Almond, Wild Almond. D. K. Broster

no French help, no money, no arms! Even the fumes of punch had not entirely obscured that aspect from the excited throng downstairs. Ranald considered it. Would the country rise? Would the Hanoverians prove too strong? Only the gods knew; and all the more call was there that Fasnapoll should give a hostage to either side. Then, if the English won, Norman and his family were safe; on the other hand, the Prince, if he were successful, would never harm a man whose brother had drawn the sword for him immediately upon his landing. It was a not unusual arrangement. He must write and explain matters to M. Marcelin.

      He drew the French lawyer’s letter out of his pocket, pulled the candle nearer, and for the first time read it through; read it again with a changed countenance, and then sat very still, staring at the foreign handwriting. For the letter was not, as he had thought at the first hasty glance, a mere enquiry as to the date of his arrival at Girolac; it was an urgent appeal to come at once, to lose not a day. M. d’Ormeuil, the nephew of feu Madame, was claiming the estate on the ground that Madame’s foreign husband had not the right to will away what had originally been her property, and unless the Scottish claimant made great haste the courts would have settled the matter and, the writer greatly feared, in M. d’Ormeuil’s favour. This had been sprung upon M. Marcelin out of the blue; he had had no warning of such a procedure; but unless M. Maclean could be in Bordeaux before the end of August it might, the writer cried with pessimism, be useless his giving himself the trouble to come there at all.

      The end of August! If he left for Perth to-morrow morning . . . yes, he might possibly reach Bordeaux in time . . . more than possibly, certainly. But then—what of his duty to the Cause, to his brother, to his own convictions? And what of Bride and his chance of her hand?

      But Bride was lost if he did not go! For without means and a home how could he ask her to be his wife; and unless he set out instantly for France to fight his case, it was abundantly clear that these would be taken from him ere he had possessed them. Never in that case would he walk among the hot alien vineyards, longing for the sands and the heather of Askay, for the vineyards would never be his. Nor Bride Stewart . . . nor Bride Stewart either!

      Ranald stood leaning against the side of the open window, deaf to the rush of the river, his senses chained by the dumb clamour of an inner struggle where the warring armies swayed now that way, now this . . . though up till now in his life he had found little difficulty in making up his mind. “Deoch slàinte an righ!” the cry had gone round the board this evening, and like all there he had swelled it and lifted an exultant glass. But there would be more than that in following a Prince who had come alone and unbefriended, more than merely drinking the health of James III in Struan Robertson’s punch! Who knew where the road from Borradale would lead them all in the end? And to tread it he at least must forgo safety, possessions and her he had set his heart upon. Nor could he wait: the decision must be taken to-night, before he slept—the double decision. For he, a poor man and in love, must choose not only between his duty—if it were a duty—to the Jacobite cause, and his heritage; but also between his duty to that cause, and Bride Stewart. Two such weighty inducements in one side of the scales against a claim so impalpable, so questionable even—how could a sane man hesitate?

      For some time now the moon had been mounting the southern sky, but Ranald had not marked her progress to serener heights. Now at last he realised that she had topped Schiehallion, full-orbed, and both she and that peak of peaks swam together in almost unimaginable glory. The young man drew a long breath and stood gazing at the sight. Then he turned away and began to make ready for bed. His choice was made.