He had completed one of these examinations, and then came to where Kenneth was giving orders.

"Whusht, laddie!" he whispered confidentially.

"Hullo, Tonal', you?"

"Ay! Whusht!"

"Ready to fight, Tonal'?"

"Ay, she'll fecht! she'll fecht for ta auld hame! But whusht, laddie!"

"Eh?" cried Kenneth; "what is it?"

"Stanes, laddie, stanes."

"Stanes! what about 'em?"

"Gin ye—but whusht!—gin ye had aboot sax hundert stanes a' retty on ta toor, she could ding them a' doon on ta caterans' heads."

"Ah, but we might break their heads, Tonal'. No, no; something softer than that. We'll have water."

"Watter? Watter, laddie?" cried the old piper contemptuously. "D'ye want to wash ta enemies o' ta hoose? Stanes,—gran' stanes,—and she'll ding them doon."

"No, no, Tonal'; that will not do."

The old man stood staring in wonder and disgust as Kenneth hurried away; but directly after he caught sight of Max, and, raising his hand and crooking one finger, he morally took the lad into custody as he approached him slowly.

"He will na hearken aboot ta stanes, laddie," whispered the old man mysteriously; "but sneeshing, laddie, sneeshing?"

"He's along with Scoodrach," said Max, pointing toward the dog. "There he goes yonder."

"Na, na, sneeshing—chust a wee pinch."

"Oh no, I have no snuff," said Max.

"Nae sneeshing!" muttered the old man, looking round; "she has nae sneeshing!"

"Hey!" shouted Scoodrach suddenly; "here they come."

Every one hurried to one or other of the openings to look at the approaching enemy, while Tavish stamped savagely on the stones.

"She's askit somebody and she's set 'em richt. She didna aught to be here for hoors and hoors, if she cam' back at a'."

"Never mind, Tavish!" shouted Kenneth; "we'll soon send them to the right-about."

"Hey, ta foe! ta foe!" yelled Tonal', throwing his hands in the air, and yelling at the group about him, before hurrying away and disappearing in the crumbling opening of the corner tower, high up in which he composed his wonderful melodies for the pipes.

"Look at auld Tonal'!" cried Scoodrach; "she's gane into her hole like a mause."

But no one turned to look at Tonal', for the enemy were approaching fast,—eight or nine sturdy-looking men, headed by a fair, round-faced fellow, speckled and splashed with freckles, so that his countenance was quite yellow, out of which peered, from under a pair of rugged sandy brows, two unpleasant-looking red-rimmed eyes, which blinked and peered and searched about as sharply as those of a monkey, waiting for the keeper with his daily quantum of carrot and dessert of nuts.

This man turned for a moment and said something to his followers. Then he took off his flat Tam o' Shanter and gave his head a vicious scratch, which seemed to have the effect of removing a little more of his hair. This, however, was not the fact, only seeming, as his head was bare in patches. Then, replacing his bonnet, he took out a greasy old pocket-book, gave it a slap, and, holding his head on one side like a magpie as he drew out the tuck, he peered in, and took out a piece of folded paper, which he held with his teeth till he had closed and replaced the pocket-book.

Next he took hold of the paper, thrust his hand into his coat tail, pulled out a ragged red cotton handkerchief, and blew his nose.

Max burst into a roar of laughter, in which Kenneth joined, for to both lads the sounding blast which followed suggested that this was the enemy's trumpet summoning them to surrender.

The man stared, and one of his followers touched him on the shoulder.

"They're haeing the laugh at ye, mon," he said.

"Haud yer gab. They'll be laughing the ither side o' the mooth sune."

He walked right up toward the gate, and then started, for Kenneth shouted, "Hallo!" in a sharp, half-menacing way.

"Mr Mackhai at home?" said the man.

"No, he is not. What do you want?"

"Mr Mackhai."

"Well, you can't see him; he's out. I'm his son."

"Then ye'll just come doon and show me the way in."

"You mean the way out."

"Oh no, I don't, my whipper-snapper. Is this the way?"

"No."

"Then which is?" said the man, looking to right and left.

"There is no way in for you," said Kenneth; and a murmur of applause followed the words.

"Look ye here, my lad," said the man, holding out his paper. "D'ye see this?"

"Oh yes, I can see it," cried Kenneth. "Here, Scoody, this gentleman wants a light for his pipe; throw him a box of matches."

"No nonsense, please," cried the man. "I come in the name of the law. Sandy, gang and ope that gate."

"Gin ye gang that gate," roared Tavish, "I'll break the head o' ye."

The man who had stepped forward, started back at this menacing warning, for Tavish suddenly appeared standing up like a giant near the gateway, with something which looked like a great stone in his hand.

"Put that doon, mon," cried the bailiff. "Ye'll be getting into trouble. Now, young sir, come doon and ope the gate, and read this paper. I take possession here in the name of the law."

"All right!" cried Kenneth mockingly. "Take away."

There was a laugh, and Kenneth shouted again,—

"Hi, Grant! you can show him how to take away."

"Are you going to open these gates, sir, and let us in?" cried the bailiff, as soon as a hearty laugh had subsided.

"No."

"Are you going to tell your men to open, then?"

"No, I'm not."

"Do you know that you are resisting the law, young sir?"

"No, but I know I'm resisting you."

"By this paper I have proper warrant to take possession of all here."

"Have you? Well, I don't care what warrant you have. My father's out, and I'm not going to let a set of ragged-looking Southroners come and do what they please in Dunroe."

"I tell you, I have a proper warrant for taking possession."

"Then put it back in your pocket, and come again when my father's at home."

"Look here, me laddie, it'll be a bad day's wark for ye, if ye resist the law."

"You be off, and come again when my father's at home, I tell you."

"I've come a' these lang miles, me laddie, and I'm no' gaeing back wi'out takking possession. Noo, ance mair, will ye open the gates?"

"No."

"Then we must break them in."

"Mind we don't break your head in, then, that's all."

"If ye daur!"

"Oh, we daur. Don't we, Scood?"

"Oh ay," roared the young gillie.

The bailiff walked back to his men, whispered a few orders, and then turned once more to Kenneth, who was standing now well in sight on the crumbling battlements, with Max by his side.

"Noo, my laddie, let's hae a' this bet o' besness settled doucely. Ye'll come doon and open the gates?"

"No surrender!" cried Kenneth.

"Ye'll hae the gates opened?"

"No; so blow your trumpet again. Defiance! There!"

He took a clean aim with a great potato; and the bailiff had to dodge the shot very sharply, to avoid receiving the blow on his cheek.

But the shot was not wasted, for a man behind had it full in the chest, and a shout arose.

"That will do!" cried the bailiff. "You've struck a blow, so you must put up with the consequences. Noo, my lads, come on!"



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

HOW DONALD PLAYED THE WAR MARCH.

The bailiff turned to his men and gave them an order, whose effect was to make them shuffle together.

"You hear me, sir!" cried the bailiff. "You struck the first blow."

"You lie, you bun-faced Southroner!" cried Kenneth. "You made the first blow in that old pocket-handkerchief."

"Will you surrender?"

"No!"

"Then come on, my lads. Forward!"

"Hurray! hurray!" shouted Ken, pointing upwards; and the bailiff and his men stopped and stared with open mouths at the scene.

"Look, Max! Look, Scoody! Hurray! Mackhai! Mackhai!"

A shrill, piercing, cracked old voice echoed the cry from above, and the lads on the crumbling battlements over the gateway, where they stood ready with pails of water for sending down through the machicolations, stood gazing at a tall weird figure in full war-paint, with the front of his bonnet cocked up with its eagle pinion feathers, his grey hair flying in the breeze, his eyes flashing, tartan scarf buckled with his great cairngorm brooch, as old Tonal' climbed slowly into sight, and stood on the narrow ledge of battlement at the very top of the right-hand tower.

"Ta Mackhai!" he yelled. "Ta Mackhai!" and, as he stood there, with scarf and kilt fluttering about his tall, lean old figure, he looked like one of the ancient fighting men of the clan come back from the Middle Ages to battle in defence of his chief.

"Ta Mackhai! Ta Mackhai!" he yelled again, in answer to a tremendous cheer from the party within.

"Come doon, ye auld idgit!" shouted the bailiff.

"Ta Mackhai! Ta Mackhai!" yelled Tonal'; and, raising an old claymore in one hand, his dirk in the other, to the full stretch of his long arms, he shrieked out,—

"Doon wi' ta caterans! Doon wi' ta Lowland loons! Mackhai! Mackhai! Fecht, laddies! fecht! Hech! hech! hech! Hurray!"

"Hech! hech! hech! Hurray!" shouted Kenneth, roaring with laughter. "Fecht, laddies, fecht!"

The weird-looking old piper waved his claymore wildly about his head, and it flashed in the sun; but in his efforts he nearly toppled off the tower headlong down to the front of the castle. He made a snatch at the ancient crenelation, and, to the horror of all, a quantity of the crumbling stone fell with a crash, and, but for a rapid dash backward, two of the bailiffs men would have been crushed.

But, active still as a wild cat, the old man saved himself; and, though one of his legs came right over the front, and he lay on his face for a few moments, he climbed back, stood erect again, planted one foot on the remaining crenele, and raised his flashing broadsword, tore off his bonnet, dashed it down, and, as his thin long grey hair streamed out in the sea breeze, he yelled once more,—

"Mackhai! Mackhai! Fecht, laddies, fecht!"

Then he disappeared.

"He's coming down with his old carving-knife, Maxy," cried Kenneth, wiping the tears from his eyes. "I shall have to go and lock the old chap up, or he'll do some one a mischief."

"Hi, there!" shouted the bailiff; and his voice was the signal for the three dogs to burst into a tremendous trio of barking. "Look here, I give you fair warning. You're resisting the law, and it'll be the worse for you if any one of my men is hurt."

"Come roond and we'll pitch ye all into ta watter!" shouted Scoodrach.

"Yes, come round the other side, you bun-faced looking bailiff!" cried Kenneth; and the defenders uttered a fresh cheer, while Grant in his excitement took off his black coat and white cravat, and rolled up his sleeves, before putting on an apron one of the maids had fetched.

"Hurray, Grant! you look as if you were going to clean the plate," cried Max excitedly.

"I'm going to take care, sir, that that scum does not touch it," said Grant, with dignity. "Well done, laddie!" he added to himself. "I'm beginning to like him after a'."

"Are you going to open this gate?" cried the bailiff, waving his piece of blue paper.

"Yes, when you are gone," cried Kenneth, stooping quickly, picking a potato out of the basket at his feet, and throwing it with such good aim that it struck the bailiff in the chest.

This was the signal for a general discharge, Max and Scoodrach hurling potatoes with all their might at the attacking party, and with more or less good aim.

"Oh, if they'd only come close in ready for the boiling lead!" cried Kenneth.

"Here, Shon!" shouted Max, whose face was crimson with excitement; "more potatoes—I mean cannon balls. Bring up a sack."

"It'll be the worse for you," shouted the bailiff. "Come on, my lads, in with you!"

There was a rush made for the gateway, but a shower of vegetable bullets came now from the whole force of defenders, Tavish throwing two at a time, and Long Shon hitting every shot.

This checked the advance for a moment, and just then old Tonal' reappeared at the front of the tower, with his hair streaming out like the tail of a silvery comet. The old man's face was puffed out and red, for now, in place of his claymore and dirk, he had his pipes in hand.

"Fecht, laddies, fecht!" he yelled; and, in spite of his being such an anachronism, there was something grand now in the wild old figure, as he stood there in full view, from crown to buckled shoon, claymore sheathed, the jewels in his dirk sparkling, and the sun flashing from his eyes as he yelled out, "Ta slogan of ta Mackhai! Mackhai! Mackhai!"

"Oh, do hold me, Maxy, or I shall go overboard," cried Kenneth, as he held his sides and roared with laughter, for the old retainer sent forth a tremendous blast from his pipes, which came echoing back from the walls within, as he marched up and down at the front of the crumbling tower about eight steps each way, blowing with all his might, his efforts being responded to by fresh cheers from the little garrison.

"Hurrah! Hech! Hurrah!" cried Tavish, who was infected by the excitement and the national music. "Hey, but we will fecht, Maister Ken! we'll die for ye. Oh, it's crand—it's crand!"

"Fecht, then, all o' ye," cried Kenneth, taking up the broad dialect; and then roaring to those in the yard, "You girls, bring up everything you can. Never mind what it is—anything we can throw."

A shrill scream of delight came from within, and, as the dogs barked furiously, the old piper still stamped up and down and played the war march of the Clan Mackhai.

"Don't stand glowering at that owd gowk," cried the bailiff. "Come on!"

The men murmured, and held back, as the ammunition kept flying, and they had to dodge the missiles, some of the younger men catching the potatoes and throwing them back.

"Stop that, some of ye," cried the bailiff. "Ye're no' playing crecket. Noo then, forward!"

This time his followers obeyed, and they made a rush, to be received by a tremendous volley, which produced first blood, Scoodrach having sent a big Dalmahoy or a Scotch Regent—this is a doubtful point in the chronicle of the attack and defence of Dunroe—and hit one of the bailiff's men full in the nose, one of Max's shots taking effect at the same time in a man's eye, and the first of the wounded staggered back to the hospital ambulance; in other words, he bolted down the rocks to the water's edge and began to bathe his face.

Another shout, though, from the bailiff, and the assaulting party charged home right up to the gateway, and began to thunder and thrust at the crumbling old gates, which were, however, held fast by the wooden props and stones.

"We can't get through here," grumbled one man. "Is there no other way?"

"No, not without a latter," said another.

"Then let's fetch a latter."

"No, no; push all together, and down the gates will go. They can't hit us here."

Squish, splash, wash, came down a perfect torrent of water through the machicolations, as what Kenneth called "the boiling lead" was brought to bear through the openings left by the old architect for the defence of the gate.

"No, no, no; don't rin!" cried the bailiff; "it's only watter."

Plosh!

Half a pailful poured down by Max came full upon the speaker's head, and he turned and headed the stampede, amidst the roars of laughter of the defenders.

"Yah! it's a' doon me back—it's a' doon me back," snarled the bailiff, stamping with fury, as he dashed the water out of his hat, and wrung his clothes, to the great delight of his men as well.

"Ye shall a' pay for this!" he shouted, as he waved the wet paper he held. "Ye'll know ye're reseesting the law."

"Come and have another shower-bath!" cried Max.

"Yes, you want it!" roared Kenneth. "Bring some more ammunition. Hi, Tonal', play up, auld mon!"

"Fecht, laddies, fecht!" shouted back the old piper, as he took the piece from his lips for a moment.

"Yes, we'll fecht!" cried Kenneth.

"Gin ye come here, ye togs, she'll slit a' yer weams!" yelled Scoodrach excitedly; and then there was a pause, for the bailiff was holding a consultation, and then he pointed down to the beach.

"What's he pointing at?" said Kenneth, as his followers placed fresh ammunition—the wet and the dry—ready.

"I know," cried Max. "That old bit of a mast."

"What, the broken topmast of the wreck?"

"Yes. They're going to fetch it, and make a battering-ram to knock down the gate."

"Then we'll half drown the beggars," cried Kenneth. "More water here! Cookie, let's have some hot."

"Hey, but ye shall have sax pots fu', Maister Kenneth," cried the woman, and in a very short time, as the bailiffs men went down to get the old spar, six kettles and saucepans of boiling water were brought up into the old broken gateway tower.

"Pour it into the pails, and soften it down, Maxy. We mustn't give it to 'em too hot," cried Kenneth.

"How much cold shall I put?"

"Half and half; that'll suit 'em. Shall I give 'em some whisky and sugar with it, Grant?"

"Nay, nay," cried the old butler; "and don't make it too cold, or there'll be no sting in it to frighten 'em."

"Now then, girls," cried Kenneth, "bring them along."

Everybody worked with a will, and plenty of missiles were carried up the broken stone stairs and stored ready, Max making himself so busy, and growing so excited, that Tavish patted him on the shoulder.

"Hey," he said softly, "'twas a gran' petty she were born so far sooth."

As for Scoodrach, he grew quite friendly, and grinned hugely at the way in which Max took to the defence.

"It's a rare game, isn't it, Maxy?" cried Kenneth, in the temporary lull of the attack.

"Game! I never enjoyed anything so much in my life. Shall we beat them off?"

"Shall she peat 'em off!" cried Tavish fiercely. "She wull peat 'em off! D'ye think ta children of ta Mackhai will let ta thieves come past ta gates?"

"Hurray!" cried Kenneth; and Scoodrach tossed up his bonnet as he shouted, and then nearly tumbled off the battlements as he tried to catch the cap, and stood scratching his curly red head as the woollen-tufted covering fell below.

"Hullo, Scood!" cried Max.

"It ton't matter," cried the gillie; "she can fecht petter withoot a ponnet."

"Look at old Donald," whispered Max.

The pipes had ceased, and they looked up, to see the old man stooping in a striking attitude, bareheaded and with his right hand shading his eyes, one knee resting on the corner crenele of the tower, his left arm grasping his pipes, while he watched the movements of the bailiff's men, as they now began to lift the spar on to their shoulders.

"Be quite ready for them when they come," cried Kenneth, after a hearty laugh at the old family retainer.

"Oh ay," said Scood, "we'll pe retty;" and, with a queer look, he drew a sgian-dhu from his belt.

"Ah, none of that, Scoody!" cried Kenneth. "Give me that knife."

"Nay; she wants it for ta togs when ta gate's knockit down."

"No, you don't. Here, Max, take away that knife."

"Nay, she will na give it up," growled Scoody menacingly; and his face grew dark as Max seized his wrist and took the knife.

"Ye daurna do that if ta young chief wasna here," he said angrily.

"Yes, I dare," cried Max, turning away, and giving Kenneth the knife, which he jerked over his shoulder into the courtyard.

At that moment the pipes struck up again, "The Campbells are coming," and old Tonal' recommenced his short march to and fro, for the bailiffs gang, after shouldering the old spar, were in full march up the steep slope towards the gateway, and as they approached they gave a triumphant cheer.

"Now, once more," cried the bailiff: "where's Mr Mackhai?"

"What do you mean with your 'once more'? You never asked that before."

"Never you mind about that, my lad; and you'll find yourself in prison for this day's work. Where's Mr Mackhai?"

"Gone to Inverness, ugly," cried Kenneth derisively.

"Then you've got to give up this place to me quietly, under an—"

Bang!

"Who threw that potato?"

"I did," cried Max, laughing at the success of his aim, and his shot was followed by a shower which disorganised the enemy so that they ducked and dodged, and ended by dropping the old spar, from which all leaped, so as to save their toes.

"Pick it up, you great fools," roared the bailiff angrily. "And you look here," he cried, shaking the paper: "all the proper legal forms have been gone through, and this is an eviction order at the suit of— Hang them! how they can throw!" cried the man angrily, as a fresh missile struck him on the cheek.

"Fecht, laddies, fecht!" yelled Tonal', stopping for a moment to shout, and then blowing again with all his might.

"You'd better go and pull that old madman down," cried the bailiff. "Now, once for all," he continued, shaking the paper, "will you surrender?"

"No!" shouted Kenneth.

"No!" yelled Scoodrach; "she'll fecht till she ties. Come on!"

"All right," said the bailiff, turning to his men, who had once more got the spar on their shoulders. "No, no," he said; "half of you get one side, half the other, and swing it by your hands. Keep step, and run with it against the gate. The rotten old wood will fly like tinder."

The men obeyed, got the spar, which was about twenty feet long, well swung between them, and stood ready.

"Now, when I say 'go!'" cried the bailiff, "off with you at a good run, down with the gate, and rush in. I shall be close behind. Ready? Go!"

The men started, but they did not keep step, and before they had reached the gate, not only were they in confusion, but, amidst the shrieking of the pipes and the shouts and cheers of the defenders, they were met by such a storm of missiles, that, after bearing up against it for a few moments, they again dropped the great spar, and ran back.

This movement was the signal for a roar of derisive cheers, the boys indulging in quite a war-dance, which was ended by Scoodrach standing on his head upon one of the creneles, as a sign of his contempt for the enemy.

It was a dangerous feat, and he would have overbalanced himself, had not his father caught hold of one of his legs and dragged him back.

"What are ye gaun to dae?" he growled.

"Here, Scood, go and fetch the dining-room—no, you go, Grant—the table-cover, and that old long spear out of the hall."

The old butler smiled grimly, and began to descend from the broken rampart to the courtyard.

"What are you going to do, Ken?" asked Max.

"Hoist our colours. I'll let them see whether we're going to surrender."

"Want any more hot watter, Maister Ken?" cried the cook.

"Yes, to be sure—coppersful. Bring it along."

For the first time in Kenneth's recollection he saw the butler run, and in a few minutes he was back, with a red table-cover and a rusty-headed old lance.

"That's right! I'll show 'em!" cried Kenneth, as he tied two corners to the lance shaft; and, amidst fresh cheering, this was stuck in a corner and fixed in position with stones, so that the colours flew out triumphantly.

"Now then, come on!" shouted Kenneth, and a roar of defiance was uttered by the garrison, as the bailiff led back his men, making them pick up the battering-ram, and organising them for a fresh attack.

"A set o' cooards!" he exclaimed; "I'm ashamed o' ye."

"Weel, ye rin too," grumbled one of the men.

"Haud yer clack," cried the bailiff. "Noo then—go!"

There was another rush, and another shower of missiles as effective as the last; but this time the men charged on, and gave a moderately effective thump on the great gate; but it was not delivered all together and with a will, for, although a little desperate, the attacking party could not help dodging the potatoes which came thudding against them, and they were confused by the shouts, yells, and the shrieking of the pipes.

But they delivered another stroke, and another, as Tonald yelled again,—

"Fecht, lads, fecht!" and then blew and stamped up and down in a wonderful state of excitement.

Hot water was poured down, potatoes, pails, pots of earthenware flew, and came down with a crash like exploding shells, and the excitement had nearly reached its height, when, in the midst of the storm of missiles thrown, the gate began to yield beneath the blows, and Kenneth was about to shout to his followers to run down and fight inside the gate, whose defenders now were the dogs alone, who barked and growled savagely at every blow.

"Don't be beaten, lads; never mind their throwing. Keep it up," cried the bailiff. "Never mind that. Go on. Another, and another, and down she comes."

Bopp!

But it was not the gate. There was a loud explosion—quite a heavy, echoing report, but the way was not open to the bailiff's men, and the occupants of Dunroe were not to be evicted that day.

For the attacking party suddenly ceased their efforts, to stand gazing in awe at something which had happened, and then they turned and fled.

Just when the wild confusion was at its height, and attackers and defenders were wild with excitement, the battering-ram threatening, the gates cracking, missiles flying, and both parties shouting with all their might, Donald Dhu was blowing his best, stamping up and down, gazing wildly at the participators in the fray, when in his excitement he stepped upon a loose stone near the edge of the tower, where the crenelation was broken away, slipped, and went headlong down, to fall in a sitting position, and cause the loud report that startled all.

"Oh, poor old Donald! he's killed!" cried Kenneth, with a cry of anguish, as all the fun of the defence passed away, and he saw himself face to face with a tragedy, whose occurrence had paralysed every one present; the sight of the falling man and the report being followed by a dead silence, which affected even the dogs.

But, to the astonishment of all, the old man suddenly sprang up, clapped his hand to his side, and whirled out his claymore from its sheath.

"Fecht, laddies, fecht!" he yelled, as he waved the flashing blade above his head. "Doon wi' t' enemies o' ta Mackhai!"

Uttering these last words as if they were a war-cry, he dashed at the bailiff, who stared wildly at the weird-looking old Highlander for a moment, and then, with his men, he turned and fled, the whole party retreating as hard as they could go.

"Hurray!" shouted Kenneth, and a burst of cheers followed, all shouting frantically as they saw old Tonal' in full pursuit.

Full pursuit?

He only went about half a dozen yards; then he limped, then he stopped short, and then he turned slowly, making his sword a walking-stick, as the gates were thrown open, and the dogs dashed out, barking savagely, and took up the pursuit, adding wings to the flight of the bailiffs men. These ran the harder as they saw the light cavalry let loose, in the shape of Bruce, followed at a distance by the heavies, as represented by Dirk, who could not go so fast, and with the infantry in support in the ragged person of Sneeshing, who hindered his advance by keeping on firing shots.

The rest of the garrison poured forth, led by Kenneth, closely followed by Max and Scood, the former running up to old Donald, who came limping on.

"Are you much hurt, old man?" cried Kenneth, taking one arm.

"Ta togs! I'd ha' slit the weam o' ivery ane!" panted the piper.

"But are you much hurt? Anything broken?"

"Proken, dear laddie, son o' my sin auld Chief—proken all to pits. Didna ye hear ta clash?"

"Let's carry him in," cried Max.

"Na, na, my bonnie Southron chiel'," said the old man, smiling at Max. "Na, na, she can walk; put, Maister Crant, she could tak' chust a tram o' Talisker or Clen Nevis, for she's a pit shakken wi' coming town sae quick."

The lads helped the old man toward the gateway while Grant ran off eagerly enough for the whisky.

"Scoody, fetch a chair," cried Max.

"Lat her carry the auld man in," said Tavish.

"Na, na, let her pe. I want to see 'em—I want to see 'em," cried the old man, waving them off impatiently; and he limped to where his instrument, with the green baize bag and pennoned ivory-tipped pipes, lay on the ground.

"Oh tear! wae's me!" he moaned, as he stooped down and picked up the instrument. "Put ta enemies o' ta Mackhai listened to ta pibroch, and she turned and fled; put," he added, looking round piteously, "it was a pran new pahg, it was a pran new pahg."

"What!" cried Kenneth and Max, as a light struck in upon them, and the circle of sympathisers pressed round; "is the bag burst?"

"Purst!" groaned Tonal' mournfully; "ant I tried so hart to haud her up, but she couldna dae it, and come doon setting on ta pran new skin. Tidn't she hear her co pang?"



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

"SUIT OF ANDREW BLANDE."

A shriek of hearty laughter rose as poor Tonal's naive question was heard, and the old man tucked his pipes under his arm, and then took hold of the sheath and raised his claymore to return it to its peaceful state; but, as he raised the glistening basket-hilt to the full length of his stretch, it fell from his grasp with a clang upon the stones; the old man's eyes closed, and he would have fallen, had not Max thrown his arm about his waist.

"Oh, Donald, old man!" cried Kenneth piteously; "I wouldn't have laughed if I had known."

"Whisht, laddie!" said Tavish. "Lat me tak' him;" and, raising the old man in his arms, he bore him through the gates and into the servants' quarters. Here he was laid upon a bed, and the whisky Grant had brought applied to his lips.

"Oh, if we only had Mr Curzon here!" whispered Max.

"Nay, laddie, we dinna want him," said Tavish. "There's naething proken but ta pipes—nae banes. He's a bit shakkit i' ta pack. It's a coot way doon."

Just then the old man revived and looked round wonderingly, and his eyes flashed directly, as there was a loud barking again from the dogs.

"Dinna ye hear?" he cried; "dinna ye hear? Ta enemy of ta Mackhai!"

"Tavish! Scoody!" cried Kenneth excitedly. "Come on!"

"Na," said Scoodrach, grinning; "it's naething but ta togs."

"But the gates! the gates!"

"She shut 'em up chust noo, and it's ta togs that canna get in."

A watch was kept as soon as the old man had been ministered to, and Tavish seemed to be right: Donald had been terribly shaken, but no bones were broken. He displayed a good deal of solicitude at one minute, though, and looked round wildly.

"What is it, Tonal'?" said Kenneth, taking his hand.

"Gude laddie," he replied,—"gude laddie; but ta pipes—ta pipes!"

"You shall have a new set," cried Kenneth.

"Yes; I'll buy him a set," cried Max.

"Na, na. T'auld pipe is ta best. Lat 'em lay 'em here."

"Here?" said Kenneth inquiringly.

"Yes, laddie, here."

The old man's whim was gratified, and he dropped off to sleep with his arm round his instrument, cuddling it up to him on the pillow as if it had been a darling child.

Donald was left to sleep; and, under Kenneth's orders, all hands were set to work to clear away the traces of the fight, while Scoodrach was sent out to scout and bring back tidings of the whereabouts of the enemy.

The young gillie had recovered his sgian-dhu from where it had been thrown by Kenneth, and he ran off with alacrity, delighted with his task; while baskets and maunds were brought, and amidst plenty of hearty laughter the potatoes were gathered up, the women entering into the task heart and soul.

But, like Humpty Dumpty, the various earthenware pots that had fallen from the wall, even with the aid of all the king's horses and men, could not have been put together again, so Long Shon gathered the sherds into a basket, throwing one load into the sea, and coming back for another.

"I say, look here, Tavvy," cried Kenneth very innocently, after hurling a potato with magnificent aim at Max's back, and completely ignoring his inquiring gaze as the visitor turned round.

"Tid she call me?"

"Yes; we must have this old spar out of the way, for they may come back and have better luck next time."

"Hey, but they wadna daur come back," cried Tavish.

"I don't know, Tavvy. Anyhow, we'll have the spar where they can't get it. Where shall we put it?"

"She'd better pit it inside ta castle," said Tavish.

"Well, we'll all help you carry it. You'll help, Max?"

"Oh yes, I'll help," replied Max, offering the potato to Kenneth. "Do you want to throw this at any one else?"

"Eh? No. Yes, I do. I'll keep it for the bailiffs. I say, though, this is a rum game. Those people can't have any right to come like that."

"I don't know for certain," said Max; "but I'm afraid they have—if—"

He stopped short, for Kenneth flushed up.

"Oh, come, Maxy, that's too bad. Don't insult my father by saying things in that underhanded way. My father doesn't owe money, I'm sure."

Max felt uncomfortable, for he had an undefined feeling that there was something very wrong, but it was all misty and confused.

"I didn't want to hurt your feelings, Ken," he said.

"Then you shouldn't. There, never mind. Hi, Long Shon, come and help carry this old spar."

"She ton't want any one to help her carry ta bit o' wud," said Tavish contemptuously. "She could pitch it like ta caber."

He raised himself to his full height, as he strode towards the gateway where the spar lay. Then, stooping down, he lifted one end and rested it upon his shoulder, after which he kept on hitching it up and getting farther under till he had reached the middle, when he grasped it with both hands firmly, took a step back, and the far end rose slowly from the ground, the spar swaying in equilibrium slowly up and down as the great fellow stood firm till it was at rest, and perfectly horizontal, when he strode slowly and steadily toward the gate and went through into the yard.

"There, Maxy, talk about a Samson!" cried Kenneth; "what do you think of that?"

"I'd give something to be as strong," said Max, as he ran into the courtyard, followed by Kenneth, the two boys applauding loudly as Tavish gave himself a jerk, leaped aside, and the spar fell with a clang which echoed from the ruined walls.

"She's chust a wee pit heavy, Maister Ken," said Tavish, passing his arm across his brow, "and she wadna like to carry ta pit o' wood to Falkirk."

"Ta Chief—ta Chief!" shouted Scoodrach, coming running in through the gate.

"What! my father?" cried Kenneth, flushing up. "I say, Maxy, what will he say? Where is he, Scoody?"

"Chust here on ta pony," whispered the lad, with his eyes wide; and he looked round for a way to escape, as if he had a pricking of conscience as to what had been going on.

"Take the pony and rub him down. I've ridden hard. Where's Mr Kenneth?" came from outside.

The voice sounded very harsh and stern, so much so that Kenneth shrank from meeting him, but it was only for a moment.

"I'm here, father," he cried, and he went out, followed closely by Max,—who felt that he had no business to go, but that if he stayed back, it would be like leaving his friend in the lurch.

"Oh, there you are—both of you," said The Mackhai sternly; and Max noted that he was deadly pale, while the veins in his temples were swollen, and looked like a network right round to the front of his brow.

"Yes, father, here we are—both of us," said Kenneth, unconsciously repeating his father's form of expression.

"Then perhaps, sir, you will explain to me what is the meaning of that piece of tomfoolery?"

The Mackhai was evidently greatly agitated, and fighting down his anger, as he spoke in a cold, cutting tone, and pointed upward to the ruined battlements.

Kenneth and Max had both forgotten it till they glanced up, and saw the dining-room table-cover floating from the spear staff in the wind.

"That, father?" cried Kenneth, forcing a laugh, while Max felt a strange desire to beat a retreat; "that's the banner of the Mackhais."

"No fooling, sir, at a time like this," cried The Mackhai, so fiercely that his son turned pale. "And now please explain what's all this I have just learned on the way, about a party of men coming here, and there being a desperate fight. Is this true?"

"Well, there has been a fight, father. I don't know about desperate."

"Not desperate, sir! when I found two men on the road, one bruised and battered about so that he can't see out of his eyes, and his face all blood-smeared, while the other is lamed, and can hardly walk."

"Well, sir," said Kenneth boldly, "a pack of scoundrels came here with a cock-and-bull story about taking possession of Dunroe; and as you were out, and I knew it must be some trick, I called our people together, shut the gates, set them at defiance, and—there was a fight, and we beat 'em off."

A flush of pride came across The Mackhai's face, and a bright look fell upon his son, but they passed away directly, and he continued, with lowering brow.

"And you have done this, sir?" he said sternly; "and you," he added, turning sharply upon Max,—"you knew better than this stupid country boor of a boy. Why didn't you stop him?"

"I did not think of doing so, sir," said Max, hesitating; and then, speaking out firmly, "I helped him, and did my best to beat the people off. I'm afraid I was worse than he."

"What?" cried The Mackhai; "you did?"

"Yes, sir, I did."

The Mackhai burst into a wild, discordant laugh.

"You did?" he repeated mockingly. "You helped to beat off these scoundrels of the law?"

"Yes, sir."

Kenneth flushed, for it seemed to him that his father was casting a doubt on his friend's pluck.

"Yes, father, that he did; and no fellow could have fought better."

"This is most delicious!" cried The Mackhai mockingly. "You, Maximilian Blande, fought with all your might to defend my home from these people?"

"I thought the property of the gentleman who had been very kind to me was in danger, sir, and I helped his son with all my might," said Max warmly. "I'm sorry if I've done wrong. Don't be angry with Kenneth, sir. I'm sure he meant to do what was right."

"Right!" cried the Mackhai. "You young idiots, you don't know what you've done,—you do not, Kenneth. As for you, you young viper, are you as cunning as you are high, or is this childishness and—"

"Mackhai! Mackhai!" yelled Scoodrach, coming tearing into the courtyard from the house. "Maister Maister Ken, Maister Max, ta deevils have been and cot ta poat, and they've landed on ta rocks, and got into ta house."

"What!" cried Kenneth excitedly. "Come on, father. Oh, why didn't I put a sentry there?"

Taken in the rear, the boy felt, and, forgetful of his father's words, he was about to rush away to the defence, when, paler than ever, his father clapped his hand upon his shoulder.

"Stop!" he cried; and he drew himself up to his full height, as there were the sounds of feet from within, and the bailiff came through the inner archway of the castle, to stand among the ruins of old Dunroe, to proclaim the ruin of the new.

"Mr Mackhai," he said sharply, as he presented a slip of paper, "in the Queen's name I take possession here—suit of Mr Andrew Blande, Lincoln's Inn, London."

"What!" cried Max, whose jaw dropped as he grasped the state of affairs. "It is a lie! my father would not do such a thing."

"Your cursed father, sir, would do anything that is mean and base—even to sending you down here to be a spy upon us, till he could tie the last knot in the miserable net he has thrown around me."

"Oh, Max!" cried Kenneth, as his face flushed, and then turned pale.

"Be a man, my boy," said his father sternly. "Recollect that you are a Mackhai. Let this legal robber take all; let him and his son enjoy their prize. Ken, my boy, my folly has made a beggar of you. I have lost all now, but one thing. I am still a gentleman of a good old race. He cannot rob me of that. Come."

He walked proudly through the archway into the house with his son, and the rest followed, leaving Max Blande standing alone in the old courtyard, staring wildly before him, till he started as if stung. For all at once a jackdaw on the inner part of one of the towers uttered what sounded to him a mocking, jeering—

Tah!



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

MAX ASKS THE WAY TO GLASGOW.

"And does everything go to him, father?" said Kenneth that same evening, as he sat with his father in the study, the table covered with papers, and the wind from off the sea seeming to sigh mournfully around the place.

"Everything, my boy. Mortgage upon mortgage, interest and principal, built up and increasing year by year, till it has come to this. There, you do not understand these things. It is the worst."

"Yes, father. Well, we must meet it, as you say, like men. But it will be very hard to leave the old place. Poor old Scoody, and Tavish, and—"

"Don't talk about it, my boy, or you'll drive me mad. There, the horror has come, and it's over. We shall not be able to leave here yet for a month, perhaps. The man Blande has sent me a letter. I am not to hurry away; now he has asserted his rights, he says he wishes to be courteous to the man who has behaved so well to his son. Hah! where is Max?"

"In his room, I suppose, father."

"Fetch him down, Ken," said The Mackhai cheerfully, "and let me apologise to the poor boy. I insulted him grossly, for he couldn't have known why he was sent down here."

"Say that again, father!" cried Kenneth excitedly.

"There is no need, my boy. I am sure he must have been in profound ignorance of everything. It was a bitter blow when he was sent down uninvited; but I think we have behaved well to him till now."

"You don't know how glad you have made me feel, father!" cried Kenneth, flushing. "I couldn't have borne for poor old Max to have turned out a miserable spy."

"You like this boy, then?"

"Like him, father! Why, he is the best of fellows! When he came down here first, I laughed at him, and thought him the most silly molly of a chap I ever met. But he's so good-hearted and patient, and takes everything so well, and all the time so genuinely plucky as soon as he makes up his mind to face anything, that you can't help liking him."

"Yes; I like him too," said The Mackhai; "and, as I said, I grossly insulted the poor boy in my rage. Fetch him down, Ken, and I'll ask him to forgive me—like a gentleman."

"And he will, father—I know he will!" cried Kenneth eagerly.

"Why, Ken, my boy," said his father sadly, "you are not jealous of the new prince—the heir to Dunroe?"

"No, father," said Ken, shaking his head sadly. "I think he likes me too. Some day, perhaps, he may ask me to come down here and stay with him, and see the old place once more."

"No," said The Mackhai sternly. "You can never enter this place again except as the master, my boy. Fetch Mr Max Blande down."

Kenneth gazed for a moment sadly at his father, and then slowly left the room, when the stern look left the unfortunate man's face, and he dropped his head upon his hands.

"My poor boy!" he groaned. "My poor boy! Ruined! and by me!"

It was as if a responsive moan echoed round the house as a gust of wind came off the sea, and, starting and looking wildly round, The Mackhai rose and gazed out upon the dark sea and the dimly-seen black clouds scudding across the gloomy sky.

"It will be a bad night," he said sadly. "Ah, well, I must bear it like a man! Let's see if I can eat some dinner."

He crossed to the bell and rang.

The old butler answered the summons at once.

"Let us have the dinner at once, Grant."

"Yes, sir. Everything is quite ready, sir," said the old butler, with his eyes full of sympathy for his master in his time of trouble.

"Are those—those people in the kitchen, Grant?"

"Yes, sir."

"Treat them respectfully and well, Grant. I wish it to be so."

"Yes, sir."

The butler was retiring, when Kenneth's step was heard coming hastily along, and, as he burst into the room,—

"Father," he cried, "he's gone!"

"Gone?"

"Yes. Max has gone."

"Gone? Impossible! Where could he have gone?"

"Scoodrach saw him go, hours ago, right up the track; and he watched him till he saw him disappear."

"What! across the mountain—alone?"

"Yes, father," cried Kenneth excitedly.

"But walking—to be overtaken by a night like this—the precipices—the bogs! Good heavens, Kenneth! he could not have been so mad!"

"He asked Scood if Glasgow did not lie out there," said Kenneth hoarsely; "and he told him, yes."

"He told him that? The young scoundrel! Why?"

The Mackhai ran to the bell, tore at it, and Grant came.

"Is Scoodrach anywhere here?"

"Yes, sir; in the kitchen."

"Send him here."

There was utter silence in the room for a few minutes, and then the young gillie was ushered in.

"Stop, Grant, you need not go," cried The Mackhai. "Now, sir," he said to Scoodrach, "did you tell Mr Max Blande that over the mountains was the way to Glasgow?"

"She said was tat ta wa' to Glasgie, and she said, 'Oh ay.'"

"And you let that poor boy go out over the mountain to lose himself among the rocks and moss, knowing that he could not find his way?"

"Oh ay!" said Scoodrach coolly.

"And that he might lose his life?"

"Oh ay."

"You young villain! how dared you do this? You've murdered him, perhaps."

"Oh ay; she hopes she has."

"What!" roared The Mackhai. "You did it on purpose, then?"

"Ay," cried Scoodrach, flashing up, and, dashing the bonnet he held defiantly on the carpet, he stamped upon it. "And she'd kill any mon who tried to rob ta bonnie young Chief Kenneth of her rights!"



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

LOST IN THE MOUNTAINS.

It was in a dull, half-stunned way that Max walked straight out through the castle gate, and away down the rocky slope toward the shores of the little bay.

"Is it all true?" he asked himself. "Is it all true?" And then drearily he kept on muttering, "I can't stay here now—I can't stay here now."

He had walked on for about a mile, when he turned to look back for a farewell glance at the castle, when he found Scoodrach close at his heels, glaring at him in a peculiar way, which slightly startled Max, but he returned the gaze boldly, and then, with a confused idea of walking on till he could reach some inn, when there was nothing of the kind for forty or fifty miles, he asked the young gillie if that was the way for Glasgow.

Scoodrach's face lit up with satisfaction as he said it was; and, when Max went right on, the Highland lad stopped back watching him for a time, and then, laughing silently to himself, returned to stand in the shadow and glare at the bailiff and his men; while Max trudged on, with the sense of being mentally stunned increasing, but not so rapidly as the growing feeling of misery and shame within his breast.

Rocky path, moist sheep-track, steep climb, sharp descent into boggy hollow; then up over a hill, with a glance at the sunny sea; and then on and on, in and out among the everlasting hills, which lapped fold upon fold, all grey crag and heather, and one valley so like another, and the ins and outs and turns so many, that, but for the light in the west, it would have been hard to tell the direction in which he tramped on and on, as near as he could divine straight away for Glasgow and the south.

"I must get home," he muttered dreamily, as he tramped on. "Oh, the shame of it!" he burst out. "Father! father! how could you do such a thing as this?"

There was a wild cry close at hand, and a curlew rose, and then a flock of lapwings, to flit round and round, uttering their peevish calls; but Max saw nothing but the scene at the castle, heard nothing but The Mackhai's bitter words, and he tramped onward and onward into the wilderness of mountain and moss, onward into the night.

There are people who would laugh at the idea of an active lad being lost in the mountains. To them it seems, as they travel comfortably along by rail or coach, impossible that any one could go perilously astray among "those little hills."

Let them try it, and discover their ignorance, as they learn the immensity of the wild spaces in Scotland and Wales, and how valley succeeds valley, hill comes down to hill, with so great a resemblance one to the other, that in a short time the brain is overwhelmed by a mist of confusion, and that greatest of horrors,—one not known, fortunately, to many,—the horror of feeling lost, robs the sufferer of power to act calmly and consistently, and he goes farther and farther astray, and often into perils which may end in death.

Max Blande wandered on, looking inward nearly all the time, and backward at the scenes of the past day, so that it was not long before he had diverged from the beaten track and was trudging on over the short grass and among the heather. Then great corners of crags and loose stones rose in his way, forcing him to turn to right or left to get by. Then he would come close up to some precipitous, unclimbable face of the hill, and strike away again, to find his course perhaps stopped by a patch of pale green moss dotted with cotton rushes, among which his feet sank, and the water splashed with suggestions of his sinking completely in if he persevered.

But he kept on, now in one direction, now in another, striving to keep straight, with the one idea in his mind to get right away from Dunroe, and certainly increasing the distance, but in a weary, devious way, till he seemed to wake up all at once to the fact that it was growing dark, and that a thick mist was gradually creeping round him, and he was growing wet, as well as so faint and weary that he could hardly plod along.

Max stopped short by a block of stone, against which he struck, and only saved himself from falling by stretching out his hands.

The stone suggested resting for a few minutes, and he sat down and listened, but the silence was awful. No cry of bird or bleat of sheep fell upon his ear, and the mist and darkness had in a few minutes so shut him in that he could distinguish nothing half a dozen yards away.

The sensation of restfulness was, however, pleasant; and he sat there for some time, trying to think of his plans, but in a confused way, for the incidents that had taken place at Dunroe would intrude as soon as he began to make plans.

"How stupid I am!" he cried, suddenly starting up with a shiver of cold, for the damp mist seemed to chill him, and for the first time he awoke to the fact that his feet and legs were saturated. "I must get on to some hotel, and to-morrow make for the nearest station, and go home."

Just then, for a moment, it occurred to him that he had left everything at Dunroe; but his thoughts went off in another direction, and then in another and another, finally resting upon the idea of the possibility of getting to the nearest station.

But where was the nearest station? Stirling. The line to Oban had not been made in those days; and now Max began to grow confused, as he recalled the fact that there was only one railway line running through the Western Highlands, and whether that were to the north, south, east, or west, he could not tell.

Neither at that hour could he tell which way these quarters lay. All he knew was that he was in a thick mist somewhere in the mountains, high up or low down in one of the hollows, and that if he stirred from where he stood, he must literally feel his way.

For a moment the idea came upon him that he had better stop till daylight, but just then a peculiar muffled cry smote his ears, and a thrill of terror ran through him as he felt that it would be impossible to sit there all through the long hours of the night in the cold and darkness. So he started at once, the cry he had heard influencing his direction, for he struck off the opposite way.

He made very slow progress, but at the end of a few minutes he knew that he was descending a rapid slope, and he went stumbling on through tall heather which was laden with moisture. Every now and then, too, he struck against some stone, but he persevered, for he fancied that the mist was rather less thick as he descended.

Then he tripped, and went headlong into the drenched heather, and struggled up with the feeling of confusion increasing as he stood trying to pierce the gloom.

Mist and darkness everywhere, and he once more went on downward, but diagonally, as it had grown now almost too steep to go straight down the slope; and so on for the next half-hour, when, as he leaned forward and took a step, he went down suddenly, and before he could save himself he was falling through space, his imagination suggesting an immense depth, but in two or three moments he touched bottom, and went rolling and scrambling among loose shingly stones for quite a hundred feet before he finally stopped.

He got up slowly and painfully, half stunned and sore, but he was not much hurt, for only the first few feet of his fall had been perpendicular; and once more he stood thinking in the darkness, and fighting with the fear and confusion which like mental gloom and mist oppressed his brain.

Only one idea dominated all others, and that one was that he must not stand still.

Starting once more, it was with ground still rapidly descending, and now he went very slowly and cautiously, feeling his way step by step among the loose scree, lest he should come upon another perpendicular descent, though even here the place was so steep that the stones he dislodged slid rattling down over one another for some distance before all was again still.

He must have gone on like this for nearly an hour before he felt that he was upon more level ground, but it was terribly broken up and encumbered with great masses of stone, among which he had painfully to thread his way.

Once again he found himself walking into a patch of moss, and he felt the soft growth giving way, till he was knee-deep, and it was only by a sudden scramble backwards that he was able to get free.

Then he went on and on again amidst the profound darkness, feeling his way among stones and scrubby growth more and more wearily each minute, till he was brought sharp up by a curious, croaking cry.

The lately learned knowledge, however, came that this must be a moor-hen; but the fact of such a bird being near did not suggest that he must be close to water, and in consequence he had not gone much farther before he found himself splashing along the edge of some mountain loch or pool, whose bottom where he stood seemed to be smooth pebbles.

He stooped down in a dull, despairing way, plunged his hand beneath the surface, and drew out one of the biggest stones he could find, to hurl straight before him, and, as he listened, it fell into water which gave forth a dull, echoing splash, suggestive of depth and overhanging rocks.

He tried again and again, after backing cautiously, as he thought, out of the deep direction, but only to find the water grow deeper, till, to his horror, he found it nearly to his middle. The despairing plunge, however, that he took, led him into shallows once more; but every stone he threw fell into deep water, till he jerked one to his left, and this fell on stones.

Taking that direction, he pursued his level way over a shingly beach, with the impression upon him that he must be journeying along a deep glen with high rocks on either side, and one of the little lochs which he had often seen in these narrow straths, filling up the principal part of the hollow.

Once or twice he found his feet splashing in water, but by bearing to the left he found himself again on the dry pebbles, and in this way, save for a few heavy masses in his path, he skirted what he rightly concluded was a mountain loch, though whereabouts he could not tell.

Gaining a little courage as he realised all this, he ventured once upon a shout, in the hope that it might be heard, but he did not repeat it, for he stopped awe-stricken as his cry was repeated away to his left, then on his right, and again and again, to go murmuring off as if a host of the spirits of the air were mocking his peril.

But a little thought taught him that his surmise was right, and that he was slowly making his way along a narrow glen, whose towering walls had the property of reflecting back any sound; and, though he dared not raise his voice again, he picked up the first heavy stone against which he kicked, and hurled it from him with all his might.

A terribly dull, hollow, sullen plunge was the result, telling of the great depth of the water, and this sound was taken up, to go echoing and whispering away into the distance till it died out, and then seemed to begin again in a low, dull roar, which puzzled him as he listened.

Just then it seemed to him that a warm breath of air came upon his cheek, and this grew stronger, and the dull roar more plain. Then it did not seem so dark, and he realised that a breeze was coming softly up the glen, meeting him and wafting the wet mist away.

There was no doubt of this, and, though it was intensely dark where he stood, it was a transparent darkness, through which he could see the starry sky, forming as it were an arch of golden points starting on either side from great walls of rock a thousand feet above the level of the loch. This loch, in spite of the darkness, he could plainly see now, reflecting from its level surface, which stretched away into the darkness, the bright points of the light above.

Max stood thinking, and listened to the dull roar. He had been long enough in the Highlands now to know that this was not the continuation of the echoes he had raised, but the murmur of falling water, either of some mountain torrent pouring into the lake, or by a reverse process the lake emptying its superabundant water into the rocky bed of a stream, which would go bubbling and foaming down to the sea.

The wafting away of the mist seemed to relieve him of a good deal of the confusion, and, weary though he was, he found himself able to distinguish his way, and creep along the pebbly margin of the black loch, which lay so still and solemn beneath the starry sky.

All at once, after about an hour's laborious tramp down the weird glen, with its wild crags, black as ink, towering up to right and left, he suddenly caught sight of a gleam of light, and it struck him that he had come near to the mouth of the glen, and that he could see a star low down on the horizon.

The light was to his left, and the place was so horribly oppressive, with the deep black lake on his right and the roar of water rapidly growing louder, that he gladly struck off, as he felt, to where the gorge bore round, or, as he soon made out, divided.

This led him away from the black lake, and he soon found that he was scrambling along the bed of a little stream, which came, as it were, straight from the low down star.

Then, as he walked on what grew to be a more and more painful track, it struck him that it was strange that he could only see one star in that opening.

A few minutes later, he fancied he could make out towering crags above it, and that all was black darkness where he ought to be seeing more light; and then he dropped suddenly upon his knees in the joy of his heart, for there could be no mistake about the matter: it was not a star which he could see, but a light, and, rising once more, he forgot weariness, soreness, and pain, and began to tramp slowly on toward the light.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

THE MYSTERIOUS LIGHT.

There were moments when Max began to feel doubtful; others when he fancied it might be some deceptive marsh light; and then a great despair came upon him, for, just as he had come to the hopeful conclusion that there really was a cottage in the glen, where he could find rest, and warmth, and food, the light suddenly disappeared, and he was in a darkness which seemed to be, from the overshadowing mountains, even deeper than the darkness of the mist.

That was but the fancy of the moment, for the stars gave him light enough to slowly continue his way, but he stopped and hesitated as to whether he should go on or go back.

The way along the edge of the loch was easy, and seemed to lead toward the entrance of the glen. This side branch grew more difficult at every step, and, as the light had disappeared, he felt it would be better to go back, and he began to descend the rough way among the stones in the bed of the stream, when, turning one of these, he happened to look back, and there was the light burning clearly once more.

That was no marsh light, it was too clear and glowing, and, feeling convinced now that it had only been hidden by some turn of the ravine or interposing stone, he once more began to ascend the streamlet, till the light, which he watched intently, suddenly again disappeared.

He stopped short and stepped back a couple of paces, when the light reappeared; and, seeing that he was right, he pressed on, with the result that at the end of a few minutes there was the light again.

Twice over it disappeared as he stumbled onward, but there it was again, and growing so much plainer as he drew nearer, that it gradually took the form of fire shining through an open door.

Convinced that it was either a little country inn or the home of some shepherd, Max's hopes rose, and he stumbled on, hoping every minute to come upon a path which should lead up to the door.

But he hoped in vain, though he had one satisfaction, that of seeing the shape of a doorway quite plainly, and the flickering of a fire, which some one must be in the act of stirring.

Directly after he saw the doorway darkened, as if somebody had passed out, and his lips parted to call for guidance to the place, when he heard a movement behind him, and, turning sharply, there was another sound, as if a stone had fallen.

This made him turn round again toward the light, when, quick as thought, something thick was thrown over his head and drawn close, a pair of sinewy arms dashed his to his sides; he was drawn backward; some one seized his legs, and, in spite of his straggles, he was lifted from the ground, and two men seemed to be carrying him over a rugged way, now up, now down.

He shouted and begged as well as his half-suffocated state would allow, for the covering to be taken from his head, but the only response he obtained was an angry shake and a tighter clasp of the arms about his legs.

All at once he could see red light glowing through the great woollen cloth which covered him, and he felt that he was thrown on the ground, and that some one was binding his legs together. Directly after, his arms were bound behind his back, he was placed in a sitting posture, and the cloth was snatched from his head.

The glowing light of a fire shone right into his eyes, dazzling them, so that for some few moments he could make out nothing but the fact that he was in a stone-built hut, before a fierce fire, and that two fierce-looking bearded men were glaring at him.

Before he could collect himself to speak, some one shouted from outside, and one of his captors replied, but the Gaelic words were quite unintelligible to the prisoner, as was also the conversation which ensued between the two men before him, though it was apparent that one was urging the other to do something from which he shrank.

"Hwhat will she want?" said the latter at last, in a harsh voice.

"I've lost my way in the mountains," said Max. "I'm tired and cold and hungry. Please undo this rope; it hurts."

The man who had not spoken said something now to Max's questioner, and it seemed that the words which had passed were translated, with the result that he burst into a torrent of harsh-sounding speech, apparently full of dissent.

This seemed to be the case, for the one who tried to speak English exclaimed sharply,—

"She shall tell her a lee."

"I—I don't understand you," said Max.

"She came along wi' ta exciseman."

"No," said Max. "I came quite alone."

"Sassenach" was the only word which Max could make out in the dialogue which followed, and this was at its height when a third fierce-looking man came in, and the three laid their heads together, glancing toward the door uneasily, and then at what seemed to be a great copper boiling over the fire.

As they stood together, with the ruddy glow playing upon their fierce countenances, it seemed to Max that he must have fallen into the hands of Scottish freebooters, and the next thing he felt was that he should be robbed and murdered, or the operations be performed in reverse fashion.

The men's appearance was wild enough to have excited dread in one of stouter nerves than Max Blande, who, faint and exhausted, lay there in so helpless a plight that he was not in a condition to do more than anxiously watch his captors, as they talked loudly in Gaelic and gesticulated angrily.

To Max it seemed as if they were debating how he should be done to death; and, in spite of the horror of the thought, he was so stunned, as it were, his feelings were so deadened, that he did not feel the acute dread that might have been expected. There was almost as much curiosity in his feelings as fear, and he began at last to wonder why they did not take his watch and chain, purse and pocket-book, both of which latter were fairly well filled—his father having been generous to him when he started upon his journey, and there having been absolutely no means of spending money at Dunroe.

The debate grew more and more angry, the men evidently quarrelling fiercely, but not a word could Max make out. Their actions, however, seemed plain enough, as they all turned their eyes fiercely upon him, and the effect was peculiar, for the ruddy firelight was reflected from them, so that they seemed to glow as they suddenly made a dart at him, two of the men dragging him unresisting to his feet, while the third, before he could grasp his intention, flung the dingy old plaid which had muffled him before, over his head, twisting it tightly about his throat.

Max uttered a hoarse cry, but it was smothered directly, and he gave himself up for lost, as he was seized once more and hurried out into the darkness. This much he knew by the absence of the light dimly shining through the coarse woollen fabric which covered his head.

He was carried in this way for quite a quarter of an hour. Sometimes they were going upwards and sometimes downwards; while he could gather that the way chosen was terribly rough, from the manner in which he was jerked about.

This went on till a dull sound came in a muffled way through the plaid, and he gathered from this that they were approaching the falls he had heard before, or else some others.

The sound of roaring water grew louder and louder, and now he knew that they were climbing more slowly evidently upward, as if the ascent were exceedingly steep. Then the sound of the water falling—a deep bass, quivering roar—grew louder and louder; while, from being hot now almost to suffocation, the perspiration gathered on his brow grew cold, and, trembling with horror, he felt that the end was near, and that the wretches who held him were about to throw him off into the fall whose waters thundered in his ear.

He uttered a few wild cries for mercy, but they seemed to be unheard, and, just when his agony was strained to the highest pitch, the roar suddenly grew fainter, and the bearers paused on comparatively level ground.

All at once one of the men unfastened the cords which confined him, after which the other grasped his wrist, and he was forced to walk onward at a rapid rate.

For some minutes he could hardly stumble along, his feet feeling numbed and tingling sharply, but by degrees the normal sensation returned, and he could feel that he was walking through short heather, and at times over soft, springy grass.

At last he was so exhausted that he stumbled again and again, recovering himself by an effort, and keeping on for another quarter of an hour, when his legs gave way beneath him, and he sank upon his knees.

A low, guttural ejaculation from his conductor now reached his ears, and he felt that the plaid was twisted quickly from his neck, the cool night air fell upon his cheek, and he could see the stars indistinctly, as if through a mist, as they suddenly grew dark, and then there was nothing.



CHAPTER THIRTY.

DIRK MAKES HIMSELF USEFUL.

The stars were twinkling brightly when Max Blande looked at them again, and for some time there was nothing else but stars.

But they were above him, and, as he looked up at them, they looked down at him.

He felt that it was very cold, but it did not seem to matter, so long as he could lie still there in bed with the window wide open, looking at the stars; but by degrees he became conscious that his legs ached and his arms felt sore, and the idea struck him that he should be much more comfortable if he got up and shut the window, for it was very cold.

It was a long time before he made the effort to do this, and when he did, a curious aching pain shot through him, and in a flash he knew that he was not at Dunroe, but lying there somewhere in the mountains on the wet grass, and he remembered all he had gone through.

He lay piecing it all together, and involuntarily his hand went to his pockets, to find watch, chain, purse, pocket-book, all there safely, and that he was unhurt.

Was it all a dream?

No; he felt that it was real enough, and that he must not lie there, but rise once more, and try hard, and, he hoped, with better fortune, to find some place where he could obtain shelter.

Making an effort which cost him no little pain, he turned over and struggled to his knees, but only to sink down again, feeling absolutely helpless, and ready to declare to himself that, come what might, he could not stir till morning, even if he were able then.

Looking helplessly about him, it was to see that the night was brilliantly clear, and that there was a gleam of water somewhere down far below on his right, for the stars were reflected from it. But it seemed more restful to lie there waiting, and, cold as he was, it was a dull, numbing cold that was far less painful than trying to move.

All at once he shivered with dread, for there was a rushing sound as of some creatures galloping, and he could hear faint snortings and the panting of heavy breath.

Some herd of wild animals had gone by. It could not be sheep, for the movement was too swift; but once more all was silent, and he was sinking into a half-drowsy condition, more resembling the approach of stupor than sleep, when he started back into wakefulness, for he heard in the distance the sharp barking of a dog.

This died away, grew louder, died away again, and then seemed to be coming steadily nearer and nearer, but, as it approached, so did the stupefying sensation, till the barking died right away; the stars were again blotted out, and Max knew no more till he started to himself again in alarm, as the cold, wet nose of a dog was touching his face. There was a quick snuffling about him, and then there was a loud burst of barking, and he felt that the dog who barked was standing with his forepaws on his chest. "Dirk," he said feebly; "is it you, Dirk?" The dog gave a whining cry, licked at his face, and then barked again with all his might.

Then there was silence, and from out of the distant darkness came a low hail.

The dog barked again sharply, and stopped, when there was the hail again more loudly, and this was repeated at intervals as the dog scuffled about, running a little way to bark, and then coming, back to plant his paws on Max's chest.

All this now seemed part of a dream, till he was roused again by hearing a panting sound, feeling his hand seized, and then hearing a familiar voice shout,—

"Father, ahoy! Tavvy, ahoy! Here he is!" and, as the dog whined and barked again, there were faint hails from the distance. Then these grew louder, and the next thing Max heard was,—

"Oh, Maxy, old lad!" and a warm hand was laid upon his brow.

Then there was more hailing, and barking, and an impatient muttering, and then there were deeper voices talking close by where he lay, and, as if in part of his dream, something hot and strangling seemed to be trickling down his throat.

"There," said a deep voice which seemed very familiar, "she'll ket the plaidie round the laddie when she's cot her on her pack, and that and ta whusky'll warm her."

"I'll carry him when you are tired, Tavish," said another familiar voice.

"She can carry ta puir laddie all tay an' all nicht. Maister Ken, tit ye iver see a tog wi' a petter nose than Dirk?"

"No, Tavvy; but do make haste."

"Ay, laddie; but bide a wee, till she cot her well upo' her shouthers. There. Noo, ta plaidie. Noo then, we can get there in twice twa hoors. She'll go first."

"Oh, father, are we too late?" came then in a whisper to Max's ears, as he felt himself being once more carried.

"Please God, no, my boy!" came back hoarsely.

Then there was another loud and joyful burst of barking, and then all blank.



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

AN EXCITING CHASE.

"Scood! you beast!"

"Silence, Kenneth!" cried The Mackhai sternly, as he looked half-angrily, half-pleased at the flushed face of the young gillie.

"She ton't care. She'll fecht for ta Mackhai till she ties."

"Leave the room, sir!" cried The Mackhai. "You meant well, but you have done a cruel and cowardly thing."

Scoodrach hung his head, and stooped to pick up his bonnet by one of the strands of the worsted tuft, letting the soft flat cap spin slowly round as he watched it, and then he moved toward the door.

"Stop!" cried The Mackhai.

Scoodrach turned sharply and defiantly round, with his hot northern blood flushing to his temples.

"Ta Chief may kill her," he cried; "but she shall na say she's sorry."

"Go and fetch Tavish and your father, sir, and never dare to address me again like that."

Scoodrach slunk out of the room, and, as he turned to shut the door, his eyes met those of Kenneth, who shook his fist at him.

Without a moment's hesitation, Scoodrach doubled his own, and looked defiance as the door was closed.

"Never dare to address me again like that!" muttered The Mackhai. "Poor lad! there is no fear."

"What shall we do, father?"

"Do? We must all set out in search of Max, and bring him back. In my anger, Ken, I have done a brutal thing."

"But you did not mean it, father."

"How could he know that? See if he has taken his luggage. No, no; impossible! The poor lad has wandered right away into the mountains, and I am to blame. Get the ponies, Kenneth; we may do better mounted. I suppose," he added bitterly, "we may use them for the present."

Kenneth darted out of the room, met Tavish and Long Shon, and in a very few minutes the two sturdy little ponies were in the old courtyard, The Mackhai and his son mounting, and the little party starting off at once.

Before they had gone far, The Mackhai turned his head.

"Where is that boy?" he said.

No one replied, for Scood had not been seen to leave, but from where he was seated Kenneth could just see a tuft of wool sticking up above the heather, and he pressed the sides of his pony and cantered back to where the boy lay upon his face in a hollow, with his bonnet tilted on to the back of his head.

"Here, Scoody! What are you doing there?" cried Kenneth.

"Naething."

"Get up, sir, and come on."

"Na. She will gang away and be a redcoat. Naebody cares for Scoody the noo."

"Don't be a red-headed donkey. Get up, and come and show us which way Max Blande went."

Scoodrach shook his head.

"Look here, if you don't get up, I'll call father, and he'll come and lay into you with the dog-whip."

"He wadna daur," cried the lad, leaping up and glaring at the speaker.

"Yes, he would, and so would I, if I had one here."

"Gin ye daur lay a finger on her, she'll hae your bluid!" cried Scoodrach.

"There!" cried Kenneth, pressing his pony's sides, and reaching over to catch tightly hold of the lad's collar. "I daur lay a whole hand on you, Scoody. Noo, lat's see gin ye daur turn on your Chief."

"Ye know I wadna hurt a hair o' your heid," muttered the lad.

"Then come on, like a good fellow, Scoody, and help to find him."

"D'ye want to find the laddie wha's gaun to rob ye o' ta auld plaace?"

"Yes. Come on, Scood. We mustn't quarrel, and you won't be such a brute as to refuse to help me because I'm going to be poor."

"Puir or rich!" cried the lad, with the tears of excitement in his eyes, "gin ye want her to, she'll dee for ye, Maister Ken."

"That's old Scoody once again," cried Kenneth, drumming his pony's flanks; and as the little animal whisked round, Scoodrach caught hold of its long tail, gave the hairs a twist round his hand, and away they went after the others, to whom they soon caught up.

Then followed a long and wearisome search, Scoodrach pointing out the way Max had taken, when, as there was no path or even sheep-track, they divided, and went on mile after mile, only to give up at dark and return tired and faint, and with Scoodrach hanging his head as he felt how he had been the cause of all the trouble; and, seizing the first opportunity, he slipped off with the ponies, to bed them down for the night.

"We must be up at daybreak and begin again, Ken," said The Mackhai sadly. "That boy must be found. Can you form any idea which way he would take?"

"No, father. I've been trying to think, but we seem to have tried everywhere, and I don't believe he could have gone very far."

"He had a long start."

"You don't think he has come to any harm—slipped over the crags anywhere, or gone into—"

Kenneth stopped and shuddered.

"One of the boggy patches, Ken? Oh no, my boy. He has been out so much with you and Scoodrach, that he ought to be able to take care of himself by now."

"Yes, father—ought to," said Kenneth meaningly; and then, in an outburst of passion, as he stood with clenched fists, "I'll give Scoody such a thrashing as he never had in his life! I'll half kill him."

"Hush! That will do," said The Mackhai sadly. "The boy acted according to his lights. He was, in his half-savage way, fighting for the honour of our old house."

"Yes, father, but—"

"Hush, my boy! Our days are numbered at Dunroe: let us leave here with as pleasant memories as we can, and with the love and respect of those who have looked to us for bread."

"Oh, father!" cried Kenneth; and there was a great sob in his throat, and his face was contracted though his eyes were dry.

The Mackhai grasped his son's hand.

"Be a man, Ken," he said quietly. "You ought to have commenced life well, but now you will have to go forth into the world and fight your way. You must make friends, not enemies."

"It would not make Scood an enemy, father, and a good whacking would do him good."

"No, no, Ken. Now get some food, and go and lie down for a few hours to have some rest. We can do nothing till daylight."

"Very well, father. And—and I will try not to mind leaving the old place, and to be a man."

"God bless you, my boy!" cried The Mackhai, laying his hands upon his son's shoulders and gazing into his eyes. "Come, Ken, trouble has its good sides after all; it has taught me something more about the nature of my son. Now, go and get some rest; I shall not be happy till I have taken that boy again by the hand."

"Why, father!" cried Kenneth excitedly. "Oh, what an old donkey I am!"

Before The Mackhai could speak, he had rushed out of the room and across the hall, to return at the end of a few minutes in company with Dirk, who was barking, and as excited as his master.

"Why, Ken!" cried The Mackhai.

"It's all right, father. Dirk will find him. Tavvy is waiting. Don't you come. We'll have poor old Maxy back before long."

"I shall come with you," said The Mackhai, rising, and taking a flask and plaid from where they lay. "What are you going to do first?"

"I'll soon show you," cried Ken excitedly. "Here, Dirk, old boy, put on your best nose to-night, and let's show the Londoner what a Highland dog can do."

Dirk barked loudly, and followed his master as he rushed out of the room and up-stairs to Max's chamber, where Kenneth dragged some of the clothes which his visitor had worn last down upon the carpet.

"Now, Dirk! seek, laddie, seek!"

The dog dashed at the clothes, snuffed at them, tossed them over, snuffed at them again, and then uttered a sharp, whining bark.

"Come along," cried Kenneth, and he ran down to the hall, where his father was ready, and then out into the dark courtyard, at whose entrance Tavish was waiting, armed with a tall staff.

"I ken ye're richt, maister," he said. "We'll lay ta collie on chust where the laddie saw ta young chentleman last."

Very little was said as they trudged on, Kenneth holding Dirk by one of his ears, till they reached the foot of the slope, pointed out by Scoodrach as the road taken by Max.

Here the dog was loosed, and he looked up in his master's face, barking loudly, as if asking for instructions, and not yet comprehending what was meant.

"Seek, laddie, seek! Max, Max! Seek, seek!"

Dirk uttered a low yelping whine, and began to quarter the ground, whimpering and growing more and more excited as he increased the distance between him and those who followed by sound, for the dog was soon invisible in the darkness.

For quite a quarter of an hour the hunt was kept on, each minute damping the hopes of the party more and more, till The Mackhai said sadly,—

"It's of no use, my boy. You're asking too much of the dog."

"She thocht Dirk would ha' takken it up," said Tavish slowly. "She's na the dog she thocht."

"Don't give up yet, father. I feel sure."

"Hey, she's cot it!" cried Tavish wildly, as a loud baying bark came from Dirk.

"Yes, come on! He has got it now," cried Kenneth, and he dashed on at a sharp trot right into the darkness.

"Keep up with him, Tavish," cried The Mackhai. "Steady, Ken, steady."

"All right, father," came from far ahead.

"Oh ay, sir, she'll be close aifter the young Chief. Hark! d'ye hear? Dirk's got the scent, and she'll rin him doon."

Right away in the darkness the low barking of the dog could be heard, for Dirk had indeed got on the scent, and, with the wondrous faculty of his kind, he was trotting steadily on over the grass and heather, nose down, tail high, and not for a moment halting in his quest.

Hour after hour the hunt went on, no little exertion being needed to keep within hearing of the dog, who followed Max's trail right on and on—a devious, wandering trail, right along to the narrow gully where the dark loch lay. After coming to a halt several times, where Max had waded into patches of bog, and also where he had stepped over the precipitous place and fallen a few feet, to slide and scramble down some distance farther, Dirk picked up the trail again, and trotted on.

These halts gave those who followed time to catch up, and there were so many faults along the edge of the dark, narrow loch, that Kenneth and Tavish were together and pretty close behind.

"Think o' ta laddie finding his way doon here," said the forester.

"You don't think he can have slipped in anywhere?" whispered Kenneth. "It's a nasty place, even by day."

"Oh ay, laddie, and ta fush are sma' and hard to get. She'd get richt alang, though. Noo, which way wad she gang—up by ta waterfa', or awa' through ta wee bit burnie?"

"I don't know, Tavvy," panted Kenneth; "but we ought to be near him now."

"Nay; she'll be a lang gate yet, my bairn. Air ye there, sir?"

"Yes; go on," came from behind; and the rough tramp was continued, till the forester cried,—

"She's gaed up ta burnie."

"Why, Tavvy, there's a light there! What light's that?"

"Licht?" said Tavish innocently. "Hey, there's a licht!"

"What can it be?"

"Only a shepherd's bothy."

"There is no shepherd's bothy up here on the Clandougal estate, Tavvy."

"Maybe it's some Southron laird had a cot made for him to fush ta loch."

"Nonsense, Tavvy! and if it was so, no one would be having a big fire there at this time of night."

"Whush, laddie!"

"But—I know! Why, Tavvy, it's a still!"

"Whush! Here, lat's ca' back ta tog."

"Nonsense! He has gone right on. Hurray! we've found him. Max is sure to be up there by the fire."

"Ta laddies wadna lat her stop," muttered Tavish; "put we'll pe hafin' trouble wi' 'em. Hearken to ta tog!"

"Why, Ken, look," came from behind, as the dog's barking went echoing along the narrow little glen; "that must be a still. Eh, Tavish?"

"Aw'm thinking maybe it sall be a still, sir," said Tavish innocently, as his master closed up.

"Maybe?" said The Mackhai sharply; "and I'm thinking you knew it was there, and have tasted the stuff."

Tavish was silent, and they all plodded on toward the distant light, the dog's track being straight for it naturally, for the only way up the little glen was by the burn.

"Ta licht's gone," muttered Tavish. "She'll be thinking they've heert ta tog, and thrown watter upo' it, and we shall be in trouble pefore we've done."

"Hallo!" cried Kenneth; "the light's out."

The Mackhai called attention to the fact at the same moment.

"Keep close to me, Kenneth," he said. "But no they would not dare," he said to himself.

Tavish turned to his master.

"Shall she fecht?"

"There will be no need, my man. Get on. We shall find the boy has taken shelter there."

Tavish shook his head, and muttered to himself.

"What is it, Tavvy?" said Kenneth.

"If it's ta whusky they're makking aboon yonder, ta young chentleman isna there."

"Well, we shall soon see about that," cried Kenneth, pressing on in the most reckless way, and only saving himself from several falls by his activity, for he went among the broken rocks like a goat.

A loud burst of barking lent speed to his feet; and ten minutes later the party were up in front of the rough building, from which came to their nostrils the strong reek of steam, telling that water had been thrown upon the fire they had seen.

There was no answer to their calls, but Dirk was barking furiously inside, and Kenneth at once entered, Tavish following to light a match; but there was no one within, only enough visible to show what business had been going on.

"Any one about here?" shouted Kenneth, after they had satisfied themselves that Max was not to be seen.

But there was no reply, and Tavish shouted in Gaelic.

Only the echoes answered his call; and Kenneth impatiently coaxed out the dog, who seemed to think that his work was done.

"He has been here, father, and they've gone on."

"Ta loons air hiding, laddie," whispered Tavish, "and hearin' every word we say. Hey! but Dirk has it again. Gude tog! gude tog!"

Dirk had suddenly taken up the track again, and followed faithfully on, right up the side of the glen, and away over the level mountain plain, after tracking the fugitive by the side of a great fall, which made its way downward into the loch.

The rest of the hunt was easy, for Dirk took them on and on; Kenneth growing so excited, as he felt that the end of the chase was near, that he left Tavish and his father far in the rear.

Then Dirk dashed right away, and Kenneth was in turn left behind, till he knew that the dog had found, for his loud baying came from away in the darkness, as he stood barking over the spot where Max lay, half asleep, half in a state of stupor, brought on by cold.



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

INSTRUCTIONS FROM LONDON.

"There, you jolly old scaramouch!" cried Kenneth, laughing. "Now I can serve you out."

"No, no, Kenneth; let me get up, please."

"Deal of mercy you had on me when I was ill. Now it's my turn, and I've got you. I'll serve you out."

"But, indeed, I am well enough to get up."

"No, you're not. Tavvy says you are not to stir, and you must make the best of it."

There was a scratching at the door just then, and Kenneth ran across the carpet to admit Dirk, who gave a sharp bark, and bounded to the bed to nuzzle his nose in Max's hand.

"Did you ever see such a dog as that, Maxy? There are not many that would have hunted you out as he did."

"No, I suppose not," said Max sadly and wearily, as he lay there, suffering from the chill brought on by his exposure upon the mountains four nights before. "But it was a pity you brought me back."

"That's five times you've said that to-day," cried Kenneth. "Now, just you say it once more, and I'll punch your head."

Max shook the threatened part of his person sadly, and then lay looking wearily at the window.

"Look here, old chap!" said Kenneth suddenly; "father says if you are not better by to-night, he shall send to Glasgow for a doctor to come and stop with you, and write word to your governor in London."

"I'm—I'm much better," said Max hastily. "I shall not want a doctor; and tell Mr Mackhai that I want to go home as soon as I can start."

"All right, Maxy, old chap," said Kenneth slowly and sadly; "but I say, look here—"

He stopped short, and, in a quiet, methodical way, law his hand upon his friend's brow.

"I say, how hot your head is! Wait a moment."

He placed one arm beneath his neck, lifted his head, turned the pillow, and gently lowered Max back upon the cool, soft linen.

"That's comfortable, isn't it?"

"Yes; so cool and refreshing!"

"So it used to be when you nursed me."

There was a dead silence.

"I say, Maxy."

"Yes."

"I like you now."

"Do you?"

"Yes, ever so. I didn't at first, because you seemed such a coward."

"I suppose I am," sighed Max.

"That you're not; and I'd pitch anybody overboard who said so. You were all strange to us and our ways when you came down; but you're as full of pluck underneath, though you don't show it outside, as any fellow I ever knew."

Max shook his head again.

"But I say you are. Don't contradict, or I'll hit you, and then there'll be a fight. Now, I say, look here! I couldn't help my father borrowing money of your father?"

"No, of course not."

"And you couldn't help your father wanting it back?"

"No, no. Don't talk about it, please."

"Yes, I shall, because I must. Look ye here, Maxy, if we can't help it, and we like one another, why shouldn't we still be the best of friends?"

Max stared at him.

"Would you be friends?" he said at last.

"I should think I will—that is, if you'll be friends with such a poor beggar as I shall be now."

Max gripped his hand, and the two lads were in that attitude when The Mackhai suddenly entered the room.

Max drew in his breath sharply, as if in pain, and lay back gazing at his host, who came forward and shook hands, before seating himself at the bedside.

It was not the first meeting by several, during which Max had been treated with a kindness and deference which showed his host's anxiety to efface the past.

"Come, this is better," he said cheerily. "Why, I should say you could get up now?"

"Yes, sir; that is what I have been telling your son," said Max hastily.

"Yes, father; he wants to get up and rush off at once; and I tell him it's all nonsense, and that he is to stay!"

The Mackhai was silent for a few moments, as he sat struggling with his pride, and, as he saw Max watching him eagerly, he coloured.

The gentleman triumphed, and he said quietly and gravely,—

"My dear boy, I want you to try and forget what passed the other night, when, stung almost beyond endurance, I said words to you that no gentleman ought to have spoken toward one who was his guest, and more than guest, the companion and friend of his son. There, I apologise to you humbly. Will you forgive me?"