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 Caesar. 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
