hills.

“But it’s high time I was clear of these empty bents!” said Alan; and

continued his way at top speed, and we still following, to the backdoor

of Bazin’s inn.

It chanced that as we entered by the one door we came face to face with

James More entering by the other.

“Here!” said I to Catriona, “quick! upstairs with you and make your

packets; this is no fit scene for you.”

In the meanwhile James and Alan had met in the midst of the long room.

She passed them close by to reach the stairs; and after she was some

way up I saw her turn and glance at them again, though without pausing.

Indeed, they were worth looking at. Alan wore as they met one of his

best appearances of courtesy and friendliness, yet with something

eminently warlike, so that James smelled danger off the man, as folk

smell fire in a house, and stood prepared for accidents.

Time pressed. Alan’s situation in that solitary place, and his enemies

about him, might have daunted Cæsar. It made no change in him; and it

was in his old spirit of mockery and daffing that he began the

interview.

“A braw good day to ye again, Mr. Drummond,” said he. “What’ll yon

business of yours be just about?”

“Why, the thing being private, and rather of a long story,” says James,

“I think it will keep very well till we have eaten.”

“I’m none so sure of that,” said Alan. “It sticks in my mind it’s

either now or never; for the fact is me and Mr. Balfour here have

gotten a line, and we’re thinking of the road.”

I saw a little surprise in James’s eye; but he held himself stoutly.

“I have but the one word to say to cure you of that,” said he, “and

that is the name of my business.”

“Say it then,” says Alan. “Hout! wha minds for Davie?”

“It is a matter that would make us both rich men,” said James.

“Do you tell me that?” cries Alan.

“I do, sir,” said James. “The plain fact is that it is Cluny’s

Treasure.”

“No!” cried Alan. “Have ye got word of it?”

“I ken the place, Mr. Stewart, and can take you there,” said James.

“This crowns all!” says Alan. “Well, and I’m glad I came to Dunkirk.

And so this was your business, was it? Halvers, I’m thinking?”

“That is the business, sir,” said James.

“Well, well,” said Alan; and then in the same tone of childlike

interest, “it has naething to do with the _Seahorse_, then?” he asked.

“With what?” says James.

“Or the lad that I have just kicked the bottom of behind yon windmill?”

pursued Alan. “Hut, man! have done with your lees! I have Palliser’s

letter here in my pouch. You’re by with it, James More. You can never

show your face again with dacent folk.”

James was taken all aback with it. He stood a second, motionless and

white, then swelled with the living anger.

“Do you talk to me, you bastard?” he roared out.

“Ye glee’d swine!” cried Alan, and hit him a sounding buffet on the

mouth, and the next wink of time their blades clashed together.

At the first sound of the bare steel I instinctively leaped back from

the collision. The next I saw, James parried a thrust so nearly that I

thought him killed; and it lowed up in my mind that this was the girl’s

father, and in a manner almost my own, and I drew and ran in to sever

them.

“Keep back, Davie! Are ye daft! Damn ye, keep back!” roared Alan. “Your

blood be on your ain heid then!”

I beat their blades down twice. I was knocked reeling against the wall;

I was back again betwixt them. They took no heed of me, thrusting at

each other like two furies. I can never think how I avoided being

stabbed myself or stabbing one of these two Rodomonts, and the whole

business turned about me like a piece of a dream; in the midst of which

I heard a great cry from the stair, and Catriona sprang before her

father. In the same moment the point of my sword encountered some thing

yielding. It came back to me reddened. I saw the blood flow on the

girl’s kerchief, and stood sick.

“Will you be killing him before my eyes, and me his daughter after

all!” she cried.

“My dear, I have done with him,” said Alan, and went, and sat on a

table, with his arms crossed and the sword naked in his hand.

Awhile she stood before the man, panting, with big eyes, then swung

suddenly about and faced him.

“Begone!” was her word, “take your shame out of my sight; leave me with

clean folk. I am a daughter of Alpin! Shame of the sons of Alpin,

begone!”

It was said with so much passion as awoke me from the horror of my own

bloodied sword. The two stood facing, she with the red stain on her

kerchief, he white as a rag. I knew him well enough—I knew it must have

pierced him in the quick place of his soul; but he betook himself to a

bravado air.

“Why,” says he, sheathing his sword, though still with a bright eye on

Alan, “if this brawl is over I will but get my portmanteau—”

“There goes no pockmantie out of this place except with me,” says Alan.

“Sir!” cries James.

“James More,” says Alan, “this lady daughter of yours is to marry my

friend Davie, upon the which account I let you pack with a hale

carcase. But take you my advice of it and get that carcase out of

harm’s way or ower late. Little as you suppose it, there are leemits to

my temper.”

“Be damned, sir, but my money’s there!” said James.

“I’m vexed about that, too,” says Alan, with his funny face, “but now,

ye see, it’s mines.” And then with more gravity, “Be you advised, James

More, you leave this house.”

James seemed to cast about for a moment in his mind; but it’s to be

thought he had enough of Alan’s swordsmanship, for he suddenly put off

his hat to us and (with a face like one of the damned) bade us farewell

in a series. With which he was gone.

At the same time a spell was lifted from me.

“Catriona,” I cried, “it was me—it was my sword. O, are you much hurt?”

“I know it, Davie, I am loving you for the pain of it; it was done

defending that bad man, my father. See!” she said, and showed me a

bleeding scratch, “see, you have made a man of me now. I will carry a

wound like an old soldier.”

Joy that she should be so little hurt, and the love of her brave

nature, supported me. I embraced her, I kissed the wound.

“And am I to be out of the kissing, me that never lost a chance?” says

Alan; and putting me aside and taking Catriona by either shoulder, “My

dear,” he said, “you’re a true daughter of Alpin. By all accounts, he

was a very fine man, and he may weel be proud of you. If ever I was to

get married, it’s the marrow of you I would be seeking for a mother to

my sons. And I bear’s a king’s name and speak the truth.”

He said it with a serious heat of admiration that was honey to the

girl, and through her, to me. It seemed to wipe us clean of all James

More’s disgraces. And the next moment he was just himself again.

“And now by your leave, my dawties,” said he, “this is a’ very bonny;

but Alan Breck’ll be a wee thing nearer to the gallows than he’s caring

for; and Dod! I think this is a grand place to be leaving.”

The word recalled us to some wisdom. Alan ran upstairs and returned

with our saddle-bags and James More’s portmanteau; I picked up

Catriona’s bundle where she had dropped it on the stair; and we were

setting forth out of that dangerous house, when Bazin stopped the way

with cries and gesticulations. He had whipped under a table when the

swords were drawn, but now he was as bold as a lion. There was his bill

to be settled, there was a chair broken, Alan had sat among his dinner

things, James More had fled.

“Here,” I cried, “pay yourself,” and flung him down some Lewie d’ors;

for I thought it was no time to be accounting.

He sprang upon that money, and we passed him by, and ran forth into the

open. Upon three sides of the house were seamen hasting and closing in;

a little nearer to us James More waved his hat as if to hurry them; and

right behind him, like some foolish person holding up his hands, were

the sails of the windmill turning.

Alan gave but one glance, and laid himself down to run. He carried a

great weight in James More’s portmanteau; but I think he would as soon

have lost his life as cast away that booty which was his revenge; and

he ran so that I was distressed to follow him, and marvelled and

exulted to see the girl bounding at my side.

As soon as we appeared, they cast off all disguise upon the other side;

and the seamen pursued us with shouts and view-hullohs. We had a start

of some two hundred yards, and they were but bandy-legged tarpaulins

after all, that could not hope to better us at such an exercise. I

suppose they were armed, but did not care to use their pistols on

French ground. And as soon as I perceived that we not only held our

advantage but drew a little away, I began to feel quite easy of the

issue. For all which, it was a hot, brisk bit of work, so long as it

lasted; Dunkirk was still far off; and when we popped over a knowe, and

found a company of the garrison marching on the other side on some

manœuvre, I could very well understand the word that Alan had.

He stopped running at once; and mopping at his brow, “They’re a real

bonny folk, the French nation,” says he.

CONCLUSION

No sooner were we safe within the walls of Dunkirk than we held a very

necessary council-of-war on our position. We had taken a daughter from

her father at the sword’s point; any judge would give her back to him

at once, and by all likelihood clap me and Alan into jail; and though

we had an argument upon our side in Captain Palliser’s letter, neither

Catriona nor I were very keen to be using it in public. Upon all

accounts it seemed the most prudent to carry the girl to Paris to the

hands of her own chieftain, Macgregor of Bohaldie, who would be very

willing to help his kinswoman, on the one hand, and not at all anxious

to dishonour James upon other.

We made but a slow journey of it up, for Catriona was not so good at

the riding as the running, and had scarce sat in the saddle since the

’Forty-five. But we made it out at last, reached Paris early of a

Sabbath morning, and made all speed, under Alan’s guidance, to find

Bohaldie. He was finely lodged, and lived in a good style, having a

pension on the Scots Fund, as well as private means; greeted Catriona

like one of his own house, and seemed altogether very civil and

discreet, but not particularly open. We asked of the news of James

More. “Poor James!” said he, and shook his head and smiled, so that I

thought he knew further than he meant to tell. Then we showed him

Palliser’s letter, and he drew a long face at that.

“Poor James!” said he again. “Well, there are worse folk than James

More, too. But this is dreadful bad. Tut, tut, he must have forgot

himself entirely! This is a most undesirable letter. But, for all that,

gentlemen, I cannot see what we would want to make it public for. It’s

an ill bird that fouls his own nest, and we are all Scots folk and all

Hieland.”

Upon this we all agreed, save perhaps Alan; and still more upon the

question of our marriage, which Bohaldie took in his own hands, as

though there had been no such person as James More, and gave Catriona

away with very pretty manners and agreeable compliments in French. It

was not till all was over, and our healths drunk, that he told us James

was in that city, whither he had preceded us some days, and where he

now lay sick, and like to die. I thought I saw by my wife’s face what

way her inclination pointed.

“And let us go see him, then,” said I.

“If it is your pleasure,” said Catriona. These were early days.

He was lodged in the same quarter of the city with his chief, in a

great house upon a corner; and we were guided up to the garret where he

lay by the sound of Highland piping. It seemed he had just borrowed a

set of them from Bohaldie to amuse his sickness; though he was no such

hand as was his brother Rob, he made good music of the kind; and it was

strange to observe the French folk crowding on the stairs, and some of

them laughing. He lay propped in a pallet. The first look of him I saw

he was upon his last business; and, doubtless, this was a strange place

for him to die in. But even now I find I can scarce dwell upon his end

with patience. Doubtless, Bohaldie had prepared him; he seemed to know

we were married, complimented us on the event, and gave us a

benediction like a patriarch.

“I have been never understood,” said he. “I forgive you both without an

afterthought;” after which he spoke for all the world in his old

manner, was so obliging as to play us a tune or two upon his pipes, and

borrowed a small sum before I left.

I could not trace even a hint of shame in any part of his behaviour;

but he was great upon forgiveness; it seemed always fresh to him. I

think he forgave me every time we met; and when after some four days he

passed away in a kind of odour of affectionate sanctity, I could have

torn my hair out for exasperation. I had him buried; but what to put

upon his tomb was quite beyond me, till at last I considered the date

would look best alone.

I thought it wiser to resign all thoughts of Leyden, where we had

appeared once as brother and sister, and it would certainly look

strange to return in a new character. Scotland would be doing for us;

and thither, after I had recovered that which I had left behind, we

sailed in a Low Country ship.

And now, Miss Barbara Balfour (to set the ladies first), and Mr. Alan

Balfour younger of Shaws, here is the story brought fairly to an end. A

great many of the folk that took a part in it, you will find (if you

think well) that you have seen and spoken with. Alison Hastie in

Limekilns was the lass that rocked your cradle when you were too small

to know of it, and walked abroad with you in the policy when you were

bigger. That very fine great lady that is Miss Barbara’s name-mamma is

no other than the same Miss Grant that made so much a fool of David

Balfour in the house of the Lord Advocate. And I wonder whether you

remember a little, lean, lively gentleman in a scratch-wig and a

wraprascal, that came to Shaws very late of a dark night, and whom you

were awakened out of your beds and brought down to the dining-hall to

be presented to, by the name of Mr. Jamieson? Or has Alan forgotten

what he did at Mr. Jamieson’s request—a most disloyal act—for which, by

the letter of the law, he might be hanged—no less than drinking the

king’s health _across the water_? These were strange doings in a good

Whig house! But Mr. Jamieson is a man privileged, and might set fire to

my corn-barn; and the name they know him by now in France is the

Chevalier Stewart.

As for Davie and Catriona, I shall watch you pretty close in the next

days, and see if you are so bold as to be laughing at papa and mamma.

It is true we were not so wise as we might have been, and made a great

deal of sorrow out of nothing; but you will find as you grow up that

even the artful Miss Barbara, and even the valiant Mr. Alan, will be

not so very much wiser than their parents. For the life of man upon

this world of ours is a funny business. They talk of the angels

weeping; but I think they must more often be holding their sides as

they look on; and there was one thing I determined to do when I began

this long story, and that was to tell out everything as it befell.

Footnotes

[1] Conspicuous.

[2] Country.

[3] The Fairies.

[4] Flatteries.

[5] Trust to.

[6] This must have reference to Dr. Cameron on his first visit.—D. B.

[7] Sweetheart.

[8] Child.

[9] Palm.

[10] Gallows.

[11] My Catechism.

[12] Now Prince’s Street.

[13] A learned folklorist of my acquaintance hereby identifies Alan’s

air. It has been printed (it seems) in Campbell’s _Tales of the West

Highlands_, Vol. II., p. 91. Upon examination it would really seem as

if Miss Grant’s unrhymed doggrel (see Chapter V.) would fit with little

humouring to the notes in question.

[14] A ball placed upon a little mound for convenience of striking.

[15] Patched shoes.

[16] Shoemaker.

[17] Tamson’s mere—to go afoot.

[18] Beard.

[19] Ragged.

[20] Fine things.

[21] Catch.

[22] Victuals.

[23] Trust.

[24] Sea fog.

[25] Bashful.

[26] Rest.