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

VII. An Explanation at the Goats’ Whey

       Chapter VIII. The Only Safety

       Chapter IX. Other People’s Love Affairs

       Chapter X. Father and Son

       Chapter XI. Ian Stewart Listens to the Devil

       Chapter XII. “Out, Sword, and to a Sore Purpose!”

       Chapter XIII. Castle Dangerous

       Chapter XIV. “Will You Walk Into My Parlour?”

       Chapter XV. On the Verge

       Chapter XVI. Another in the Toils

       Chapter XVII. Deliverance

       Chapter XVIII. Ian Does Some Hard Things

       Chapter XIX. Finlay’s Tool . . . ?

       Chapter XX. In a Green Riding Habit

       Chapter XXI. Torment

       Chapter XXII. The Counter Thrust

       Chapter XXIII. The Stream in Spate

       Chapter XXIV. “Ask Mr. Maitland . . .”

       Chapter XXV. “He Forgave . . .”

       Chapter XXVI. A Life for a Life

       Chapter XXVII. Light in the Dark Mile

       Chapter XXVIII. The King of Lochlann’s Daughter

      PROLOGUE

       THE THIRTEENTH CHIEF

       Table of Contents

      § 1

      Its own peculiarly vehement and gusty wind was curvetting about Edinburgh this October afternoon of 1754, forerunner and abettor of the brief but wholehearted squalls of rain which now and then were let loose upon the defenceless city, and sent every pedestrian running to the nearest doorway. Yet between these cloudbursts it was fine enough, and during one of these sunny intervals a young man in black, holding on to his hat, walked quickly up the slope of the Canongate. His long stride accorded well with his fine height and build, and though his mourning was new and very deep, there was no trace of recent bereavement in his air. Indeed—despite the difficulty with his hat—he held his head with a sort of natural arrogance, and his glance at his surroundings in general was something that of a newly-crowned monarch surveying his territory and subjects. For only six weeks had elapsed since the earth had been shovelled down upon his old father’s coffin in the roofless chapel of Holyrood, and the son who bore him no particular affection was come at twenty-nine into his inheritance as thirteenth Chief of Glenshian . . . into possession of a ruined castle, an empty treasury, and immense prestige in the Western Highlands. But he already possessed some very singular assets of his own.

      Just where the High Street, having succeeded the Canongate, gave way in its turn to the Lawnmarket, this Highland gentleman came to an abrupt and apparently unpremeditated halt in front of a small shop-window. It was rather a dingy window with bulging panes, evidently, from its contents, the property of a vendor of almanacs and broad-sheets; but the new Chief’s attention was pretty plainly engaged by a roughly-executed wood engraving which was propped, unframed, against a pile of books in the very centre of the window. There was nothing about this to distinguish it from any other equally bad print of the time; one could only say that it was a stock representation of a man of early middle age. But the inscription ran, “A True Effigies of Doctor Archibald Cameron, who lately suffered Death at Tyburn for High Treason.”

      At this “effigies” the young man in black stood looking with a frown, and a deepening frown. Regret, no doubt, was heavy upon him (since he too was a partisan of the White Rose) and a natural if vain desire for vengeance upon the English Government which, only a year and four months before, had sent his fellow-Jacobite and compatriot to the scaffold.

      It would have required a more than human insight to discover what was really causing that scowl; more insight, certainly, than was possessed by the middle-aged, down-at-heels and partially drunken Edinburgh chairman who was lounging at the entrance of the close by the shop, and looking at the tall, stationary figure with a gaze half sodden and half cunning. Once, indeed, he detached himself from the dark and greasy wall of the entry as though to accost it; then, muttering something inaudible, relapsed once more against his support.

      Yet, for all that, he was to speak to the gentleman in black; the Fates would have it so, desiring no doubt to show that they at least could read the mind of Finlay MacPhair of Glenshian. Nevertheless it would not have come about but for this day’s inclement weather. For while the young Chief, his hand at his chin, yet stood looking at the dead Jacobite’s portrait, the heavens without warning opened afresh, and there descended such an unmitigated flood of water that no one, save an amphibian, would willingly have endured it. Mr. MacPhair in his new blacks uttered an exclamation, took hold of the handle of the shop door, discovered that it was fastened, cursed strongly, and turning, hurled himself into the mouth of the adjacent close, almost colliding with the lounger already there.

      “A bit o’ a shooer!” observed the latter in a wheezy voice. He looked as if neither internally nor externally was he over-familiar with the fluid of which the cataract Was composed.

      Mr. MacPhair gave him a contemptuous glance and said nothing. The rain flashed in sheets past the entry and drummed and bounced upon the cobbles.

      “Sae ye were keekin’ at the puir Doctor’s picter in the windy,” commented the chairman, who, unlike most of his kind, was plainly a Lowlander. “Dod, yon was a fearfu’ end, a fearfu’ end! Mony’s the time Ah hae regretted it—mony’s the time Ah hae been near greetin’ ower it.”

      “You must be uncommon tenderhearted,” observed Finlay MacPhair indifferently, and, looking out, cursed the downpour with precision.

      “Nae mair than anither!” returned his companion in an injured tone. “Nae mair than yersel’, sir! Hendry Shand is no’ gi’en tae greetin’. But Ah’d hae ye ken that there’s whiles sic a thing as remorrse—aye, remorrse.” He sighed windily. “The worrm the Guid Buik tells o’ . . . Ye’ll be ower young, Ah’m thinkin’, tae ken it yersel’.”

      “I may run the risk of knowing it