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When Ewen came fully to himself again it was night, the pale Highland summer night; he could not guess the hour. He had not been discovered, then! He lay listening; there was no sound anywhere save the rushing of the river below him, nothing to tell him whether the troopers had returned or no. But now was undoubtedly the time to quit his lair and get back over the bridge and along the short but dangerous stretch of high road, until he could leave it and make for the river Lochy. When he had forded Lochy and was on the other side of the Great Glen he would be safer.

Alas, the next few minutes implanted in him a horrible doubt whether he would ever ford Lochy, seeing that between the swimming head of exhaustion and the twist which he had given his damaged leg in throwing himself off the horse he could scarcely even stand, much less walk. And although the people up at the change-house, almost within call were, unless they had been removed, of a Cameron sept, he dared not risk attracting their attention, for a double reason: soldiers, his own escort or others from Fort William, might very well halt there; and to shelter him would probably in any case be disastrous to the poor folk themselves.

His prospects did not seem too bright. All his hope was that he might feel more vigorous after a little more of this not very comfortable rest. Huddled together on his side under the lee of the boulder, to get what shelter he could from the soft, misty rain which he felt rather than saw, he said a prayer and fell into the sleep of the worn-out.

He was wakened by a strange, sharp noise above him, and the sensation of something warm and damp passing over his face. Stiff and bewildered, he opened his eyes and saw in the now undoubted, though misty daylight, the author of these two phenomena, an agitated sheepdog, of a breed unknown to him. As he raised himself on an elbow the dog gave another excited bark, and immediately darted away up the tree-grown bank.

So numbed and exhausted was the fugitive that it took him a few seconds to realise that he was discovered. But by whom? Not by soldiers, certainly; nor could that be the dog from the change-house. He dragged himself into a sitting posture, got his back against the boulder, pulled the little black knife, his only resource, from his stocking, and waited.

Feet were coming down the steep bank, and soon two men could be seen plunging through the birch and alder, shouting to each other in an unfamiliar accent; in front of them plunged and capered the sheepdog, with its tail held high, and Ewen heard a loud hearty voice saying, “Clivver lass—aye, good bitch th’art indeed! See-ye, yon’s rebel, Jan!” He reflected, “I can kill the dog, but what good would that do me? Moreover I have no wish to.” And as the intelligent creature came bounding right up to him, wagging a friendly tail, and apparently proud of its accomplishment in having found him, he held out his left hand in invitation. The dog sniffed once, and then licked it.

“See thon!” cried the former voice. “Dang it, see Lassie so freendly and all!”

“Yet you had best not come too near!” called Ewen threateningly. “I am armed!” He raised his right hand.

The larger of the men, pushing through an alder bush, instantly lifted a stout cudgel. “If thou harmst t’ bitch—— Coom here, Lassie!”

“No, I will not harm her,” said Ewen, fending off the dog’s demonstrations with his other arm. “But call her off; I owe her no gratitude.”

“For foindin’ thee, thou meanst,” supplied Lassie’s owner. “Aye, thou’st the fellow that gie t’ sogers the slip yesterday; we heerd all aboot thee oop at t’ little hoose yonder. Eh, but thou’rt a reet smart lad!” There was genuine admiration in his tone. “ ’Twere smart ti hide thee here, so near an’ all, ’stead o’ gooin’ ower t’ brig—eh, Jan?”

“Main smart,” agreed the smaller man. “Too smart fur th’ redcoats, Ah lay!”

The smart lad, very grim in the face, and rather grey to boot, sat there against his boulder with the sgian clutched to his breast, point outwards, and eyed the two men with a desperate attention, as they stood a little way higher up amid the tangle of bushes, stones and protruding tree-roots, and looked at him. They had the appearance of well-to-do farmers, particularly the larger, who was a tremendously burly and powerful man with a good-tempered but masterful expression. The smaller was of a more weazened type, and older.

“See-thee, yoong man,” said the burly stranger suddenly, “ ’tis no manner o’ use ti deny that thou’rt one of these danged Highland rebels, seein’ we’s heerd all the tale oop yonder.”

Ewen’s breath came quickly. “But I’ll not be retaken without resistance!”

“Who says we be gooin’ ti taake thee? Happen we’ve summut else ti moind. Coom here, Lassie, wilt thou! Dunnot be so freendly tiv a chap wi’ a knife in his hand!”

“I tell you the dog has nothing to fear from me,” repeated Ewen. “See then!” And on a sudden impulse he planted the sgian in the damp soil beside him and left it sticking there.

“Ah, that’s reet, yoong man—that’s jannock!” exclaimed the large stranger in evident approval and relief. “Happen we can ’ev some clack together noo. Hoo dost thou rackon ti get away fra this tod’s den o’ thine?”

Here, quite suddenly, the little man began to giggle. “He, he! maakes me laugh to think of it—t’ sogers chasing reet away ower t’ brig and Lord knaws wheer beyond! They nivver coom back, so t’ folk oop yonder tells.”

“Aye, a good tale to tell when we gan back ower Tyne,” agreed the large man, shaking gently with a more subdued mirth. And as Ewen, for his part, realised that the reference to Tyne must mean that the strangers were English, though he could not imagine what they were doing in Lochaber, this large one burst into a great rumbling upheaval of laughter, causing the sheepdog to bark in sympathy.

“Quiet, lass!” commanded her master, making a grab at her. “Thy new freend here has no wish for thy noise, Ah’ll lay.” He looked straight at the fugitive sitting there. “Hadn’t thee best get thee gone, lad, before ’tis onny loighter?” he asked.

Was the man playing with him, or was he genuinely friendly? Ewen’s heart gave a great bound. A momentary mist passed before his eyes. When it cleared the large man was stooping over him, a bottle in his hand.

“Thoo’rt nigh clemmed, lad, or ma name’s not Robert Fosdyke. Here’s t’ stuff for thee—reet Nantes. Tak’ a good soop of it!”

The fiery spirit ran like lightning through Ewen’s cramped limbs. “Why . . . why do you treat me so kindly?” he gasped, half stupid between the brandy and astonishment, as he returned the bottle. “You are English, are you not? Why do you not give me up?”

Mr. Fosdyke, who had now seated himself on a large stone near, struck his knee with some vehemence. “Ah’ll tell thee whoy! First, because t’ bitch here foond thee and took ti thee, and thou didna stick yon knife o’ thine intiv her—but Ah’d ’ev driven in thy skool if thou hadst . . . second, because thou’rt a sharp lad and a bold one, too; and last because Ah’ve seen and heerd tell o’ things yonder at Fort Augustus, wheer we went ti buy cattle, that Ah ’evn’t loiked at all. No, Ah didn’t loike what Ah heerd of goings on.—Aye, and foorthly, t’ cattle was woorth danged little when we’d gotten ’em; all t’ best were sold awready.”

Ewen knew what cattle they would be; the one possession of many a poor Highland home, as well as the herds of the gentry. He remembered now having heard that some of the many thousands collected from Lochaber and Badenoch were sold to English and Lowland dealers. Apparently, then, these men were on their way south through Glencoe and Breadalbane with such as they had bought, and now he knew why once or twice during this conversation he had fancied that he heard sounds of lowing at no great distance.

“I wonder if mine are all gone!” he said half to himself.

“Thou hadst cattle of thy own, lad?” enquired Mr. Fosdyke. “If thou canst see onny o’ thine among oors oop there thou shalt have them back again—and that’s none so generous as thou medst think, for there’s some Ah’d as soon give away as drive all t’ waay ower t’ Border.”

Ewen gave a weak laugh. “What should I do with cattle now? I cannot get home myself, much less drive cattle there.”

“And whoy canst thou not get home, when thou’st put summut in thy belly?” asked the Yorkshireman.

Ewen told him why he should find it difficult, if not impossible, and why he dared not go to the change-house either. The farmer pronounced that he was right in the latter course, and then made the astonishing suggestion that ‘Jan Prescott here’ should run up to the house and bring the fugitive something to eat and drink. “Dunnot say who ’tis for, Jan; say Ah’ve a moind ti eat by river, if thou loikes.” And while Jan, with amazing docility, removed the birch twig which he had been twisting between his lips and betook himself up the bank, his companion questioned Ewen further as to the direction of his home.

“T’ other soide of t’ other river? T’ other river’s nobbut a couple of moiles away . . . Tell thee what, lad,” he exclaimed, slapping himself once more, “Ah’ll tak thee as far as t’ river on one of t’ nags. Happen thou canst sit a horse still?”

“Take me there!” Ewen could only stare in amazement.

“Aye. And when thou’st gotten to this river o’ thine, hoo medst thou cross it; happen there’s brig, or ferry?”

“No, there is a ford. The ford by which we all . . .” His voice died away. How long ago it seemed, that elated crossing last August after Glenfinnan!

“And when thou’rt on t’ other soide?” pursued Mr. Fosdyke.

“I’ll reach my home somehow, if I have to crawl there.”

“And who’lt thou foind theer—thy parents?”

“My aunt, who brought me up. My parents are dead.”

“No wife nor childer?”

“My wife is in France.” And why he added, “We were only married two days before parting,” Ewen did not know.

“Poor lad,” said Mr. Fosdyke. “Whoy didstna stop at home loike a wise man?”

Ewen, his head resting against the boulder, said, “That I could not do,” his eyes meanwhile fixed on the form of Mr. Jan Prescott, already descending the slope with a tankard in his hand and two large bannocks clasped to his person. Mr. Fosdyke turned and hailed him, and in another moment Ewen had started upon the bannocks, finding that he was famished, having tasted nothing solid since the halt at Laggan yesterday morning. And while he ate Mr. Robert Fosdyke unfolded his intention to his companion, who raised no objection, except to remark, “Happen thou’lt meet redcoats on t’ road.”

“Ah shall say t’ lad’s a drover o’ mine, then.”

“In yon petticoat thing?” queried Mr. Prescott, pointing at Ewen’s kilt.

“He shall have thy great-coat ti cover him oop.”

“Ah dunno hoo he’ll get intiv it, then,” returned Mr. Prescott. “See-ye, Robert, Ah’d sooner he had a horse blanket than split ma coat.”

“He can have t’ loan of mi coat then,” said Mr. Fosdyke. “He’ll not split that.—Beasts all reet oop there?” he enquired.

“As reet as ivver they’ll be,” returned his partner with gloom.

“Ah knawed as we peed too mooch for them,” growled Mr. Fosdyke in a voice like subterranean thunder. “Goviment notice saays—well, nivver moind what, but ’twere main different fra what t’ cattle were loike. Hooivver, Ah weren’t comin’ all the way fra t’ other soide o’ York for nowt.”

“York?” asked Ewen with his mouth full, since this information seemed addressed to him. “You come from York, sir.”

“Fra near by. Dost thou knaw the toon?”

“No,” said Ewen.

“T’ sogers werena takin’ thee there yistiday?”

“It was Carlisle that I was going to in the end.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Fosdyke comprehendingly. “But some poor devils are setting oot for York, too, we hear. Thou’s best coom along wi’ us.” And giving his great laugh he began to embroider his pleasantry. “Thou doesna loike the notion? Whoy not? York’s a foine toon, Ah can tell thee, and more gates tiv it for setting rebels’ heads on than Carlisle. Ah lay we have a row o’ them ower Micklegate Bar come Christmas. And thou’st not wishful ti add thine?”

Ewen shook the imperilled head in question with a smile.

“No,” agreed Mr. Fosdyke, “best keep it ti lay on t’ pillow besoide thy wife’s. If she’s in France, then thou’rt not a poor man, eh?”

“I am what you call a gentleman,” replied Ewen, “though I expect that I am poor enough now.”

“If thou’rt a gentleman,” pronounced Mr. Fosdyke, “then thou dost reet ti keep away fra York and Carlisle, aye, and fra Lunnon, too.—Noo, Jan, we’ll gan and see aboot t’ nags. Thou medst bide here, lad. Come on, Lassie.”

With tramplings and cracklings they were gone, dog and all, and, but for the yet unfinished food and drink, which were putting new life into Ewen, the whole encounter might have been a dream. As he waited there for their return he wondered whether Alison’s prayers had sent these good angels, which, to his simple and straightforward faith, seemed quite likely.

Presently the larger of the angels came back and helped him along the slope to the scene of his exploit at the bridge. Here was the satellite Jan with two stout nags, a flea-bitten grey and a black. A long and ample coat (certainly not Mr. Prescott’s) was provided for the Jacobite. “If thou wert clothed like a Christian there’d ha’ been no need for this,” said Mr. Fosdyke with frankness as he helped him into it; and then, the difficulty of getting into the saddle surmounted, Ewen found himself half incredulously riding behind the broad back of his benefactor over the brawling Spean, in his hand a stout cattle goad to assist his steps when he should be on his feet again.

In the two miles before they came to the river Lochy they had the luck to meet no one. There the clouds hung so low that the other side of the Great Glen was scarcely visible. When they came to the ford Ewen pulled up and made to dismount. But Mr. Fosdyke caught him by the arm. “Nay, if thou canst scarce walk on land, Ah doot thou’ll walk thruff water! Daisy will tak thee ower. Coom on, mare.”

The two horses splashed placidly through in the mist. On the other side Ewen struggled off, and got out of the coat.

“I cannot possibly recompense you, Mr. Fosdyke,” he began, handing it up to him.

“If thou offer me money,” said Mr. Fosdyke threateningly, “danged if Ah don’t tak thee back ti wheer Ah foond thee!”

“You can be reassured,” said Ewen, smiling, “for I have none. But in any case, money does not pass between gentlemen for a service like this. I only pray God that you will not suffer for it.”

“Ah’d loike ti see the mon that’s going ti mak me,” was the Yorkshireman’s reply. “And Ah feel noo as Ah’ve got even wi’ Goviment in t’ matter of t’ cattle,” he added with immense satisfaction. “And thou think’st me a gentleman? Well, Ah’m nobbut a farmer, but Ah’m mooch obliged ti thee for the compliment.” He shook Ewen’s hand. “Good luck ti thee, ma lad. . . . If thou lived a few hoondred moiles nearer, danged if Ah wouldna gie thee a pup o’ Lassie’s—but thou’rt ower far away, ower far!” He chuckled, caught the bridle of the grey, and the eight hoofs could be heard splashing back through the ford. Then silence settled down again, silence, and the soft folds of mist; and after a moment Ewen, leaning heavily on his goad, began his difficult pilgrimage.

* * * * *

Twenty-four hours later, very nearly at the end of his tether, he was hobbling slowly along the last mile of that distance which ordinarily he could have covered between one meal and the next. So slow and painful had been his progress, and with such frequent halts, that it had been late afternoon before he reached Loch Arkaig. And there he had seen the pitiful charred remains left by vengeance of Lochiel’s house of Achnacarry, almost as dear to him as his own. In that neighbourhood above all others he had feared to come on soldiers, but the Campbells in Government pay who had burnt and ravaged here had long ago done their work, and the place was deserted; there was nothing to guard now, and none against whom to hold it. A poor Cameron woman, whose husband had been shot in cold blood as he was working in his little field, had given Ewen shelter for the night. She told him, what he expected to hear, that the house of Ardroy had been burnt down by a detachment of redcoats; this she knew because the soldiers had returned that way, and she had heard them boasting how they had left the place in flames. Of Miss Cameron’s fate she knew nothing; but then she never saw anyone now that her man was gone; the burnt countryside was nearly depopulated. That Ewen had seen for himself already. And she said with tears, as, thanking her from his soul for her hospitality, he turned away from her door in the morning grey, “Oh Mac ’ic Ailein, for the Chief and the Chief’s kin I’d give the last rag, the last mouthful that’s left to me—but I’m asking God why He ever let Prince Tearlach come to Scotland.” And Ewen had no heart to find an answer.

Against his will the question had haunted him as he hobbled on. Just a year ago he had had the news of that coming; yes, just a year ago he had sat with Alison by the loch and been happy—too happy perhaps. So his father’s house was gone! But all the more was his mind set to reach Ardroy, to find out what had befallen those who had remained behind there: Aunt Margaret first and foremost, the servants, old Angus and his grandchildren, the womenfolk, the fugitives from Drumossie Moor . . . And here at last he was, going incredibly slowly, and accompanied by a dull pain in the thigh which by this time seemed an inseparable part of himself, but come to the spot where, after crossing the Allt Buidhe burn, one used to discern the chimneys of the house of Ardroy between the pines of the avenue. Since he knew that he would never see them thus again, Ewen did not look up, but he thought, as he crossed the burn on the stepping-stones, nearly overbalancing from fatigue, that one thing, at least, would be the same, for not even Cumberland could set fire to Loch na h-Iolaire.

Then, unable for the moment to get farther, he sank down among the welcoming heather for a rest. That, just coming into bloom, was unchanged; ‘thou art the same and thy years shall not fail’—the words floated into his head and out again, as he felt its springy resistance give beneath his body. Then, half lying there, twisting a tuft round and round the fingers of one hand for the pleasure of feeling it again, Ewen let his eyes stray to the spot where his father’s house and his had stood. And so strong were habit and memory that he could see its roof and chimneys still. He put a hand over his eyes to rub away the false sight . . . but when he removed it the chimneys were still there, and from one there floated a wisp of smoke. . . . Trembling, he dragged himself clumsily to his feet.

* * * * *

Like a man who dreams the impossible he stood a little later outside the entrance door of Ardroy. The whole affair was like a dream; for fire had certainly passed upon the house, and yet it was unharmed. The lintel, the sides of the stone porch were blackened with smoke; the ivy was brown and shrivelled, but not even the woodwork was injured. The house seemed occupied; the door stood open as on fine days it was wont to do; but there was not a creature about. Where was Aunt Marget?

Slowly Ewen went over the threshold, feeling the stone and wood like a blind man to make sure that it was real. He could have kissed it—his house that was not burnt after all. The sun was pouring into the long room; there was a meal laid on the table—for Aunt Margaret? Then where was she? The place was very silent. Perhaps—a horrible notion—strangers held Ardroy now, enemies. He would rather it were burnt. . . . But had harm befallen Aunt Margaret? He must find her; shame on him to be thinking first of the house!

He was giddy with hunger and fatigue, but he had no thought of approaching the table; he left the room and, holding very tightly by the rail, went up the stairs. The door of Miss Cameron’s room was a little ajar, so he pushed it gently open, too confused to knock. Where, where was she?

And he stood in the doorway rooted, because, so unexpectedly, everything in that neat, sunny room which he had known from a child was just as he had always known it . . . even to Aunt Margaret herself, sitting there by the window reading a chapter in her big Bible, as she always did before breakfast. The surprise of its usualness after his experiences and his fears almost stunned him, and he remained there motionless, propping himself by the doorpost.

It was odd, however, that Aunt Marget had not heard him, for she had not used to be deaf. The thought came to Ewen that he was perhaps become a ghost without knowing it, and he seriously considered the idea for a second or two. Then he took a cautious step forward.

“Aunt Margaret!”

He was not a ghost! She heard and looked up . . . it was true that her face was almost frightened. . . .

“I have come back!” said Ewen baldly. “May I . . . may I sit on your bed?”

He crashed on to it rather than sat upon it, hitting his head against the post at the bottom, since all at once he could not see very well.

But Aunt Margaret did not scold him; in fact he perceived, after a little, that she was crying as she sat beside him, and attempting, as if he were a child again, to kiss his head where he had struck it. “Oh, Ewen, my boy—my darling, darling boy!”

* * * * *

“Then did that poor woman dream that the house was burnt down?” asked Ewen some quarter of an hour later, gazing at Miss Cameron in perplexity, as she planted before him, ensconced as he was in the easy-chair in her bedroom, the last components of a large repast. For allow him to descend and eat downstairs she would not; indeed, after the first questions and emotions were over, she was for hustling him up to the attics and hiding him there. But, Ewen having announced with great firmness that he was too lame to climb a stair that was little better than a ladder, she compromised on her bedchamber for the moment, and, with Marsali’s assistance, brought up thither the first really satisfying meal which Ewen had seen for more than three months.

In answer to his question she now began to laugh, though her eyes were still moist. “The house was set fire to—in a way. Eat, Eoghain, for you look starving; and you shall hear the tale of its escape.”

Ewen obeyed her and was told the story. But not yet having, so it seemed to him, the full use of his faculties, he was not quite clear how much of the house’s immunity was due to chance, to connivance on the part of the officer commanding the detachment sent to burn it, and to the blandishments of Miss Cameron herself. At any rate, after searching, though not plundering, the house of Ardroy from top to bottom (for whom or what was not quite clear to Ewen, since at that date he was safely a prisoner at Fort Augustus), firing about half the crofts near, collecting what cattle they could lay their hands on, the most having already been sent up into the folds of the mountains, and slaying a dozen or so of Miss Cameron’s hens, they had piled wood against the front of the house, with what intention was obvious. It was a moment of great anguish for Miss Cameron. But the soldiers were almost ready to march ere the fuel was lighted. And as they were setting fire to the pine-branches and the green ash-boughs the officer approached her and said in a low voice, “Madam, I have carried out my instructions—and it is not my fault if this wood is damp. That’s enough, Sergeant; ’twill burn finely. Column, march!”

Directly they were out of sight Miss Cameron and Marsali, the younger maidservants and the old gardener, seizing rakes and brooms and fireirons, had pulled away the thickly smoking but as yet harmless branches. “And then I bethought me, Ewen, that ’twould be proper there should be as much smoke as possible, to convince the world, and especially the redcoats, should they take a look back. A house cannot burn, even in a spot so remote as this, without there being some evidence of it in the air. So we made a great pile of all that stuff at a safe distance from the house—and, my grief, the trouble it was to get it to burn! Most of the day we tended it; and a nasty thick reek it made, and a blaze in the end. That’s how the house was burnt. . . . What ails you, my bairn?”

But this time Ewen was able hastily to dash the back of his hand over his eyes. He could face her, therefore, unashamed, and reaching out for her hand, put his lips to it in silence.