The Gleam in the North. D. K. Broster

me!”

      At least, then, it was not a water-horse. “I’m . . . I’m Donald Cameron of Ardroy,” replied the adventurer in quavering tones, his eyes fixed on the dark, dim shape now visible, from the waist upwards, among the surging waves of bracken. This did not look like an avenging angel either; it seemed to be just a man.

      “Donald!” it exclaimed. “What in the name of the Good Being are you doing here at this hour? Don’t be frightened, child—’tis your uncle Hector.” And the apparition pushed through the fern and bent over him. “Are you lost, my boy?”

      Immensely relieved, Donald looked up at the young man. He had not seen him for nearly two years, and his actual recollections of his appearance were hazy, but he had often heard of the uncle who was a soldier of the King of France. Evidently, too, Uncle Hector had lately been in some battle, for he wore round his head a bandage which showed white in the dusk.

      “No, Uncle Hector, I’m not lost. I am going up to Slochd nan Eun to tell Doctor Cameron that there are some soldiers come after him, and that he must go away quickly.”

      “Doctor Cameron!” exclaimed his uncle in surprise. Then, glancing round, he lowered his voice and dropped on one knee beside the little boy. “What on earth is he doing at Ardroy? I thought he never came here now. You are sure it was Doctor Cameron, Donald—and not Mr. MacPhair of Lochdornie?”

      “No, I know it was Doctor Cameron. He stayed in our house first; he came because—because Keithie was ill.” His head went down for a second. “He made him well again. The other doctor from Maryburgh came too. Then Doctor Cameron went up to stay with Angus MacMartin. And if you please I must go on to Slochd nan Eun at once.”

      But his young uncle, though he had risen to his feet again, was still blocking the path and staring down at him, and saying as though he were speaking to himself, “Then it was he who is just gone away from Slochd nan Eun with Angus, only they were so discreet they’d not name him to me!—No, my little hero, there’s no need for you to go any farther. I have just come from Angus’s cottage myself, and they told me the gentleman was gone some time since, because of the soldiers down at the house. And, by the way, are the soldiers still there?”

      “Yes, and some of them have taken Father away to Fort William. They ran after him—he got out of a window—and they caught him and thought at first he was Doctor Cameron. Father wanted them to think that,” explained Donald with a sort of vicarious pride.

      Hector Grant’s brow grew black under the bandage. “Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, quel malheur!—I must see your mother, Donald. Go back, laochain, and try to get her to come up to me here by the loch. I’ll take you a part of the way.”

      “You are sure, Uncle Hector,” asked Donald anxiously, “that Doctor Cameron is gone away?”

      “Good child!” said Uncle Hector appreciatively. “Yes, foi de gentilhomme, Donald, he is gone. There is no need for you to continue this nocturnal adventure. And I fancy that your mother will forgive me a good deal for putting a stop to it. Come along.”

      Most willingly did Donald’s hand slide into that of his uncle. If one can be quit of a rather terrifying enterprise with honour . . . It did not seem nearly so dark now, and the water-horse had gone back into the land of bedtime stories. But there was still an obstacle to his protector’s plan of which he must inform him.

      “I don’t think, Uncle Hector,” he said doubtfully, as they began to move away, “that the soldiers will let Mother come out to see you. Nobody was to leave the house, they said. They did not see me come out. But perhaps they would let you go in?”

      Uncle Hector stopped. “They’ll let me in fast enough, I warrant—but would they let me come out again? . . . Perhaps after all I had better come no nearer. Can you go back from here alone, Donald?—but indeed I see you can, since you have such a stout heart.” (The heart in question fell a little at this flattering deduction.) “By the way, you say Keithie is better—is he quite recovered?”

      “Keithie? He is out of bed to-day. Indeed,” said Keithie’s senior rather scornfully, “ ’tis a pity he is, for he came downstairs by his lane when the soldiers were here and did a very silly thing.” And he explained in what Keithie’s foolishness had consisted. “So ’twas he that spoilt Father’s fine plan . . . which I knew all about!”

      “ ‘Fine plan’—I wonder what your mother thought of it?” once more commented Hector Grant half to himself. “Well, Donald, give her this kiss from me, and tell her that I will contrive somehow to see her, when the soldiers have gone. Meanwhile I think I’ll return to the safer hospitality of Meall Achadh. Now run home—she’ll be anxious about you.”

      He stooped and kissed the self-appointed messenger, and gave him an encouraging pat.

      “Good-night, Uncle Hector,” said Donald politely. “I will tell Mother.” And he set off at a trot which soon carried him out of sight in the dusk.

      “And now, what am I going to do?” asked Lieutenant Hector Grant in French of his surroundings. Something croaked in the rushes of Loch na h-Iolaire. “Tu dis?” he inquired, turning his head. “Nay, jesting apart, this is a pretty coil that I have set on foot!”