THE MASTER OF BALLANTRAE (Illustrated). Robert Louis Stevenson

with King James. But if you go, and the expedition fails, we divide the right and the title. And what shall I be then?”

      “You will be Lord Durrisdeer,” said the Master. “I put all I have upon the table.”

      “I play at no such game,” cries Mr. Henry. “I shall be left in such a situation as no man of sense and honour could endure. I shall be neither fish nor flesh!” he cried. And a little after he had another expression, plainer perhaps than he intended. “It is your duty to be here with my father,” said he. “You know well enough you are the favourite.”

      “Ay?” said the Master. “And there spoke Envy! Would you trip up my heels - Jacob?” said he, and dwelled upon the name maliciously.

      Mr. Henry went and walked at the low end of the hall without reply; for he had an excellent gift of silence. Presently he came back.

      “I am the cadet and I SHOULD go,” said he. “And my lord here in the master, and he says I SHALL go. What say ye to that, my brother?”

      “I say this, Harry,” returned the Master, “that when very obstinate folk are met, there are only two ways out: Blows - and I think none of us could care to go so far; or the arbitrament of chance - and here is a guinea piece. Will you stand by the toss of the coin?”

      “I will stand and fall by it,” said Mr. Henry. “Heads, I go; shield, I stay.”

      The coin was spun, and it fell shield. “So there is a lesson for

       Jacob,” says the Master.

      “We shall live to repent of this,” says Mr. Henry, and flung out of the hall.

      As for Miss Alison, she caught up that piece of gold which had just sent her lover to the wars, and flung it clean through the family shield in the great painted window.

      “If you loved me as well as I love you, you would have stayed,” cried she.

      “‘I could not love you, dear, so well, loved I not honour more,’“ sang the Master.

      “Oh!” she cried, “you have no heart - I hope you may be killed!” and she ran from the room, and in tears, to her own chamber.

      It seems the Master turned to my lord with his most comical manner, and says he, “This looks like a devil of a wife.”

      “I think you are a devil of a son to me,” cried his father, “you that have always been the favourite, to my shame be it spoken. Never a good hour have I gotten of you, since you were born; no, never one good hour,” and repeated it again the third time. Whether it was the Master’s levity, or his insubordination, or Mr. Henry’s word about the favourite son, that had so much disturbed my lord, I do not know; but I incline to think it was the last, for I have it by all accounts that Mr. Henry was more made up to from that hour.

      Altogether it was in pretty ill blood with his family that the Master rode to the North; which was the more sorrowful for others to remember when it seemed too late. By fear and favour he had scraped together near upon a dozen men, principally tenants’ sons; they were all pretty full when they set forth, and rode up the hill by the old abbey, roaring and singing, the white cockade in every hat. It was a desperate venture for so small a company to cross the most of Scotland unsupported; and (what made folk think so the more) even as that poor dozen was clattering up the hill, a great ship of the king’s navy, that could have brought them under with a single boat, lay with her broad ensign streaming in the bay. The next afternoon, having given the Master a fair start, it was Mr. Henry’s turn; and he rode off, all by himself, to offer his sword and carry letters from his father to King George’s Government. Miss Alison was shut in her room, and did little but weep, till both were gone; only she stitched the cockade upon the Master’s hat, and (as John Paul told me) it was wetted with tears when he carried it down to him.

      In all that followed, Mr. Henry and my old lord were true to their bargain. That ever they accomplished anything is more than I could learn; and that they were anyway strong on the king’s side, more than believe. But they kept the letter of loyalty, corresponded with my Lord President, sat still at home, and had little or no commerce with the Master while that business lasted. Nor was he, on his side, more communicative. Miss Alison, indeed, was always sending him expresses, but I do not know if she had many answers. Macconochie rode for her once, and found the highlanders before Carlisle, and the Master riding by the Prince’s side in high favour; he took the letter (so Macconochie tells), opened it, glanced it through with a mouth like a man whistling, and stuck it in his belt, whence, on his horse passageing, it fell unregarded to the ground. It was Macconochie who picked it up; and he still kept it, and indeed I have seen it in his hands. News came to Durrisdeer of course, by the common report, as it goes travelling through a country, a thing always wonderful to me. By that means the family learned more of the Master’s favour with the Prince, and the ground it was said to stand on: for by a strange condescension in a man so proud - only that he was a man still more ambitious - he was said to have crept into notability by truckling to the Irish. Sir Thomas Sullivan, Colonel Burke and the rest, were his daily comrades, by which course he withdrew himself from his own countryfolk. All the small intrigues he had a hand in fomenting; thwarted my Lord George upon a thousand points; was always for the advice that seemed palatable to the Prince, no matter if it was good or bad; and seems upon the whole (like the gambler he was all through life) to have had less regard to the chances of the campaign than to the greatness of favour he might aspire to, if, by any luck, it should succeed. For the rest, he did very well in the field; no one questioned that; for he was no coward.

      The next was the news of Culloden, which was brought to Durrisdeer by one of the tenants’ sons - the only survivor, he declared, of all those that had gone singing up the hill. By an unfortunate chance John Paul and Macconochie had that very morning found the guinea piece - which was the root of all the evil - sticking in a holly bush; they had been “up the gait,” as the servants say at Durrisdeer, to the changehouse; and if they had little left of the guinea, they had less of their wits. What must John Paul do but burst into the hall where the family sat at dinner, and cry the news to them that “Tam Macmorland was but new lichtit at the door, and - wirra, wirra - there were nane to come behind him”?

      They took the word in silence like folk condemned; only Mr. Henry carrying his palm to his face, and Miss Alison laying her head outright upon her hands. As for my lord, he was like ashes.

      “I have still one son,” says he. “And, Henry, I will do you this justice - it is the kinder that is left.”

      It was a strange thing to say in such a moment; but my lord had never forgotten Mr. Henry’s speech, and he had years of injustice on his conscience. Still it was a strange thing, and more than Miss Alison could let pass. She broke out and blamed my lord for his unnatural words, and Mr. Henry because he was sitting there in safety when his brother lay dead, and herself because she had given her sweetheart ill words at his departure, calling him the flower of the flock, wringing her hands, protesting her love, and crying on him by his name - so that the servants stood astonished.

      Mr. Henry got to his feet, and stood holding his chair. It was he that was like ashes now.

      “Oh!” he burst out suddenly, “I know you loved him.”

      “The world knows that, glory be to God!” cries she; and then to Mr. Henry: “There is none but me to know one thing - that you were a traitor to him in your heart.”

      “God knows,” groans he, “it was lost love on both sides.”

      Time went by in the house after that without much change; only they were now three instead of four, which was a perpetual reminder of their loss. Miss Alison’s money, you are to bear in mind, wag highly needful for the estates; and the one brother being dead, my old lord soon set his heart upon her marrying the other. Day in, day out, he would work upon her, sitting by the chimney-side with his finger in his Latin book, and his eyes set upon her face with a kind of pleasant intentness that became the old gentleman very well. If she wept, he would condole with her like an ancient man that has