The Greatest Historical Novels & Romances of D. K. Broster. D. K. Broster

well then, I must go.” But his voice was not as steady as heretofore when he added, “I would to God that it were you!”

      In the grim white face before him the blue eyes darkened and blazed. Ardroy caught hold of the old man’s arm. “There’s one thing that’s certain, Mr. Oliphant, and that is, that you are not going to enter the lion’s den for the sake of that scoundrel!”

      “The lion’s den? Is that what is keeping you back—a natural distaste for endangering yourself? I thought it had been something less of man’s weakness . . . and more of the devil!”

      “So it is,” retorted Ewen stormily. “You know quite well that I am not afraid to go to Mingary Castle!”

      “Then why will you not let me go? I am only an old, unprofitable man whose words are not heeded. If I do not come out again what matter? It is true, I shall not get there near as quick as you, and every minute”—he glanced back—“the faint chance of life is slipping further away. But one of us has to go, Mr. Cameron. Will you loose my arm?” His worn face was infinitely sad.

      Ewen did not comply with his request. He had his left hand pressed to his mouth, in truth, his teeth were fixed in the back of it—some help, if a strange one, to mastery of the wild passions which were rending him, and to keeping back, also, the hot tears which stung behind his eyes.

      He heard Mr. Oliphant say under his breath, in accents of the most poignant sorrow, “Then appeared the tares also. Such tall, such noble wheat! Truly the Enemy hath done this!” He understood, but he did not waver. He would not go for help.

      “Mr. Cameron, time is very short. Let me go! Do not lay this death on my conscience too. Loose me, in the name of Him Whom you are defying!”

      Ewen dropped the speaker’s arm, dropped his own hand. It was bleeding. He turned a tempest-ridden face on Mr. Oliphant.

      “It shall not be the better man of us two who goes to Mingary,” he said violently. “I will go—you force me to it! And even though he be carrion by the time help comes, will you be satisfied?”

      Mr. Oliphant’s look seemed to pierce him. “By the time you get to Mingary, Highlander though you are, your vengeance will be satisfied.”

      “As to that——” Ewen shrugged his shoulders. “But you, how will you ever reach Salen alone?”

      “Salen? I shall not start for Salen until help has come; I shall stay here.” And as Ewen began a fierce exclamation he added, “How can I, a priest, leave him lying at the gate and go away?”

      “And then they will take you?—No, I will not go to Mingary . . . I will not go unless you give me your word to withdraw yourself as soon as you hear the soldiers coming. That might serve, since I shall not say that any is with him, and they will not think of searching.”

      Mr. Oliphant considered a moment. “Yes, I will promise that if it will ease your mind. And later, if God will, we may meet again on the Salen road, you overtaking me. Now go, and the Lord Christ go with you . . . angelos!”

      For an instant his hand rested, as if in blessing, on Ewen’s breast. The young man snatched it up, put it to his lips, and without a word plunged down the slope to the track below, so torn with rage and shame and wild resentment that he could hardly see what he was doing.

      But once on the level he clenched his hands and broke into the long, loping Highland trot which he could keep up, if need were, for miles. He might, in Mr. Oliphant’s eyes, be no better than a murderer and a savage, he might in his own be so weak of will that a few words from an old man whom he scarcely knew could turn him from his long-cherished purpose, he might be so cursed by fate as to have met his enemy in circumstances which had snatched from him his rightful revenge—but at least, if he were forced to play the rescuer, he would keep his word about it. Out of this brief but devastating hurricane of passion that intention seemed to be the only thing left to him—that and the physical capacity to run and run towards the black keep of Mingary Castle which he so little desired to enter.

      CHAPTER XI

       THE CASTLE ON THE SHORE

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      The ancient stronghold of the Maclans of Ardnamurchan, where James IV. had held his court, which had repulsed Lachlan Maclean with his Spanish auxiliaries from the wrecked Armada galleon, and had surrendered to Colkitto’s threat of burning in Montrose’s wars; which had known Argyll’s seven weeks’ siege and Clanranald’s relief, stood on the very verge of the shore gazing over at Mull. At high tide the sea lapped its walls—or at least the rocks on which those walls were built—save on the side where a portion of the fortress had its footing on the mainland. It looked very grim and grey this winter morning, and the runner, drawing breath at last, felt exceedingly little inclination to approach it.

      And yet air, flag, garrison, were all unstirring; Mingary seemed a fortress of the dead, staring across dull water at a misty shore. No one was visible save the sentry on the bridge crossing the fosse which guarded the keep on the landward, its most vulnerable side. As Ewen approached, the man brought his musket to the ready and challenged him in the accents of the Lowlands.

      Ardroy made his announcement from a distance of some yards. “I am come to tell you that your missing colonel is found. He is lying in sore straits on the slopes of Loch Mudle, and if you want him alive you must send without a moment’s delay to fetch him.”

      The sentry shook his head. “I canna tak messages. Ye maun come ben and see an officer.”

      “I cannot wait to do that,” replied Ewen impatiently. “I am in great haste. I tell you your colonel is very badly hurt; his fowling-piece must have burst, and injured him.”

      “Man, ye suld ken that I couldna leave ma post if King Geordie himsel’ was deein’,” said the sentry reproachfully, and suddenly uplifting his voice, bellowed to someone within, “Sairgeant, sairgeant!” and motioned vehemently to Ewen to pass him.

      Most unwillingly Ardroy crossed the bridge, and at the end of the long narrow entry into the fortress found himself confronted by a stout sergeant who listened, with no great show of emotion, to his tale. “I’ll fetch the captain—he’ll wish tae see ye, sir.”

      The wish was by no means reciprocal; and Ewen cursed inwardly at the recognition of his social status, from which he had hoped that his shabby clothes, worn for so long in bad weather, would have protected him.

      “I am in great haste,” he asserted once more. “Surely you could give the captain my message?”

      But even as the last word left his lips two officers, talking together, suddenly appeared from he knew not where under the archway. Yet once again Ewen made his announcement, and this time it had an immediate effect. A few questions were asked him, he described the spot in detail, hasty orders were given for a party to set forth instantly with a litter and restoratives, and then the captain asked Ewen if he would be good enough to guide them to the place, which after a second or two of hesitation he agreed to do. Indeed, provided he were not asked questions of too searching a nature on the way, the arrangement would suit him well.

      But he was not destined to profit by it. He had noticed the other officer, a young lieutenant whose face seemed vaguely familiar, looking at him closely; now, when this latter could gain the attention of his superior, he drew him aside and whispered to him.

      The captain swung round to Ewen again, looking at him with a gaze which the Highlander did not at all appreciate. “By the way, you have not told us your name, sir?” he remarked. “We are so much in your debt that we should be glad to learn it.”

      Ewen helped himself to that of the good tenant of Cuiluaine. He was, he announced, a MacColl, originally of Appin.

      “Well, Mr. MacColl,” said the captain, “obliged as we are to you for your information, I