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

reached Slochd nan Eun unmolested. Surely, too, he would remain there until the soldiers had gone altogether? And, feeling at last some security on that score, Alison sat down and took up a piece of sewing.

      But she had not even threaded her needle before there was a stir and a trampling outside the house, and she jumped up and ran to the window. More soldiers . . . and someone in the midst of them, tightly held—her husband!

      And in that moment Alison knew, and was ashamed of the knowledge, that she must at the bottom of her heart have been hoping that if anyone were captured . . . No, no, she had not hoped that! For Doctor Cameron’s life was in jeopardy, while nothing could happen to Ewen save unpleasantness. In expiation of that half-wish she braced herself to the dissimulation which Ewen had enjoined. She drew the boy beside her away from the window.

      “The soldiers have caught your father, Donald, after all. Remember that you are to pretend not to know who he is, nor what he is doing here.”

      The little boy nodded with bright eyes, and held her hand rather tightly.

      “Will they do anything to me, Mother, for—saying what is not true?”

      “No, darling, not this time. And if they take Father away to Fort William, it is only what he hopes they will do; and he will soon come back to us.”

      By this time the door of the parlour was being unlocked, and in another moment Captain Jackson was striding into the room.

      “Bring him in,” he commanded, half-turning, and the redcoats brought in a rather hot, dishevelled Ardroy, with a smear of blood down his chin, and with four soldiers, no less, holding him firmly by wrists and arms and shoulders. It was not difficult for Alison to show the agitation demanded; indeed there was for an instant the risk that it might exceed its legitimate bounds; but she had herself in hand again at once. Her husband gave her one glance and shook his head almost imperceptibly to show that he had not succeeded in his attempt. Then he looked away again and studied the antlers over the hearth while the sergeant in charge of him made his report, the gist of which was that the prisoner, coming unexpectedly upon them near the lake up there, had led them the devil of a chase; indeed, had he not tripped and fallen, he might have escaped them altogether.

      “Tripped!” thought Alison scornfully—as if Ewen, with his perfect balance and his stag’s fleetness, ever tripped when he was running! He had thrown himself down for them to take, the fools! and that this really was the case she knew from the passing twitch of amusement at the corner of her husband’s bloodstained mouth. But, seeing him standing there in the power of the saighdearan dearga—oh, she wished he had not done it!

      “Well, have you anything to say, ‘Mr. Sinclair’?” demanded Captain Jackson, planting himself in front of the prize. And at the mention of that name both Ewen and his wife knew for certain that they owed this visitation to Doctor Kincaid.

      “Not to you, sir. But I should wish to offer my apologies to Lady Ardroy,” said Ewen, with an inclination of the head in Alison’s direction, “for bringing about an . . . an annoying incident in her house.”

      Captain Jackson shrugged his shoulder. “Very polite of you, egad! But, in that case, why have come here in the first instance?” He moved away a little, got out a paper, and studied it. Then he looked up, frowning.

      “Who are you?” he demanded.

      “Does not your paper tell you that?” asked Ewen pleasantly.

      Alison wondered if the officer thought that he was Lochdornie; but Lochdornie was, she believed, a man between fifty and sixty, and Doctor Cameron in the forties. Surely this officer could not take Ewen for either? Her heart began to lift a little. Captain Jackson, after looking, still with the frown, from Ewen to the paper, and from the paper to Ewen, suddenly folded it up and glared at her.

      “Madam, who is this man?”

      “If I have sheltered him, as you state, is it likely that I should tell you?” asked Alison quietly.

      “Call the servants!” said Captain Jackson to a soldier near the door. “No, wait a moment!” He turned again and pointed at Donald, standing at his mother’s side, his eyes fixed on the captive, who, for his part, was now looking out of the window. “You, boy, do you know who this man is?”

      “Must you drag in a small child——” began Alison indignantly.

      “If you will not answer, yes,” retorted the Englishman. “And he is quite of an age to supplement your unwillingness, madam. Come, boy”—he advanced a little on Donald, “don’t be frightened; I am not going to hurt you. Just tell me now, have you ever seen this man before?”

      The question appeared to Donald extremely amusing, and, since he was not at all frightened, but merely excited, he gave a little laugh.

      “Oh yes, sir.”

      “How often?”

      His mother’s hand on his shoulder gave him a warning pressure. “I . . . I could not count.”

      “Six times—seven times? More? He comes here often, then?”

      Donald considered. One could not say that Father came here; he was here. “No, sir.”

      “He does not come often, eh? How long has he been here this time?”

      Donald, a little perplexed, glanced up at his mother. What was he to say to this? But Captain Jackson now took steps to prevent his receiving any more assistance from that source. He stretched out a hand.

      “No, thank you, Mrs. Cameron! If you won’t speak you shan’t prompt either! Come here, boy.” He drew Donald, without roughness, away, and placed him more in the middle of the room, with his back to his mother. “Have you ever heard this gentleman called ‘Sinclair’?” he asked. “Now, tell the truth!”

      Donald told it. “No, never!” he replied, shaking his golden head.

      “I thought as much! Well now, my boy, I’ll make a guess at what you have heard him called, and you shall tell me if I guess right, eh?” And Captain Jackson, attempting heartiness, smiled somewhat sourly.

      “I’ll not promise,” said the child cautiously.

      “The young devil has been primed!” said the soldier under his breath. Then he shot his query at him as suddenly as possible. “His name is the same as yours—Cameron!”

      Taken aback by this, Donald wrinkled his brows and said nothing.

      “With ‘Doctor’ in front of it—‘Doctor Cameron’?” pursued the inquisitor. “Now, have I not guessed right?”

      “Oh no, sir,” said Donald, relieved.

      Ewen was no longer looking out of the window, and he was frowning more than Captain Jackson had frowned. He had never foreseen Donald’s being harried with questions. “Do you imagine,” he broke in suddenly, “that a man in my shoes is like to have his real name flung about in the hearing of a small child?”

      Captain Jackson paid no heed to this remark. “Now, my boy, you can remember the name quite well if you choose, of that I’m sure. If you don’t choose . . .” He paused suggestively.

      “Take your hand off that child’s shoulder!” commanded Ardroy in a voice so dangerous that, though he had not moved, his guards instinctively took a fresh grip of him.

      “Oho!” said Captain Jackson, transferring his attention at once from the little boy, “is that where the wind blows from? This young mule is a relative of yours?”

      “Is that the only reason a man may have for objecting to see a small child bullied?” asked Ewen hotly. “ ’Tis not the only one in Scotland, I assure you, whatever you English may feel about the matter.”

      But Captain Jackson declined to follow this red herring. “It lies entirely with you, ‘Mr. Sinclair’, to prevent any further questioning.”