Catriona
would not be alone either; there must be more along with him; I daresay
we are spied upon this minute. Ay, no doubt, the letter should be
opened; but somehow, not by you nor me.”
I was about thus far with it, and my spirit very much overcome with a
sense of danger and hidden enemies, when I spied Alan, come back again
from following James and walking by himself among the sand-hills. He
was in his soldier’s coat, of course, and mighty fine; but I could not
avoid to shudder when I thought how little that jacket would avail him,
if he were once caught and flung in a skiff, and carried on board of
the _Seahorse_, a deserter, a rebel, and now a condemned murderer.
“There,” said I, “there is the man that has the best right to open it:
or not, as he thinks fit.”
With which I called upon his name, and we both stood up to be a mark
for him.
“If it is so—if it be more disgrace—will you can bear it?” she asked,
looking upon me with a burning eye.
“I was asked something of the same question when I had seen you but the
once,” said I. “What do you think I answered? That if I liked you as I
thought I did—and O, but I like you better!—I would marry you at his
gallows’ foot.”
The blood rose in her face; she came close up and pressed upon me,
holding my hand: and it was so that we awaited Alan.
He came with one of his queer smiles. “What was I telling ye, David?”
says he.
“There is a time for all things, Alan,” said I, “and this time is
serious. How have you sped? You can speak out plain before this friend
of ours.”
“I have been upon a fool’s errand,” said he.
“I doubt we have done better than you, then,” said I; “and, at least,
here is a great deal of matter that you must judge of. Do you see
that?” I went on, pointing to the ship. “That is the _Seahorse_,
Captain Palliser.”
“I should ken her, too,” says Alan. “I had fyke enough with her when
she was stationed in the Forth. But what ails the man to come so
close?”
“I will tell you why he came there first,” said I. “It was to bring
this letter to James More. Why he stops here now that it’s delivered,
what it’s likely to be about, why there’s an officer hiding in the
bents, and whether or not it’s probable that he’s alone—I would rather
you considered for yourself.”
“A letter to James More?” said he.
“The same,” said I.
“Well, and I can tell ye more than that,” said Alan. “For the last
night, when you were fast asleep, I heard the man colloguing with some
one in the French, and then the door of that inn to be opened and
shut.”
“Alan!” cried I, “you slept all night, and I am here to prove it.”
“Ay, but I would never trust Alan whether he was asleep or waking!”
says he. “But the business looks bad. Let’s see the letter.”
I gave it him.
“Catriona,” said he, “you have to excuse me, my dear; but there’s
nothing less than my fine bones upon the cast of it, and I’ll have to
break this seal.”
“It is my wish,” said Catriona.
He opened it, glanced it through, and flung his hand in the air.
“The stinking brock!” says he, and crammed the paper in his pocket.
“Here, let’s get our things together. This place is fair death to me.”
And he began to walk towards the inn.
It was Catriona that spoke the first. “He has sold you?” she asked.
“Sold me, my dear,” said Alan. “But thanks to you and Davie, I’ll can
jink him yet. Just let me win upon my horse,” he added.
“Catriona must come with us,” said I. “She can have no more traffic
with that man. She and I are to be married.” At which she pressed my
hand to her side.
“Are ye there with it?” says Alan, looking back. “The best day’s work
that ever either of you did yet! And I’m bound to say, my dawtie, ye
make a real, bonny couple.”
The way that he was following brought us close in by the windmill,
where I was aware of a man in seaman’s trousers, who seemed to be
spying from behind it. Only, of course, we took him in the rear.
“See, Alan!”
“Wheesht!” said, he, “this is my affairs.”
The man was, no doubt, a little deafened by the clattering of the mill,
and we got up close before he noticed. Then he turned, and we saw he
was a big fellow with a mahogany face.
“I think, sir,” says Alan, “that you speak the English?”
“_Non_, _monsieur_,” says he, with an incredible bad accent.
“_Non_, _monsieur_,” cries Alan, mocking him. “Is that how they learn
you French on the _Seahorse_? Ye muckle, gutsey hash, here’s a Scots
boot to your English hurdies!”
And bounding on him before he could escape, he dealt the man a kick
that laid him on his nose. Then he stood, with a savage smile, and
watched him scramble to his feet and scamper off into the sand-hills.
“But it’s high time I was clear of these empty bents!” said Alan; and
continued his way at top speed, and we still following, to the backdoor
of Bazin’s inn.
It chanced that as we entered by the one door we came face to face with
James More entering by the other.
“Here!” said I to Catriona, “quick! upstairs with you and make your
packets; this is no fit scene for you.”
In the meanwhile James and Alan had met in the midst of the long room.
She passed them close by to reach the stairs; and after she was some
way up I saw her turn and glance at them again, though without pausing.
Indeed, they were worth looking at. Alan wore as they met one of his
best appearances of courtesy and friendliness, yet with something
eminently warlike, so that James smelled danger off the man, as folk
smell fire in a house, and stood prepared for accidents.
Time pressed. Alan’s situation in that solitary place, and his enemies
about him, might have daunted Cæsar. It made no change in him; and it
was in his old spirit of mockery and daffing that he began the
interview.
“A braw good day to ye again, Mr. Drummond,” said he. “What’ll yon
business of yours be just about?”
“Why, the thing being private, and rather of a long story,” says James,
“I think it will keep very well till we have eaten.”
“I’m none so sure of that,” said Alan. “It sticks in my mind it’s
either now or never; for the fact is me and Mr. Balfour here have
gotten a line, and we’re thinking of the road.”
I saw a little surprise in James’s eye; but he held himself stoutly.
“I have but the one word to say to cure you of that,” said he, “and
that is the name of my business.”
“Say it then,” says Alan. “Hout! wha minds for Davie?”
“It is a matter that would make us both rich men,” said James.
“Do you tell me that?” cries Alan.
“I do, sir,” said James. “The plain fact is that it is Cluny’s
Treasure.”
“No!” cried Alan. “Have ye got word of it?”
“I ken the place, Mr. Stewart, and can take you there,” said James.
“This crowns all!” says Alan. “Well, and I’m glad I came to Dunkirk.
And so this was your business, was it? Halvers, I’m thinking?”
“That is the business, sir,” said James.
“Well, well,” said Alan; and then in the same tone of childlike
interest, “it has naething to do with the _Seahorse_, then?” he asked.
“With what?” says James.
“Or the lad that I have just kicked the bottom of behind yon windmill?”
pursued Alan. “Hut, man! have done with your lees! I have Palliser’s
letter here in my pouch. You’re by with it, James More. You can never
show your face again with dacent folk.”
James was taken all aback with it. He stood a second, motionless and
white, then swelled with the living anger.
“Do you talk to me, you bastard?” he roared out.
“Ye glee’d swine!” cried Alan, and hit him a sounding buffet on the
mouth, and the next wink of time their blades clashed together.
At the first sound of the bare steel I instinctively leaped back from
the collision. The next I saw, James parried a thrust so nearly that I
thought him killed; and it lowed up in my mind that this was the girl’s
father, and in a manner almost my own, and I drew and ran in to sever
them.
“Keep back, Davie! Are ye daft! Damn ye, keep back!” roared Alan. “Your
blood be on your ain heid then!”
I beat their blades down twice. I was knocked reeling against the wall;
I was back again betwixt them. They took no heed of me, thrusting at
each other like two furies. I can never think how I avoided being
stabbed myself or stabbing one of these two Rodomonts, and the whole
business turned about me like a piece of a dream; in the midst of which
I heard a great cry from the stair, and Catriona sprang before her
father. In the same moment the point of my sword encountered some thing
yielding. It came back to me reddened. I saw the blood flow on the
girl’s kerchief, and stood sick.
“Will you be killing him before my eyes, and me his daughter after
all!” she cried.
“My dear, I have done with him,” said Alan, and went, and sat on a
table, with his arms crossed and the sword naked in his hand.
Awhile she stood before the man, panting, with big eyes, then swung
suddenly about and faced him.
“Begone!” was her word, “take your shame out of my sight; leave me with
clean folk. I am a daughter of Alpin! Shame of the sons of Alpin,
begone!”
It was said with so much passion as awoke me from the horror of my own
bloodied sword. The two stood facing, she with the red stain on her
kerchief, he white as a rag. I knew him well enough—I knew it must have
pierced him in the quick place of his soul; but he betook himself to a
bravado air.
“Why,” says he, sheathing his sword, though still with a bright eye on
Alan, “if this brawl is over I will but get my portmanteau—”
“There goes no pockmantie out of this place except with me,” says Alan.
“Sir!” cries James.
“James More,” says Alan, “this lady daughter of yours is to marry my
friend Davie, upon the which account I let you pack with a hale
carcase. But take you my advice of it and get that carcase out of
harm’s way or ower late. Little as you suppose it, there are leemits to
my temper.”
“Be damned, sir, but my money’s there!” said James.
“I’m vexed about that, too,” says Alan, with his funny face, “but now,
ye see, it’s mines.” And then with more gravity, “Be you advised, James
More, you leave this house.”
James seemed to cast about for a moment in his mind; but it’s to be
thought he had enough of Alan’s swordsmanship, for he suddenly put off
his hat to us and (with a face like one of the damned) bade us farewell
in a series. With which he was gone.
At the same time a spell was lifted from me.
“Catriona,” I cried, “it was me—it was my sword. O, are you much hurt?”
“I know it, Davie, I am loving you for the pain of it; it was done
defending that bad man, my father. See!” she said, and showed me a
bleeding scratch, “see, you have made a man of me now. I will carry a
wound like an old soldier.”
Joy that she should be so little hurt, and the love of her brave
nature, supported me. I embraced her, I kissed the wound.
“And am I to be out of the kissing, me that never lost a chance?” says
Alan; and putting me aside and taking Catriona by either shoulder, “My
dear,” he said, “you’re a true daughter of Alpin. By all accounts, he
was a very fine man, and he may weel be proud of you. If ever I was to
get married, it’s the marrow of you I would be seeking for a mother to
my sons. And I bear’s a king’s name and speak the truth.”
He said it with a serious heat of admiration that was honey to the
girl, and through her, to me. It seemed to wipe us clean of all James
More’s disgraces. And the next moment he was just himself again.
“And now by your leave, my dawties,” said he, “this is a’ very bonny;
but Alan Breck’ll be a wee thing nearer to the gallows than he’s caring
for; and Dod! I think this is a grand place to be leaving.”
The word recalled us to some wisdom. Alan ran upstairs and returned
with our saddle-bags and James More’s portmanteau; I picked up