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

hire?”

      Ewen had turned, and saw a very handsome youth clad in what he, somewhat cut off of late from such vanities, guessed to be the latest mode. “I am myself the difficulty, I fear, sir,” he said civilly. “I had hoped to hire the horse to ride as far, at least, as Dalmally.”

      “The horse iss for the saddle,” explained the innkeeper to the young Englishman. “Though, inteet, he iss going fery well in harness too.” He looked from one client to the other in evident perplexity.

      “In that case it would seem as if I must ride postilion,” observed Ardroy with a recrudescence of annoyance.

      The younger traveller—English nobleman, if the innkeeper were correct—came forward to the elder. He was not only extremely good-looking, but had a delightfully frank and boyish expression; and, indeed, he was not very much more than a boy. “Sir, could we not come to some arrangement, if we take the same road, and if I have unwittingly disappointed you of a horse? There is plenty of room in my chaise if you would do me the honour of driving in it.”

      The offer was made so spontaneously, and speed was so desirable, that Ewen was tempted by it.

      “You are too kind, sir,” he said, hesitating. “I should be incommoding you.”

      “Not in the least, I assure you,” declared the agreeable young traveller. “There is ample room, for I left my man behind in Edinburgh, and it would be a pleasure to have a companion. My name is Aveling—Viscount Aveling.”

      “And mine is Cameron,” replied Ewen; but he did not add ‘of Ardroy’. It flashed through his mind as ironical that a young English Whig—for Lord Aveling must be of Whig sympathies, or he would not have been visiting Campbell of Dunstaffnage—should propose to take the road with a man who not three months ago had escaped from Government hands at Fort William.

      “Then you will give me the honour of your company, sir?” asked the young man eagerly. “Otherwise I shall feel bound to surrender the horse to you, and I will not disguise that I am anxious to reach Edinburgh with as little delay as possible.” He said this with something of a joyous air, as though some good fortune awaited him at his journey’s end. “I hope to lie to-night at Dalmally,” he went on, “and I think that even on horseback you would hardly go beyond that, for the next stage is, I am told, a long one.”

      “No, that is quite true,” admitted Ewen, “and so, my lord, I will with gratitude take advantage of your very obliging proposal. And if we are to be fellow-travellers, may I not propose in my turn that before taking the road in company you should join me in a bottle of claret?”

      As they went together to the little eating-room he reflected that the boy was exceptionally trusting. “He knows nothing of me—no more than I know of him, if it comes to that.” Then for a moment he wondered whether he were acting unfairly by this friendly youth in taking advantage of his offer, but to explain his own position, and perhaps thereby deprive himself of the means of proceeding quickly, was to be overscrupulous.

      So they sat down to some indifferent claret, and over it this suddenly blossoming acquaintance ripened as quickly to a very unlooked-for harvest. Lord Aveling seemed to Ardroy a really charming and attractive young man, unspoilt, so far as he could judge, by the fashionable world of routs and coffee-houses in which he probably moved—for it transpired after a while that he was the only son of the Earl of Stowe, whose name was known even in the Highlands. It appeared, also, that he was really visiting in Edinburgh, and had only gone to Dunstaffnage on a short stay, from which he was now returning. He had never been in Scotland before, he said, and, but for a very particular circumstance, would not have come now, because the country, and especially the Highlands, held a most painful association for him, he having lost a brother there in the late rebellion.

      Ewen said that he was sorry to hear it. “He was a soldier, I presume?”

      The young man nodded. His bright face had saddened, and, looking down, he said as though to himself. “I am ashamed now that I did not attempt the pilgrimage when I was at Dunstaffnage—I suppose, sir,” he went on rather hesitatingly, “that you do not chance to know a wild spot on the coast, farther north, called Morar?”

      Ewen put down his wine-glass very suddenly, the colour leaving his face. He tried to speak and could not. But his companion went on without waiting for an answer, “It was there that my brother met his death, Mr. Cameron. And he was not killed in fair fight, he was murdered. That is why I do not like the Highlands . . . yet I wish time had permitted of my going to Morar.”

      A moment Ewen stared as though the handsome speaker were himself a ghost. Keith Windham’s brother—could it be true? The tiny inn-parlour was gone, and he was kneeling again in the moonlight on that bloodstained sand. He did not know that he had put his hand over his eyes.

      And then the voice that was—he knew it now—so like Keith’s, was asking him breathlessly, fiercely, “Where did you get that ring—my God, where did you get it?”

      Ewen dropped his hand and looked up almost dazedly at the young Englishman, who was on his feet, leaning over the table, with a face as white as his own, and eyes suddenly grown hard and accusing.

      “He gave it to me . . . it was in my arms that he died at Morar . . . the victim of a terrible mistake.”

      “A mistake, you say? He was killed, then, in the place of another?”

      “No, no—not that kind of mistake. My unfortunate foster-brother——”

      “Your foster-brother was the murderer! And by whose orders? Yours?”

      Ewen gave a strangled cry, and leapt then to his own feet, and faced this stern, almost unrecognisable young accuser.

      “God forgive you for the suggestion! I wished that day that Lachlan’s dirk had been in my own breast! Major Windham was my friend, Lord Aveling, my saviour . . . and yet he came to his death through me—And you are his brother! I felt . . . yes, that was it—you have his voice.”

      “I am his brother of the half-blood,” said the young Viscount, standing very still and looking hard at him. “My mother was his mother too. . . . And so you wear his ring. But if you have not his blood upon your hands, what do you mean by saying that he came to his death through you?”

      Ewen caught his breath. “His blood on my hands! If it is on anyone’s—besides poor deluded Lachlan’s—it is on those of another British officer who—” he stopped suddenly and then went on, “—who is probably gone to his account by this time.”

      “And you are prepared to swear——”

      “Great God, should I have worn his ring all these years if what you think were true? He drew it off his finger—’twas the last thing he did—and put it into my hand. I will swear it—” he glanced down in search of the dirk which he might not wear, and made a little gesture of desperation. “I cannot; I have no weapon.”

      “Let that pass; I will take your word,” said the young Englishman, speaking with difficulty. “I can see that what you say is true, and I ask your pardon for my suspicions.” No one, indeed, could well have doubted that it was grief, not guilt, which had made the face of this Highland gentleman so drawn. “But,” added Lord Aveling after a moment, “I should be greatly your debtor if you could bring yourself to tell me a little more. All we heard was that while on patrol-duty on the western coast in the August of ’46 my unfortunate brother was murdered by a Highlander, either a Cameron or a MacDonald, and was buried where he died. It was impossible, in the then unsettled state of the country, to have his body exhumed and brought to England. And now, I suppose, if this place be as wild as we have heard, his very grave is forgotten?”

      “No, it is not forgotten,” answered Ewen, in a much quieter voice. “I have been there twice—I was there last year. There is a stone I had put. . . . He did not love the Highlands overmuch, yet ’tis a peaceful and a beautiful spot, Lord Aveling, and though the wind blows sometimes the sand is very white there, and when the moon is full . . .” He broke