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

his gratitude. But once again Doctor Cameron would none of the thanks which he averred he had not deserved. Besides, it was rather good, he observed, to be at the old trade again.

      Ewen looked thoughtfully at his kinsman as the latter leant back in his chair. Archibald Cameron had been greatly beloved in Lochaber where, after his medical studies in Edinburgh and Paris, he had settled down to doctor his brother Lochiel’s people—poor and ignorant patients enough, most of them. Small wonder, however, if he regretted that lost life, quiet, strenuous and happy; whether he did or no it was the second time in a few hours, thought Ewen, that he had referred to it. Ewen could not help thinking also what strange and dangerous activities had been the Doctor’s, man of peace though he was, since that July day in ’45 when his brother the Chief had sent him to Borrodale to dissuade the Prince from going on with his enterprise. He had become the Prince’s aide-de-camp, had taken part in that early and unsuccessful attack on Ruthven barracks during the march to Edinburgh, had been wounded at Falkirk, and shared Lochiel’s perils after Culloden, adding to them his own numerous and perilous journeys as go-between for him with the lost and hunted Prince; it was he who had conveyed the belated French gold from the sea-coast to Loch Arkaig and buried it there. Then had come (as for Ewen too) exile, and anxiety about employment; after Lochiel’s death fresh cares, on behalf of his brother’s young family as well as his own, and more than one hazardous return to the shores where his life was forfeit. If Archibald Cameron had been a soldier born and bred instead of a physician he could not have run more risks. . . .

      “Why do you continue this dangerous work, Archie?” asked Ewen suddenly. “There are others who could do it who have not your family ties. Do you so relish it?”

      Doctor Cameron turned his head, with its haunting likeness to Lochiel’s. He looked as serene as usual. “Why do I go on with it? Because the Prince bade me, and I can refuse him nothing.”

      “But have you seen him recently?” asked Ewen in some excitement.

      “This very month, at Menin in Flanders. He sent for me and MacPhair of Lochdornie and gave me this commission.”

      “Menin! Is that where he lives now?”

      Archibald Cameron shook his head. “It was but a rendezvous. He does not live there.”

      “Tell me of him, Archie!” urged the younger man. “One hears no news . . . and he never comes! Will he ever come again . . . and could we do aught for him if he did?”

      But Archibald Cameron, for all that he had been the Prince’s companion on that fruitless journey to Spain after the ’Forty-five, for all that he was devoted to him, body and soul, could tell the inquirer very little. The Prince, he said, kept himself so close, changed his residence so often; and a cloud of mystery of his own devising surrounded him and his movements. It had been a joy, however, to see his face again; an even greater to be sent upon this hazardous mission by him. Yes, please God, his Royal Highness would come again to Scotland some day, but there was much to be done in preparation first.

      Ewen listened rather sadly. Too many of his questions Archie was unable to answer, and at last the questioner turned to more immediate matters.

      “Did the Prince send for anyone else save you and Lochdornie to meet him at Menin?”

      “There was young Glenshian, the Chief’s son—Finlay MacPhair . . . Fionnlagh Ruadh, as they call him.”

      “Two MacPhairs! I had not fancied you so intimate with those of that name, Archie!”

      “Nor am I,” answered Archibald Cameron quickly. “But one does not choose one’s associates in a matter of this kind.”

      “Or you would not have chosen them?” queried Ewen. Doctor Cameron made no answer. “Why not?” asked Ardroy with a tinge of uneasiness. “I thought that MacPhair of Lochdornie was beyond suspicion. Of young Glenshian I know nothing.”

      “So is Lochdornie beyond suspicion,” answered the elder man. He got up and sought on the mantelshelf for a pine chip to light the still unlighted pipe he was holding, lit the chip at a candle and then, without using it, threw it into the fire. “But he does not think that I am,” he ended drily.

      “Archie! What do you mean?”

      Doctor Cameron waited a moment, looking down into the fire. “You remember that Lochdornie and I were both over in the ’49 after the Loch Arkaig gold, and that with Cluny’s assistance we contrived to take away quite a deal of it?”

      “Yes.”

      “Six thousand pounds of that went to Lady Lochiel and her family. Lochdornie—he’s an honest man and a bonny fighter, but the notion was put into his head by . . . by some third person—Lochdornie accused me of taking the money for myself.”

      “You are jesting, man!” cried Ewen in a tone of horror. “It’s impossible—you are making a mock of me!”

      “No, I am not,” answered his kinsman, with the composure which had only for a moment left him. He sat down again. “That was why I went later to Rome, to the King, to clear myself.”

      “And after that,” said Ewen, leaning forward in his chair, his eyes burning, “you can come over and work side by side with MacPhair of Lochdornie! Why, in your place, I could not trust my fingers near my dirk!”

      Doctor Cameron looked at him rather sadly. “It’s well for you, perhaps, that you are not a conspirator, Ewen. A man finds himself treading sometimes in miry ways and slippery on that road, and he’s lucky who can come through without someone calling him a blackguard. Remember, Lochdornie’s a MacPhair, and our clans have so often been at variance that there’s some excuse for him. And indeed I can put up with a MacPhair’s doubts of me so long as our Prince does not think that any of the gold has stuck to my fingers; and that he does not, thank God! Heigh-ho, my poor Jean and the children would be going about at this moment in Lille with stouter shoes to their feet if it had!” He smiled rather ruefully. “Lochdornie and I sink our difference, and get on well enough for our joint purpose. At any rate, I do not have to suspect him; he’s as loyal as the day . . . and when all’s said, he has never thought me more than mercenary. ’Tis for the Prince’s sake, Ewen; he sent me, and I came.”

      Ewen looked at him for a moment without speaking, and marvelled. To consent to work with a man who doubted one’s honesty was in his eyes a pitch of devotion more wonderful than was Doctor Cameron’s actual return to Scotland with a rope round his neck. He did not believe that his own pride would have permitted him to make so sharp a sacrifice.

      “And to think that it was on Lochdornie’s account—or so I believed at the time—that I turned back yesterday!” he said in a tone which suggested that he was not likely ever to repeat the action.

      “No, you did it for the sake of our dear Prince,” said his cousin instantly. “And wasn’t that the best motive you could have had?”

      Ardroy did not answer; he was frowning. “Is young MacPhair of Glenshian in the Highlands too?”

      “No, he remains in London. He is thought to be more useful there.”

      “Why, what does he do there? But that brings to my mind, Archie—what is this cock-and-bull story which Hector has got hold of, about a plot to kidnap the Elector and his family? He called it ‘kidnap’, but I guessed the term to cover something worse. He coupled it, too, with the name of Alexander Murray of Elibank.”

      “Hector is a very indiscreet young man,” said Doctor Cameron.

      Ewen’s face clouded still more. “It is true, then, not an idle tale?”

      “It is true,” said Doctor Cameron with evident reluctance, “that there is such a scheme afoot.”

      “And I refused to believe or at least to approve it!” exclaimed Ewen. “That indeed was why Hector left the house in anger. I swore that the Prince, who was so set against the idea of an enemy’s being taken off, could not know of it, and that you of all men could