The Collected Works of D. K. Broster. D. K. Broster

I am responsible for Captain Windham’s condition, Aunt Margaret. His horse came down as he was riding to fetch reinforcements from Kilcumein, and he was disabled before ever I overtook him.”

      “An accident, sir—or was the poor beast shot?” queried Miss Cameron.

      “An accident, madam,” responded Keith. “A heron, I presume it was, rose suddenly from the lake and startled him; I was riding very fast, and he came down, breaking his leg. I twisted my ankle, besides being stunned for a while, so that I must apologise if my appearance——” And this time he put up his hand to his forehead.

      “A heron, did you say?” exclaimed Ewen Cameron’s voice beside him, surprised and almost incredulous. “A heron brought your horse down?”

      “Yes,” replied Keith, surprised in his turn. “Why not, Mr. Cameron? An unusual mischance, I dare say, and none of my seeking, I assure you; but it is true.”

      “I don’t doubt your word, sir,” replied the young man; yet there was something puzzled in the gaze which he turned on his prisoner. “It is . . . yes, unusual, as you say. Herons, as a rule——” He broke off. “If you will come with me, Captain Windham, you shall refresh yourself before we eat.”

      * * * * *

      Captain Windham sat down to a better supper than he had met since he left London, and even in London he would not have tasted such trout and venison, and might well have drunk worse claret. Out of regard for him, perhaps, or out of discretion, the conversation never touched on political matters, though he thought that he could feel a certain excitement simmering below the surface of the talk. (And well it might, he reflected; had not the master of the house this day committed himself to overt hostilities against His Majesty’s Government?) The elderly gentleman in the grey wig, who appeared to have been living recently in Paris, discoursed most innocuously of French châteaux and their gardens, with frequent references to Versailles and Marly, and appeals to his daughter—“You remember the day of our little expedition to the château of Anet, my dear?” Keith would have thought the deserted shrine of St. Germain a more likely goal of pilgrimage, for he took Mr. Grant, from his mere presence here, to be a Jacobite.

      But surely his daughter would have preferred to this mild talk of parterres and façades a recital by Mr. Ewen Cameron of his afternoon’s prowess! As far as their personal conflict went, Captain Windham was perfectly willing that this encounter should be related by a victor who was evidently disposed to allow the fullest weight to the physical disabilities of the vanquished; yet he was grateful for the tact with which Mr. Cameron (in his presence at least) had glossed over the flight of the Royal Scots from the bridge. Only questions, indeed, drew from him the partial information which he furnished. He would tell them more afterwards, no doubt. . . . Who was this pretty Miss Grant with the blue fillet in her dark hair—a kinswoman? If she was the future mistress of the house, young Cameron had good taste. So, to be just, had the lady.

      But, despite the courtesy shown him, the unwilling guest was not sorry when, very soon after supper, it was suggested that he should retire, for his ankle was painful and one shoulder ached, though he protested that he could look after his own hurts. His conqueror showed him to his bedchamber exactly as a host might have done. The room was of a fair size, and had good old-fashioned furniture; and, presumably because it had been for some time unused, there was even a fire burning. An elderly woman brought up a crock of hot water, a salve and linen for bandages, and the Englishman was then left to her ministrations. And it was not long before his discreet questions had drawn from this dame, who was not very communicative, and spoke English as though it were a foreign tongue to her, the information that Miss Grant was to marry the laird in the autumn. Keith privately hoped that the prospective bridegroom might not find himself in prison before that time, as a consequence of having laid hands on himself—if of nothing worse—though, after that venison, he resolved that he would not lift a finger to send him there.

      When his ankle had been bathed and bound up, and the elderly servant had withdrawn, the soldier removed his sash, coat and wig, and extended himself in a comfortable chair in front of the fire, with his bandaged foot on another. There were books to his hand, as he discovered by reaching up to a shelf on the wall; but, having pulled some down, he did not, at first, find that the effort had repaid him. He had captured a Terence, a Horace, Télémaque, and Montesquieu’s Lettres Persanes. They all had Ewen Cameron’s name written in them.

      Keith whistled. He was turning over the leaves of the Lettres when there was a knock and his host—or gaoler—re-entered.

      “I hope that Marsali has made you comfortable, sir?—Those books are not very entertaining, I am afraid. If you intend reading into the night—which I fear must mean that your foot is paining you—I will see whether I cannot find you something else. I believe that my aunt has Mr. Fielding’s novel of Joseph Andrews somewhere.”

      “Pray do not trouble, sir,” replied Keith. “I intend to go to bed and sleep; it was only idleness which directed my hand to that shelf there. I see that you read French and Latin, Mr. Cameron?” And even as he uttered the words he thought how ill-bred was the remark, and the surprise which he had not been able entirely to keep out of his tone.

      But the young Highlander answered quite simply, in his gentle, rather slow voice: “I was partly educated in France—for that, you know, is easier for us Jacobites. As to Latin, yes, I can read it still, though I am afraid that my hexameters would only procure me the ferule nowadays.”

      Captain Windham’s ideas about the Northern barbarians were undergoing startling changes. He had already noticed that none of the inmates of this house used the vernacular which he was accustomed to hear in the Lowlands; they spoke as good English as himself, if with an unfamiliar and not displeasing lilt. A little to cover his annoyance at his own lack of breeding he remarked, “France, yes; I suppose that your connection is close. And now that the . . . that a certain young gentleman has come thence——”

      “Yes?” asked the other in a slightly guarded manner.

      “No, perhaps we had best not engage upon that topic,” said Keith, with a slight smile. “I will imitate your own courteous discretion at supper, Mr. Cameron, in saying so little about the episode at the bridge, of which indeed, as a soldier, I am not proud.—By the way, having myself introduced that subject, I will ask you if you can make clear a point in connection with it which has puzzled me ever since. How was it that no attempt at pursuit—or at least no immediate attempt—was made by the body posted there?”

      “That is easily explained,” replied Ewen Cameron promptly. “The Keppoch MacDonalds there dared not let you see how few they were, lest your men should have rallied and crossed the bridge after all.”

      “How few?” repeated Captain Windham, thinking he had not heard aright. “But, Mr. Cameron, there were a quantity of Highlanders there, though, owing to the trees it was impossible to form an accurate estimate of their numbers.”

      “No, that would be so,” said his captor, looking at him rather oddly. “You may well have thought the bridge strongly held.”

      “You mean that it was not?” And, as his informant merely shook his head, Keith said impatiently, but with a sudden very unpleasant misgiving, “Do you know how many men were there, Mr. Cameron?”

      Mr. Cameron had taken up a fresh log, and now placed it carefully in position on the fire before answering. “I believe,” he said, with what certainly sounded like reluctance, “that there were not above a dozen there—to be precise, eleven men and a piper.”

      Keith’s fingers closed on the arms of his chair. “Are you jesting, sir?”

      “Not in the least,” replied the young man, without any trace either of amusement or of elation. “I know it to be a fact, because I spoke afterwards with their leader, MacDonald of Tiendrish. They used an old trick, I understand, to pass themselves off as more than they really were.”

      He continued to look at the fire. Captain Windham, with a suppressed exclamation, had lowered his injured foot to the ground, and then remained silent, most horribly mortified. Two companies of His Majesty’s