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Title:   The Mac's of '37. A Story of The Canadian Rebellion.
Author: Price-Brown, John (1844-1938)
Date of first publication: 1910
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   Toronto: McLeod & Allen, 1910
Date first posted: 27 November 2010
Date last updated: 27 November 2010
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #665

This ebook was produced by:
Marcia Brooks, Ross Cooling
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net

This ebook was produced from images generously made
available by the Internet Archive/University of Toronto
- John M. Kelly Library




  The Mac's of '37

  [Illustration]

  PRICE-BROWN




  _The Mac's of '37_

  _A Story of_

  _The Canadian Rebellion_

  _By_

  _Price-Brown_

  _Author of "In the Van," etc._

  _Toronto_

  _McLeod & Allen_

  _Publishers_




  Copyright, Canada, 1910
  By PRICE-BROWN, TORONTO


  Press of
  The Hunter-Rose Co., Ltd.
  Toronto




  CONTENTS


  PART I.

  CHAPTER.                                        PAGE.

     I. The Governor and His Guests                   1

    II. The Trip on the "Transit"                     7

   III. Prospective Rebellion                        13

    IV. The Wreck of Marie's Canoe                   22

     V. The Deliberations of the Malcontents         33

    VI. Mad Madge's Songs                            40

   VII. Meeting of Lieutenant Stuart with Harry
        Thompson                                     50

  VIII. Dr. Rolph and the Operation                  55

    IX. Marie in Conference                          60

     X. Commodore MacAlpine's Meeting with His
        Daughter                                     69

    XI. Mrs. Boulton's Reception at Holland
        House                                        78

   XII. The Voyage Home                              92

  XIII. Jessie's Visit to the Eagle's Eyrie         103


  PART II.

     I. The Beginning of the Rebellion              109

    II. Final Consultation with the Colonel         118

   III. Shooting of Colonel Moodie and Captain
        Anderson                                    127

    IV. The First Skirmish                          137

     V. The Battle of Montgomery's Tavern           147

    VI. The Manliness of Ogilvie                    156

   VII. Incidents of MacKenzie's Race for Liberty   167

  VIII. A Cupboard as a Hiding-place                175

    IX. Arrested as a Horse Thief                   185

     X. Reaching the River                          196

    XI. The Burning of the "Caroline"               215


  PART III.

     I. The Eagle's Eyrie at Fingal's Notch         229

    II. The Piping of the Loon                      241

   III. The Attack Upon the "Bulldog"               251

    IV. Marie's Night on the Water                  258

     V. Madge Again                                 265

    VI. The Long Wait                               272

   VII. The Bringing Home of Charlie                277

  VIII. The Prophetic Vision                        284

    IX. The Burning of the Eagle's Eyrie            288

     X. The Escape to the Cave                      296

    XI. The Bringing of Andrew                      302

   XII. Meeting of Stuart and Marie                 309

  XIII. Revealing the Secret                        318

   XIV. Back to the Eyrie Cave                      323

    XV. The Passing of the "King"                   328




  THE MAC'S OF '37

  PART I

  CHAPTER I.

  THE GOVERNOR AND HIS GUESTS.


Marie's school days were over. This was her first day off; and by
invitation from Lady Head, she and her friend, Jessie, were guests at
Government House.

The Governor's wife had taken a strong fancy to the tall, fair-haired
girl. Queenly in figure, supple and graceful, with grey-blue eyes, teeth
like pearls, and arms that Juno might have envied, it would be a wonder
if she had not. Marie's principal charm, however, was the expression of
her face. It was the kaleidoscope of her soul. The varied emotions of
her mind, like sunshine and shadow, chased each other in quick
succession over her features, for notwithstanding her youthfulness, her
few years had been full of thought.

Marie's life had been a strange one. Motherless from childhood, she had
lived through many of her early years with her father at his favorite
haunt. This was the island of Fingal's Notch, one of the Thousand that
usher Lake Ontario into the St. Lawrence River. There in her girlhood,
summer after summer, enchanted by the ever-varying beauties which
surrounded her, she had paddled like a fairy queen; yet, like a goddess
from the Sagas of the Northland, she was unconscious of their influence
upon her.

Two years had passed by since she, a maid in her teens, came to the
Bradley School in the little city; and the chaos of the new life,
cramped within walls that were to be both school and home, lived in her
memory ever afterwards. Still her inherent candor, and the primitive
charm of her manner, had won the hearts of her teachers; and the
stripling maiden, who could swim like a mermaid, and run through the
island woods like a deer, learned to be content in her school life and
to love those who taught her.

During these long years, however, she had not once returned to her
island home. Now, the suspense was to be broken, the school days were
over, and the home journey at hand. It was from her father that the
message came; but while pleasant to think of, it was a surprise, for the
prospective three years at College were suddenly and unaccountably cut
down to two, and this was to be the end.

A strange unrest, Marie had often understood, was beginning to be felt
among the people; disturbing rumors were in the air; and although her
father in his letter did not refer to the subject, Marie believed that
this had much to do with her sudden recall.

"I intend to keep both of you until the evening," said their hostess as
she greeted them. "It is such a pleasant day, that we shall probably
spend the afternoon upon the water; and I shall take the liberty of
sending you home by moonlight."

"Such delightful news!" returned Marie in an animated tone. "I am sure
Miss Bradley will not object, now that school is over."

"We need not care much if she does," was Jessie's laughing comment. "We
are her ladyship's soldiers under orders."

"I am not sure of Sir Francis' approval," said Lady Head. "Still I think
I can manage it, although he is a stern disciplinarian, and we are
living in troublous times. I am arranging for a little water trip beyond
the island on the steamer _Transit_. She is now in port, and we are to
start this afternoon, to return in time for dinner--provided, of course,
that Sir Francis does not seriously object."

"How good of you to give us such a treat!" was Marie's further response.
"I have not been on a steamer since my father brought me here two years
ago on our little _Petrel_."

"Does your father own a lake steamer?" Lady Head asked in a surprised
tone.

"Yes, he has several."

"And yet he never came to see you?"

"He believed that I would insist on returning with him if he did; and I
am sure that I should have done any time during the first year."

"After that you became contented!"

"Yes, your Ladyship. I learned to appreciate my advantages."

"Your father evidently understood his daughter--a very reasonable man."

"Yes, stern as well as kind. While I always loved him, I dreaded him
fully as much."

"But the dread will depart when you return home. Young ladies are rarely
afraid of their fathers."

Marie's face for a moment became grave.

"When is he coming for you?" Jessie asked.

"In two days--again on the _Petrel_."

"I must see him this time," said Lady Head, looking directly into
Marie's face. "Sir Francis, too, will wish to talk with him; he wants to
know every good man we have in these rebellious days."

Marie felt uneasy. She did not know exactly why--but she did not think
that her father would care to see the Governor.

"I am afraid my father will be shy, and would rather not see anyone but
his own little girl, as he used to call me," she replied, looking
frankly into Lady Head's face. "But it is very kind of you to mention
it. You are always good to me; I can never be too grateful."

"Hoity, toity, child," replied her ladyship, repressing a sense of
pique. "Ah! yonder comes Sir Francis and Lieutenant Stuart of the
_Transit_. He is youngest son of Lord Vancroft, and claims lineal
descent from the Stuarts."

Marie started, and glanced quickly across the lawn at the approaching
gentlemen.

"That is Marie's name," said Jessie in a lower key. "Do you know, Lady
Head, that she is descended from the Stuarts, too?"

"Oh! why did you mention it?" cried Marie, her face flushing vividly.

"It is nothing to be ashamed of!" exclaimed their hostess. "But
Lieutenant Stuart does not resemble you in the least. Like Jessie, here,
he's dark enough to be a Spaniard. Oh! Sir Francis, you see I have my
young friends again."

"Yes," replied the Governor, gravely, "such winsome young ladies are
always welcome."

And introducing Stuart, the conversation continued.

The young man's eyes soon rested on Marie, and tall though she was, he
looked down from his greater height with pleasure into her animated
face.

"I have just invited Miss MacAlpine and Miss Stedman to join our party,
Sir Francis," exclaimed his wife. "I feel sure that the Captain of the
_Transit_ will not object."

"I can vouch for that," put in the lieutenant.

"I am always delighted to extend the courtesies of life to young
ladies," reiterated Sir Francis, impressively patting the nearest one on
the shoulder; "and I am glad to have the opportunity of seeing and
examining the _Transit_. It looks like a serviceable boat, Lieutenant."

"So it is, sir. Well manned and well armed. We have a couple of guns,
too, on board, as good as any that are on the lakes."

"That is satisfactory. What is more, we may need them before the year is
out, in the Lower Province, if not in this."

"The very reason that we are here, sir. Captain Jerrold has been
sounding the plummet all along the line; and he says that one cannot
tell how soon the first break may come, either from MacKenzie here or
Papineau there."

"True enough," muttered the Governor beneath his breath. "Confound that
MacKenzie! Expelled from the House three times, and last year defeated
at the polls; and yet utterly irrepressible."

"Yes, so I heard."

"Two of the biggest rebels of the century. I am amazed that the people
are such idiots as to believe in them."

"Not all the people, surely."

"No, of course not; but there are enough to make it unpleasant for the
bulk of the community, who, I am happy to believe, are thoroughly
loyal."

"Ah! I see that the children are out again and our lunch is announced,"
said Lady Head. "We shall not have much time to spare, for I believe the
_Transit_ leaves the wharf at--"

"Half-past two!" exclaimed Lieutenant Stuart.

"Provided we are ready," added the Governor, emphatically.

"Certainly, Sir Francis."

And crossing the lawn, they entered Government House.




CHAPTER II.

THE TRIP ON THE TRANSIT.


They were notable people that the _Transit_ carried out upon Lake
Ontario that glorious afternoon. Captain Jerrold had sent a cordial
invitation to the Lieutenant-Governor and his friends; thus affording
his Excellency a favorable opportunity for a special meeting of the
leading members of his Council, to consider certain important political
problems which were then demanding the most serious consideration at his
hands. At the same time it afforded the ladies the privilege of an
outing upon an armed steamer, something much prized by the fair sex in
those early days.

"Let my Cabinet have the forward saloon to ourselves for an hour," said
Sir Francis, confidentially buttonholing the Attorney-General as soon as
they had passed the island. "I have something important to communicate.
The Captain has promised that we shall not be disturbed; and we might
meet at once."

"Very well, sir. I see the Solicitor-General talking with Col.
Fitzgibbon, and yonder are Sheriff Jarvis and some others."

"Have them all come."

For a few moments the Governor talked to the ladies, and then, followed
by the other gentlemen, he led the way to the saloon.

"I'm going to make the most of my opportunity," said Stuart to Marie
with a laugh, as the door closed upon the last man, "for Sir Francis
says that I may be sent for before their session is over."

"Possibly they may want to intrust you with state secrets," replied
Marie, carelessly; "I suppose gentlemen enjoy such things."

"Some do," was the rejoinder, "but it is the intervening hour that I
prize. They won't want to discuss matters of importance with a
subaltern."

"Still you might have something to communicate."

"Perhaps the incidents of the journey from the ocean westward," he
replied.

"You came up the St. Lawrence?" said Marie, her interest increasing.

"Yes, by Prescott and Kingston and the Thousand Isles."

"The Thousand Isles! One of them is my home."

"Which one has that honor, Miss MacAlpine, may I ask?"

"Fingal's Notch," was her prompt answer.

"Fingal's Notch!" he exclaimed, in a tone of astonishment.

"What of it? Does it surprise you?" she asked, turning her eyes
enquiringly upon him.

"Rather--well--not exactly," he returned, gathering himself together
again. "There are so many of them--and all so picturesque--you can
scarcely tell one from another."

"That's because you are not familiar with them. When a child I paddled
among them so much that I learned to know each one by name; and no two
of them are alike."

"You paddled, you say; not by yourself?"

"Yes," she replied with a low musical laugh, "why not?"

"Of course, you may well ask, 'Why not?' I am displaying my ignorance of
your Western ways."

"Miss MacAlpine is a skilled canoeist," remarked Jessie, in vindication
of her friend. "Many a time has she paddled across the bay to the island
and back."

"Only during holidays, though," said Marie; "Bradley School regulations
forbid it during term."

"But term being over, I should like to see how you do it," was his
response.

"See her do what, Lieutenant Stuart?" exclaimed their hostess, who
happened to catch the last words.

"See her paddle her canoe all the way across this beautiful bay of
yours," he replied, with a dramatic sweep of his arm.

"That's something I never heard of," said Lady Head, in a tone of
mingled surprise and disapproval. "It is certainly a dangerous thing for
any girl to attempt. It cannot surely be true."

"I confess, Madam, that it is true," said Marie, merrily. "And I shall
be sorry not to do it again. I go away so soon."

"Why not prolong your stay for that very purpose?" suggested Stuart in a
lower key, as her ladyship passed on with a deprecatory shake of the
head at Marie.

"Because in two days my father will be here for me."

"There might still be time for another paddle if to-morrow would do," he
suggested.

"But I have my packing and a hundred other things to attend to."

"If you could manage it, I would gladly help you," said Jessie.

"If I do attempt it you must come, too," said Marie, with a smile.
"College girls travel in pairs, Mr. Stuart. Miss Stedman and I always go
together."

"The complement of each other."

"Yes," said Jessie quickly, "the blond and brunette of it; almost the
long and the short of it."

"Would you really care to go?" Marie asked, looking at her friend.

"I always did like the bay, and being unexpected, the pleasure of
another paddle would be all the greater," she replied.

"Well, Jessie, say three o'clock. I will send Ned down to the boathouse
and be ready in good time."

"And to make the trip secure against misadventure," volunteered Stuart,
"I will have a boat ready to man at a moment's notice; and from the
quarter-deck shall watch with a field-glass the venturesome ladies while
they traverse the mighty deep."

"That will be fine," commented Mrs. Hagarman, the Attorney-General's
wife. "Not many ladies are honored during their voyaging by the
guardianship of a British-man-of-war."

"Scarcely that," laughed Stuart. "The _Transit_ is only an armed
frigate."

"It's a man-of-war, all the same," said Lady Head, emphatically, "and
may have fighting to do before it leaves the lakes."

"If that time comes, the _Transit_ will be true to her colors and her
cause," said Stuart, "ever ready for duty."

Marie's face was grave again. She was looking out beyond the island to
the far east. Talking of unrest and fighting and war vessels, even in
bantering tones, troubled her. What did it all mean? There was more than
a possibility of tumult. Rebellion was whispered of--rebellion that
might shake the colonies to their centre. How would it affect her father
and brothers, her home among the islands, herself? Was all this
pleasantry and kindness and courtesy merely a prelude to devastation, to
the breaking up of associations and friendships and life that had become
a strong part of her new nature? Was this the reason why her father had
so peremptorily directed her to return home? Why was the letter so
stern? Might he not have been kinder in his demand? She would not think
of disobeying him--dear old father--and having been away so long, the
mere mention of his wish would have been law.

She was leaning over the railing, forgetful for the moment of all about
her, while the talk continued. Suddenly Jessie's arm was slipped within
her own.

"Dear old girl," she murmured, "what were you thinking of?"

Marie started.

"Was I thinking?" she exclaimed; "I am afraid that I am not very
polite."

"Yes, you were thinking about leaving Toronto and school and everything.
I could read it in your face, Marie, like an open book--I was thinking
of it, too, and I believe I'm as sorry as you are."

"Sorry and glad, both. Sorry to leave you all and the life; glad to be
home again. Still there's something haunts me sometimes--strange
paradox--the memory of the future. But I won't give way to it."

And she turned round with laughing face to answer a question from Lady
Head; while Stuart was asking himself how much he could conscientiously
conceal, when Miss Marie was Donald MacAlpine's daughter?




CHAPTER III.

PROSPECTIVE REBELLION.


At this moment the saloon door opened and Sir Francis appeared.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he called out, "as a pleasant indication of our
loyalty, I ask you to join us in three cheers for the King."

All the men present being either members of his own Council or
employees, the cheers were heartily given.

"Three more for Sir Francis Bond Head, His Majesty's representative, the
Lieutenant-Governor of Upper Canada," cried the Attorney-General. And
the cheers were repeated.

"I thank you all," returned the Governor, "for this double expression of
your loyalty; and I have no doubt if it could be heard on shore, it
would find an echo throughout the Province."

Closing the door, he returned to the table around which the members of
his Cabinet had gathered.

"I believe that is really a fair sample of the sentiment of our people,"
was his comment.

"I wish I were as confident as you are, sir," said the Attorney-General.
"To my knowledge there are many places in this Province where no such
cheers could be raised."

"If there are, it is purely MacKenzie's fault," returned the Governor,
sharply. "We'll have to call that man to account before long. Even in
York the people are against him, as his defeat at the polls in the last
election demonstrates. No, in this city and this Province we are all
loyal. What I desire to speak with you upon is the condition of Lower
Canada. We are in receipt of bad news from there. Our eastern
compatriots not only need our sympathy but our assistance also. Bands of
armed men are secretly drilling all over that Province, and prowling
about among the people, with the object of fomenting disloyalty and
inciting rebellion. Papineau, the arch-rebel there, of whom better
things might have been expected, is the leader of an obnoxious faction
on the very verge of revolt. But we must remember that it is the French
element, and not the English, that is producing the agitation. Yes, and
let me repeat it, gentlemen, the English people are sound at the core in
the Upper Province as well as in the Lower one. There may be a few
demagogues among us; but they are really of little importance; and I
assure you, they shall receive the punishment they deserve."

"I believe, sir, it is possible in this matter to labor under serious
misapprehension," objected the Attorney-General again. "Distrust in this
Province is widely disseminated, and we cannot over-estimate its
influence."

"Pooh, pooh!" returned his Chief. "The very fact that at the last
election, notwithstanding all the efforts of MacKenzie and his
followers, the Government was sustained by such a large majority, proves
that you are wrong in your conclusions."

"It has only made the malcontents more determined, your Excellency, and
the spirit among the people more decisive. We carried the elections, it
is true, but how we carried them is no indication of the stand that the
people will take when put to the test," said Sheriff Jarvis.

"I believe with the Governor that the people are with us," said Colonel
Fitzgibbon, "but to make our position surer, it would be a wise thing to
call out the militia again, and give them a thorough drill, particularly
when our corps of regulars is so small."

"That, too, I think quite unnecessary," replied Sir Francis, loftily.
"If we commence to specially drill our men, the malcontents will at once
believe that we are becoming alarmed, a most unjust and lamentable
position for a strong Government to assume."

"Nevertheless, your Excellency, if you mixed as much among the people as
I do, you would arrive at the conclusion that it would be a wise policy
to pursue," said the Solicitor-General, who had not hitherto spoken.
"Meetings are already being held in York and other counties to influence
the people against the Government. At these meetings, I understand, they
regularly discuss what they call a 'bill of rights,' which the people
pledge themselves to support."

"What if they do, with the majority of the people, the country, and the
Government against them," reiterated Sir Francis. "As I said before, the
unrest in this Province is entirely due to the red-handed work of one
man, who has cajoled a few others to follow him. What we require is to
arrest him and his accomplices forthwith, and have them summarily tried
for treason. That will put an end to the whole thing; and the less we
trouble ourselves about the matter the better. But I affirm most
positively, that apart from our treatment of MacKenzie we cannot
over-estimate the importance of being ready to help our
fellow-countrymen in the Lower Province the moment they need our aid."

Seeing the apparent uselessness of further opposition, this statement
was received with dumb acquiescence; and taking it for approval, the
Governor continued:

"Towards this end we have important data at our command. We have with us
one of the officers of the _Transit_, Lieutenant Stuart, son of Lord
Vancroft, who has made himself familiar with many of the facts in
connection with the proposed insurrection in the Lower Province. I
purpose calling him in to supply us with any information he may possess
upon this lamentable subject. Sheriff Jarvis, will you kindly have one
of the stewards show him in?"

Accordingly Lieutenant Stuart appeared, and, in answer to queries,
supplied them with several important facts with which the members of
the Government were unfamiliar. While busily digesting these, the
Governor asked him to furnish other items of general interest.

"I know that Lower Canadian independence is the talk of the people," was
his answer. "They have mottoes and banners floating everywhere. In some
places, under the very nose of the Government, 'Papineau and the
People,' 'Liberty,' 'Sons of Liberty,' 'Declaration of the Rights of
Man,' etc., are strung everywhere. No one knows how they appear or who
puts them up; but every morning new mottoes are found in new places. In
Montreal malcontents are drilling, and muskets and rifles are being
smuggled in from no one knows where."

"Has any blood been shed?" Sir Francis asked.

"Yes, in a dozen places at least, between the French and the English;
several lives have already been lost, chiefly around St. Charles and St.
Denis. It is believed that at these places the contest will be the
keenest."

"You think, then, that rebellion in the Lower Province is a foregone
conclusion?"

"Undoubtedly it is, sir; Papineau has already sent out secret orders."

"But on what basis? What are the wrongs that he wishes to have removed?"

"The injustice of the existing Constitution to the French people of the
colony, and the bad system of laws that has been established are the
claims they make," said Stuart.

"Both of which complaints are exceedingly indefinite," said the
Governor.

"Bad administration is perhaps a more definite term," said Stuart. "The
Lower Canadians want to have a direct voice in the administration of the
affairs of the Province, and in the appointment of the members of the
Legislative Council."

"Neither of which are they qualified ethically to possess, any more than
they are here," said the Governor. "What else?"

"That the Council antagonizes the Assembly and ignores its mandates."

"As if the Council, composed of qualified gentlemen, responsible to Her
Majesty's advisers, did not know what measures should be adopted for the
best interests of the country much better than the boorish legislators."

"That may all be true, your Excellency," returned Stuart, "yet the House
of Assembly claims that it ought to possess all the rights, immunities
and privileges of the English House of Commons."

"A piece of extravagant impertinence!" exclaimed Sir Francis. "The
demands of these people, both there and here, are preposterous. They put
me out of all patience. I sincerely trust that my fellow-Governor, Lord
Gosford, of the Lower Province, will judiciously and energetically meet
the malcontents on their own ground, and crush out all resistance with
promptitude; something which we will be glad to assist in if necessary."

"To come more to the point, your Excellency," said the Attorney-General,
"what is the nature of the assistance that you propose to render?"

"Decidedly military. The moment assistance is required, I would despatch
our regulars to Montreal by boat, leaving the militia to guard our own
garrison."

"And yet you decline to drill the militia!"

"Only for the present, or until our way seems clear. But what of the
Thousand Isles, Lieutenant Stuart? I understand there is much unrest and
disturbance there. Captain Jerrold tells me that you personally visited
many of the residential ones."

"I did, and I am of the impression that there is more talk than action
among the islanders so far."

"And who are their leaders?"

"That is a hard question to answer," he said, evading a direct reply.
"Some of the people talk of rebellion, some of annexation, while the
loyalists pronounce both absurd. Rebellion there, when it comes, will be
after its appearance in the east, I feel convinced."

"Misguided wretches, anywhere, east, west, or in the islands, wherever
it be," ejaculated the Governor. "They do not know on which side their
bread is buttered. The fact of it is, gentlemen," he continued, rising
to his feet in order to give them a little closing speech, "I must
remind you again of the similarity of Lord Gosford's position to my own.
Each of us represents vice-regal power in his own particular Province.
Each of us is working in every way for the best interests of his people.
Take my own case, individually; if by my administration I increase the
wealth and comfort of the people, I shall claim for myself the credit,
which will be totally out of their power to withhold from me; whereas,
if I diminish their wealth and comfort, it will be hopeless for anyone
to shield me from blame. As, therefore, we have one common object in
view, the question arises, which of us, the people or myself, has the
greater power to do good to Upper Canada? Or in other words: Can the
people do as much for themselves as I can do for them? My answer is
emphatically 'No.' Gentlemen, I am exceedingly obliged to you for your
presence, and the interesting discussion upon important matters that we
have engaged in; that being over, I think we might with profit and
pleasure join the ladies in our return."

As they withdrew from the saloon, Stuart's eyes again scanned the deck
in search of Marie. He did not know as yet that a strain of royal blood,
though dating back for three generations, flowed in her veins as well as
in his. It was the charm of her personality, the beauty of her spirit,
that attracted him. And then to know that she was the daughter of the
wily freebooter of the Thousand Isles, a fact of which the Governor was
unaware, enhanced the attraction. There was a spice of poetic romance in
the situation. It was like a border feud transplanted across the ocean
to the wooded islands of the west. He felt his interest deepening. What
manner of man could this MacAlpine be, to be sire of such a maiden?
When passing through the islands he had missed him, for although much
talked of by his followers, he was informed that he was out in the west
for the time being sailing the _Caroline_. How glad he was that he had
refrained from mentioning his name. Still, what was it to him? He must
and would be loyal to the King. Yet the more he thought, the more his
interest deepened.

They had entered the bay again, on the inner side of the island, and as
Stuart approached the ladies, he heard Jessie call out:

"Marie Stuart, see, there is the little cove you so often run your canoe
into after paddling across the bay."

He was startled. The utterance of the name was like a sequence to his
reverie. Could there possibly be a relationship between Miss Marie and
himself?

"Yes," was Marie's answer, "we'll run in there again to-morrow."




CHAPTER IV.

THE WRECK OF MARIE'S CANOE.


"It's clear enough now, Miss, but yon sky looks squally," said Ned, as
he slid Marie's canoe into the bay. "I'd advise ye to make a short run
of it. Don't be out longer than an hour and a half, at most."

"Can't we make it longer than that?" Marie asked, looking thoughtfully
over the eastern gap at the shifting white clouds.

"It wouldn't be safe." adjusting his pipe to the proper angle. "Toronto
bay's al'us treacherous for canoes, and that storm's coming."

"We'll be back in good time, then; but it would be a joke if we had to
swim ashore," Marie returned, jestingly.

"If there's danger we'd better not go," said Jessie.

"Can't you swim? I know you could last summer. But there's really no
danger; I promise you we'll be back in time."

"And how much can I? Just the fifty yards you taught me, and that only
in smooth water."

"As I say, in an hour an' a half, there's safety," repeated the old
sailor, reassuringly; "and Miss MacAlpine's a good paddler. I never saw
a better, and never expect to; but for heaven's sake don't stop a
minute longer, Miss."

"On my word, Ned," said Marie, slipping a coin into his hand. "And be
here, sure, to take charge of _Fawn_ when we return."

"Sartin, Miss."

Followed by Jessie, she stepped lightly into the superb little craft. It
was tough as whalebone, light as a feather, varnished and cushioned, and
buoyant as a cork upon the water, but obedient to every impulse of
Marie's paddle.

The air was still and hot, and the water almost without a ripple, while
sail-boats and a steamer were moored in the harbor.

"I don't see why Ned should be so fearsome," said Marie, as she dipped
her paddle with Jessie facing her. "I must have skimmed this bay a score
of times at least, and he was always encouraging instead of exacting
until now."

"But you never went when a storm was brewing," returned Jessie. "People
say that Ned's a true seaman, and only signals danger when he has good
reason."

"That may be, but I've seen many storms in the islands; and it may be
hours before this one comes. Ned's a dear old fellow, but getting a
little bit fussy. Still, I always prepare for a swim when I go out
canoeing. I think every girl should."

"What do you do?"

"Did I never tell you? Why, I wear tights under a loose skirt, and so
fastened that I can throw everything else off in a minute. Father
insisted upon it when I was a child; and I have kept it up ever since."

"I wish I did," said Jessie, gravely, "it would be safer."

"We shall be just as safe as on shore!" exclaimed Marie with a silvery
laugh that sounded far out over the still water, for her paddle was
almost noiseless. "See, I am steering for our little cove at the east
end of the Island. We can land and then run over to the lake side, for I
want to gather a few more of those little white shells."

"If we have time."

"Yes, if we have time. Oh, yonder is the _Transit_ away beyond the gap!"

Jessie turned and looked. "It's a long way off, must be two miles at
least."

"It's heading in this direction," said Marie, "but scarcely moving."

"How still the bay is! I don't see a rowboat anywhere, nor a single
canoe but ours."

"It is enchanting. Our paddle makes a little breeze; and the bay is so
smooth that you can see the bottom."

"And the fish, is that a pickerel?"

"Yes, and there goes a bass. Oh, look at the little shoal of perch!"

Jessie languidly trailed her hand through the water, as Marie, with head
thrown back and the grace of an accomplished canoeist, dipped her
paddle. Then she hummed a low refrain in musical rhythm to the swing.

"Sing it out," said Jessie, "you haven't forgotten it."

"How could I? Association and memory make it both sad and sweet to me.
It always comes to mind when canoeing alone on the water."

Again she hummed. She was thinking of her girlhood life in the Thousand
Isles; and away back of that of the days of her childhood on the hills
of Scotland, where her mother told her tales and sang her songs of their
Stuart ancestry. It seemed like centuries ago, and yet only yesterday.

Jessie watched her with keen interest. She almost worshipped her friend,
so lithe, so graceful, so strong.

"I believe you could swim across," she ventured.

"Could I?"

Evidently the answer was an unconscious one, for without comment her eye
glanced again at the distant _Transit_.

"But the song. Do sing it, please."

Then her deep contralto rang out the words:

  My paddle swings as memory sings
    Of the tragic days of old,
  And the long, dark past comes back too fast,
    As legend and song unfold.

  For the Stuart race could find no place
    In the land of Scottish heather,
  And smitten and torn from thistle and thorn
    They were lash'd by wintry weather.

  Both in lowland fen and highland glen
    Men scorn'd the blood of their Kings;
  Then truth came free far over the sea,
    And liberty's song it sings.

  Yes, justice and truth, while lost, forsooth,
    By false ones over the brine,
  Still fill the breast of the mighty west
    Like bouquet of blood-red wine.

  So my paddle swings and the forest rings,
    All islands echo the sound;
  Each swash of the wave is one more stave
    In the freedom our race has found.

"The refrain is a sad one with a joyous outlook," said Jessie.

"That is why I like it," said Marie. "The song has its history."

"I thought so when I first heard you sing it. I often wondered what its
origin could be."

"Well, I'll tell you. Our old Andrew, down at Fingal's Notch, is the
author. He remembers the last Prince Charlie, and has a passion for
rhyming, so when he found out that my two brothers and I were Stuarts,
he wrote the song for us. Then to my delight I discovered that it would
go to one of my mother's old Prince Charlie tunes."

"And did your father like it?"

"I think he did, for he once told me that it was not very loyal to King
William, and perhaps I liked it all the better for that."

"The MacAlpines are Highlandmen," said Jessie.

"Yes, and it was in France, the refuge of the Stuarts, that my father
met my mother. She was simply Marie Stuart then, and I have inherited
her name."

"And she died in Scotland?"

"Oh, no, but in our island home. That sweet mother of mine! There never
was anyone like her. Fair and gentle and frail. I was the only daughter.
My brother Donald came before me, and Charlie after--then she died. I
was only eight years old, but I remember her as if it were yesterday.
Her fair face, her sweet blue eyes, her tales of the Stuarts and of
France, and the songs she sang."

Again Marie hummed, but it was a different tune, that of a French
ballad.

"We are nearing the shore," said Jessie. "The _Transit_, too, is
closer."

"I'll slip in here and we can step on to that little reef," said Marie.

In another minute they drew the canoe up the bank. Again Marie looked at
the clouds. "They are not much nearer. I don't know but they are
drifting to the south. We may get the shells, I think."

"Are you sure we shall have time?"

"I paddled straight over, and we can easily get back and over to the
wharf again before Ned's hour and a half are up. Come along, Pussie,
don't be afraid."

And with cat-like devotion Jessie hurried after her. In little over a
minute they were there, "gathering shells on the seashore."

"What beauties they are, the little pearly things! I have a handful
already. But we cannot stay another second. Those treacherous clouds
have veered round. See how they are sweeping in. We must run, Jessie. I
should have seen it sooner. Oh, it is all my fault!"

And back they ran. Black clouds were looming up in the east and sweeping
in with terrible velocity. It was no north nor south now, but due west
with a vengeance.

Panting for breath, they launched the canoe and, springing in, shoved
out from the shore.

"Ned's time was too long," said Marie, as she made her first stroke.
"It's not nearly an hour since we left the wharf, and though still now,
in five minutes we'll have the first swell of the sea."

"I'm glad the _Transit's_ coming nearer," said Jessie.

"Lieutenant Stuart said he would watch the movements of the _Fawn_,"
said Marie with a smile. "He is coming for a better look."

"Stuart watching Stuart."

"It cannot be that; he knows nothing of the cousinship," retorted Marie,
glancing keenly at the sky while she plied her paddle with a long,
steady sweep. "Ah, the waves are coming now! See the white crests. I
must angle across to keep out of the trough. Slip down further, Jessie."

"Best I can do. Can I help you?"

"Not in the least. But it is well to be ready. Nothing is going to
happen. But if it should and the canoe capsizes, don't forget but grasp
the end of it and hold on. My! this is a lark! Not quarter over and the
storm already started. Rain coming down already. In another minute
we'll be drenched."

"Who cares for that if we can only get over!" ejaculated Jessie, doing
her best to be brave.

"We'll get there, but it's hard paddling through these big waves."

"The _Transit's_ lowering a boat," said Jessie.

"And a boat is shoving off from the wharf," echoed Marie, "coming
directly toward us--one man in it--slip down Jessie, almost flat, but
keep your head up. My, what a sea! Never was in as big a one before--not
even in the islands."

Huge waves rolled in from the east, each one bigger than the last, while
the wind in wild gusts ushered in a tumult of rain. The frail bark rose
and fell as it lurched from one trough into another, while with every
big wave water was shipped. Still the canoe floated and Marie valiantly
stuck to her paddle.

"What shall we do?" exclaimed Jessie in despairing tones. "The canoe is
full and sinking."

"Hold on a little longer and the boats will reach us," cried Marie,
reassuringly.

But the canoe was quivering on the top of a mountain wave, and the next
moment it pitched headlong into another abyss. Crash went the bow upon
an unseen snag, piercing a large hole beneath the water line, and
flinging the canoe upon its side. The girls were both hurled into the
water; but Marie, seeing the inevitable, had sprung clear of the craft,
and diving into deep water, rose again to find Jessie tangled beneath
the upturned canoe. Seizing it with one hand and Jessie with the other,
she trod water, while with all her strength she pulled her friend from
beneath. But Jessie was stunned by the blow of the wreck.

Fortunately, Marie, terrible though the disaster was, had lost neither
self-control nor strength. The island life had made her resourceful. She
saw that the canoe, although upturned, was impaled upon the snag, and
being fixed, was a safe anchor to cleave to. The question was, with such
a high sea, each wave dashing their bodies against the little wreck,
could she keep the unconscious Jessie and herself from being carried
away before help could reach them? For this she prayed. It was the only
hope. But how soon would help come? Seconds seemed like minutes--minutes
like hours. Jessie hung like a log and was still unconscious, even if
alive. A cut upon her temple indicated where the blow had struck; and
the weight of her body, her head being held above water by one hand,
while she clung to the canoe with the other, taxed Marie's strength to
the utmost.

The boats from opposite directions were coming rapidly toward them
through the rough sea; but Marie's strength was failing; her hold upon
Jessie was becoming less secure; and her head reeled as one wave after
another dashed over them. Sensation, too, was getting dull, when
suddenly a voice roused her.

"Marie, catch this line," it sang out, and a rope was flung from the
harbor boat.

But how could she catch the line, with one hand clinging to Jessie and
the other to the canoe? The next moment an impetuous wave brought the
two barks together with a crash. The canoe was rolled over by the
collision and freed from the snag, while both Jessie and Marie were
swept away in the current. Still with one hand Marie kept her hold upon
her unconscious friend, while with the other she struck bravely out.

Other help was near. The ship's lifeboat, manned by two men and
Lieutenant Stuart, was within oar's length. Marie saw it as the man from
the harbor boat stretched out his hand to save her.

"Jessie first," she gasped, and, relieved of her burden, she struck out
with both hands, rising on each wave until her friend was rescued. With
such a hurricane blowing, the rain coming down in torrents, and each
wave sweeping over his boat, it was all the man could do to rescue the
insensible girl, while he frantically glanced at the one still in the
water.

"For heaven's sake, save her!" he cried.

But there was no need for his call. Already Stuart had thrown out a
rope, and with coat off, was ready to dive in his effort of rescue.

"Seize it!" he shouted.

A sweep of Marie's hand touched and held it.

"Now, don't let it slip."

Then he grasped her round the waist and lifted her out of the water. He
was none too soon, for, worn out by the prolonged effort, she became
unconscious as they stretched her upon the flat deck of the lifeboat.

"Throw me that rug!" he cried, for Marie had dropped her outer garments
in her first dive from the wrecked canoe. "Now, brandy."

"For heaven's sake, how is she?" shouted the man in the other boat in
excited tones.

Stuart glanced at him quickly. He was a powerfully built fellow, perhaps
a little older than himself. His head was bare and his breast open, but
he was evidently a man to be trusted.

"She's all right," returned Stuart. "A little faint, but the brandy's
reviving her."

"Better steer for the shore," was the response; "when we get there I can
help you."

"Which shall it be?" he asked of Marie, who had regained consciousness.
"The shore or the _Transit_?"

"The shore, the shore," she gasped. "It was so good of you--both of
you--and Jessie?"

"She's breathing better," shouted the man.

"Oh--I'm so glad--if she had died it would have been all my fault."

Again her eyes closed.

"Lead the way," cried Stuart to the shoreman. "We'll follow you."

And with a vague interest in the personality of the stranger who had
called Marie by name, Stuart followed his lead.




CHAPTER V.

THE DELIBERATIONS OF THE MALCONTENTS.


During the same afternoon that Sir Francis Head was consulting with the
members of his Council in the saloon of the _Transit_, another meeting
was held in the city by a far different set of men. It was summoned by
William Lyon MacKenzie, the man who had been elected many times by his
constituents in York to represent them in Parliament; and who had been
as frequently expelled from his seat by the vote of the dominant party.

From the period of his arrival in the country, Mr. MacKenzie had been a
leader in the advocacy of liberal and progressive ideas, promulgating
them through the columns of the _Advocate_, a weekly paper of which he
was both founder and proprietor. In the early issues of this paper, his
demands for reform were tempered by expressions of loyalty, although
full of indignant protest against what he deemed to be injustices
practised upon the people. From the first he was far ahead of his
fellows in the views he advocated; and knowing this, the
Governor-in-Council persistently rejected every proposition he advanced,
whether in the glowing language of a weekly editorial, or still more
eloquently on the floor of Parliament.

Possibly, if a more moderate man had been selected from among his
confreres as leader, a more satisfactory result might have been the
outcome. But MacKenzie could not and would not be restrained. Each
expulsion from the House rendered him more bitter and more daring; while
at the same time he still retained the leadership of his party.

The calling of this particular meeting had a special object in view. It
was for the revision of a declaratory address which had been drafted by
himself and accepted by his supporters during the previous year. Five
men were gathered together in that little room, each one a study in
himself, as with closed doors and grave faces they lent themselves to
their work.

MacKenzie, slight in build, with massive head; keen, twinkling eyes and
diminutive person, but endowed with resistless energy, was evidently the
leader of that little band of men, as he laid down the law before them.

"You remember the first two principles of our declaration," he
commenced, looking piercingly into each face in succession, after they
had gathered round the table: "1st. That we should sustain the British
Constitution in its purity; and 2nd, that we should also continue our
connection with the parent state. This was but a reasonable preamble,
gentlemen; and one that we were all ready to endorse, other things being
equal; but it is impossible to continue to endorse it, for the reason
that the Family Compact, the oligarchy that rules our Province, has got
us by the throat, and not one atom of mercy will they show. They rule
us with a rod of iron, trample upon our rights, tax us for their own
gain, and deprive us of the common privileges which everywhere else are
enjoyed by peoples that are free. What we have asked for, year after
year in the House of Assembly, are only matters of simple justice. All
could be summed up in a single paragraph; yet not one of these demands
has been granted, or even seriously considered by the tyrants, who have
flung them back into our faces. I say emphatically that the time has
come for a change. We must stand firmly shoulder to shoulder and face
the foe; for any Government is a foe to the people when it deliberately
and persistently tramples upon their legitimate rights."

MacKenzie had spoken while sitting, with head thrown forward and hands
clenched upon the table.

But Mr. Morrison's tall figure rose to its full height as he immediately
followed him. His eyes flashed, but with a strong effort he controlled
himself.

"You are carrying things too far, Mr. MacKenzie," he commenced,
impressively; "such language is treason; and much as we have suffered,
we are not going to be rebels yet. Let us place our case more strongly
than ever before the Home Government; and I am convinced that in return
for our very persistency, if from no higher motive, some measure of
redress will be granted."

"I fail to see the force of your reasoning," harshly returned
MacKenzie, who could not bear to be rebuked even by one of his
staunchest friends; "the petition that I personally presented in London
to the Colonial Secretary, bearing twenty-five thousand signatures from
the small population of this Colony, was practically ignored, and the
promise to investigate our claims unfulfilled; for the moment a
counter-petition from the Council was entered, our case was dropped, and
our oppressors were bidden to make no change whatever in the Government
of the Colony."

"Read out the main clauses in our petition, and then we shall know
better where we stand," said Dr. Rolph, who was more closely associated
with Mr. MacKenzie than any other of his colleagues.

"Well, here they are:

1. Responsible advisers to the Government.

2. Equal rights to all men, whether Protestant or Catholic; Churchmen or
Dissenters.

3. The disposal of all revenues of the Province for the benefit of its
inhabitants.

4. The reformation of the Legislative Council and the Land Granting
Department.

5. The redress of all known grievances.

"Instead of acquiescing in these just demands," continued MacKenzie, in
a tone of intense earnestness, "the appointed members of the Council
have asked and the English Government have proclaimed that in Canada:

    _No Elective Council shall be tolerated; that Ministerial
    responsibility is inadmissible; that the expenditure of public
    money collected from the people may be without the sanction of
    their representatives; and_ to crown all, _that coercion should be
    resorted to, if the Assembly elected by the people should refuse
    to submit._

"Could anything be more unjust? Could there be a greater travesty of
righteousness, or law, or order, imposed upon any people, than to allow
them to elect members of Parliament, and then to deprive these members
of the rights and privileges, for the exercise of which they were
elected? Even to go so far as to nullify their power of voting. It is
time, I say, that we rose like men and demanded our rights, even at the
point of the bayonet."

"MacKenzie is right!" exclaimed Captain Lount; "neither the Government
nor the Council have any intention of yielding one jot to appease the
popular demand. They have all the revenue and all the officials under
their thumb--a dog in the manger act--and nothing but actual revolt will
change their attitude."

"That is my contention," re-affirmed MacKenzie. "To arms, to arms, must
be our watchword. Once let the people know that we are determined, then
they will valiantly rally round our standard."

"Notwithstanding all that has been said," reiterated Mr. Morrison,
indignantly, "I maintain, that in our present unorganized condition,
revolt would be worse than disastrous, it would be suicidal. As
reformers, we want no more than we ask; and as British freemen, we will
be satisfied with no less. But I maintain that it is too soon to resort
to arms. Constant and determined pressure of our claims upon the
Government should in time force them to grant what we want. Our effort
must be continuous, but along peaceful lines, at least, until in justice
to ourselves we are prepared for more positive measures. What is our
position to-day? We have no arms, our men are untrained. What is more
than all, they are not sufficiently impressed with the enormity of the
existing evils to persistently and valiantly fight for their removal."

"Again you are wrong," cried MacKenzie, with unusual asperity; "the
people are alive to their wrongs. Once let the torch of insurrection be
applied and the whole country will be ablaze. There are arms at the city
arsenal that can be seized, and we have valiant men among us who are
ready to seize them. All we want is unanimity among ourselves, then the
success of our efforts will be assured."

"You can have no unanimity if you leave out the element of reason," said
Morrison, doggedly; "I insist that direct action must be postponed; and
if actual rebellion is to be the outcome, you must first systematically
drill your men."

"Morrison is right," said Mr. Anderson, a large man with a reflective
face. "The country is not prepared for revolt, and it is absurd to say
it is. Here MacKenzie and I, and several others among our supporters,
were defeated at the recent elections; and the Family Compact was
sustained by an increased majority. These men were elected by the
people; and no matter how much influence the Government brought to bear
upon the electors, they could not have turned the tables upon us so
completely, if our cause had the support throughout the Province which
Mr. MacKenzie believes to be the case."

"Well, what do you suggest?" muttered MacKenzie between compressed lips.

"Make our central committee stronger. Establish sub-committees
everywhere. Keep our actions secret from all but the initiated; and
regularly drill our friends."

"Until when?"

"Until summer is over, the harvest housed, and the people's barns are
full."

"Anderson has struck the nail on the head," said Dr. Rolph. "A man
fights best when his stomach is full and his rations sure."

"I protest against delay," said MacKenzie, "but even granting that there
may be reason, however small, we have no time to lose. So we will
dissolve ourselves at once into a committee of ways and means."

"With yourself still in the chair, sir."

So they entered into the work of detail, wilily listened to by an unseen
ear, which for hours had been glued to a knot-hole in the pine floor
above them.




CHAPTER VI.

MAD MADGE'S SONGS.


MacKenzie's brow was clouded when he parted with his confreres that
afternoon. He had toiled hard. Night and day had he labored. He had
devoted his efforts and exhausted his means in a cause that, with all
the faith of his Scottish nature, he believed to be in every sense just;
yet he knew in his soul that the support he received from these men was
only half-hearted. Once let his own back weaken, the cause would be
gone. He was one of those men for whom two and two could only make four.
From a given hundred, subtract a hundred, and nothing could be left.
Grant a people representatives, but deny them the right of decision upon
their deliberations--the gift could only be a mockery and a farce--high
treason of the crown against the subject. There could be no half-way
course. The little leaven could not leaven the lump. Justice must be
full and immediate. There could be no here a little and there a little;
no gradual concession of rights and privileges; no slow development of
freedom; but justice must come at once. A Briton's rights were God-given
and divine; and if not granted when persistently and loyally asked for,
they must be taken by force, no matter what the cost. If an unjust tax
upon tea was sufficient to secure one young nation's freedom, the
seizure of the entire taxes of another one would amply warrant the dawn
of a new era--the floating of the flag of liberty. So at least MacKenzie
reasoned.

Being an enthusiast himself, he could not understand why every other man
should not be an enthusiast likewise. To him the wrongs were so plain,
the injustices so palpable, that he could not believe that his opinions
were not fully endorsed by the people. His speeches had been scattered
widely among them, and hearing of approval in both town and country, he
felt certain that support to the cause was assured, notwithstanding the
seeming lukewarmness of his immediate councillors. If he could only ride
out among them, inspiring them by his presence and energy and words, how
quickly the deed could be done! How enthusiastically would the people
rally round his standard!

"But this terrible opposition among the men who should be my bodyguard!"
he muttered to himself, gloomily. "Morrison's stubbornness, Rolph's
timidity, Anderson's caution, are enough to wreck our efforts. But by
heaven they shall not! God knows that our cause is a just one. We may
have to wait; but we are in for a fight to the finish; and in the end we
shall win."

His house stood a little back from the street, and as he walked up the
pathway, the savory odor of broiled fowl greeted his nostrils. This was
unusual, for tea with him was a light meal, following a heavier noon
dinner.

His wife met him at the door. While not so enthusiastic as her husband,
and always apprehensive of the possibility of renewed attacks upon his
property or life, she was loyally faithful to his views of right and
wrong; and, from a sense of duty, did her best to aid and abet his
efforts. To-day her face was brighter than usual. There was an
appreciative warmth in her look.

"What is it, wife?" he asked.

"Are you particularly hungry?" was her answer.

"I should think I might be, after talking steadily for three hours."

"All the good it'll do you, I fear, won't be much. But that's no matter,
there are people in this town who worship the very ground you stand on."

"When the right time comes, I hope they'll show it."

"That's what they are doing--showing it now."

MacKenzie's look was a question.

"You remember the Kenny's, who had smallpox two years ago, when you were
Mayor?"

"Yes."

"The mother was here this afternoon, and she says that she and her son
owe their lives to you."

"Rather a strong statement."

"She declares that it is true; and as a little token of gratitude she
brought over some choice chickens, that she has raised specially for
you. And yet, dear heart, you never told me a word about it."

"Why should I? I took good care not to carry the infection; and it would
have been foolish to make you timid."

"And that coat of yours that disappeared was kept in the bushes back of
the house, just to visit them in?"

"Yes, and after two got well and the other two died, the coat was put in
their stove and burned."

"That wasn't all," said Mrs. MacKenzie, shaking her head. "Their cases
were so bad that people wouldn't go near the house. So you engaged a
woman to act as nurse, and set the example, by going twice a day
yourself to see that your orders were carried out. Why did you run such
a risk?"

"What was I Mayor for?"

"Not to do the people's work."

"No, but a Mayor of a city is father to the folk in it. It's his duty to
see that the sick are cared for. The well can take care of themselves."

"It was the Doctors' duty, not yours."

"Yes and no. Theirs to prescribe--mine to see that their directions were
carried out. If I hadn't, many more people would have died."

"And suppose you had died yourself?"

"It might have been as well," he muttered, reflectively; "the present
troublous times would have been postponed--only postponed, mark you,
until some other dare-devil soul arose to fill my shoes--the coming
rebellion would not even be thought of; and the oligarchy that curses
our land with its tyranny might go on indefinitely preying upon the
vitals of our people--it's a moot question which would have been best."

"And what will be the result as it is?"

"War to the knife, if need be--the people against the tyrants. But we
must keep our own counsel until we're ready."

"Rest assured I shall not mention it. But the thought is a terrible one.
Let us forget it for to-day, at least. Come to supper. Those broiled
chickens must be done enough."

And very delicious they were to the hungry man and his patient wife.

Their children were picnicking that afternoon, and their grandmother had
gone with them.

"Someone else coming? Who can it be?" exclaimed MacKenzie, as they
finished the meal.

Through the little hall and open door he could see the tall figure of a
woman standing on the steps and fumbling with the door-handle.

"She's another of your proteges," returned his wife; "one of the crazy
women you found in the court-house dungeon when you became Mayor."

"What brings her here? We arranged a place for her, and it was said she
was comfortably off again," said MacKenzie.

"So you did; but she thinks she's got a mission to look after your
interest; this is the second time she has been here to-day. She claims
to have a very important secret to tell you."

"Poor soul! I used to think she was more imbecile than crazy, and yet
what a memory she had. Why not give her some of Mrs. Kenny's chicken
while I make a note or two? Possibly she may have something really
important to communicate. Mad people are not always fools."

"She certainly has been very sly in her visits--afraid of being either
seen or heard; and yet very insistent upon seeing you."

"I'll go into the library, then, and in a few minutes you might show her
in."

"Well, Madge, what can I do for you?"

Madge looked round to see that no one followed her, and then cautiously
closed the door.

"I want to help you," she answered, mysteriously, "but he's spying on
me, and I've got to be careful."

"Who is he, Madge?"

"The man who put me in gaol because I was crazy. He'd put me in again if
he knew I told you."

"You mean Tom Cronch, your uncle. Has he a grudge against me?"

She approached MacKenzie's desk, put her hands upon it, and in a
sepulchral tone announced: "He's a spy, and has been watching you for
weeks. This afternoon he went to hide in the house where you met your
men; and there he heard you tell your secrets."

"Who told you all this, Madge?"

"No one, I just heard them. They thought I was too daft to pay any
attention. Ah, ah, what fools people are!"

"You are a wise woman, Madge, and I am glad you told me, but you need
not mention this to anyone else."

"No fear of that. You saved my life. I should have died in that vile
hole if you hadn't taken me out--and Tom Cronch knows it. He got my
money, the rascal--and he'd be glad if I was dead."

"So he's taking his revenge by spying on me, is he?"

"And then he tells the news to your enemies."

"Have I got any enemies, Madge?"

"Yes, lots of them. Some say you are a fool--we are all fools--every one
of us. Still you were good to me when other folks were bad--and they
shan't touch you if Madge can help it:

  But the villain that spies
  And tells nothing but lies
  And robs you whenever he can,
  Is as wicked a hound
  As ever was found
  Since the earth was cursed by a man.

"And beware, Mr. MacKenzie, beware--for my uncle's a villain if ever
there was one."

Then she made a sweeping curtsy, glanced again suspiciously round the
room and, cautiously opening the door, ran down the path to the street.

Instead of returning by the way she came, Madge slipped along a narrow
lane; then crossed a couple of blocks and, in a roundabout way, finally
reached her home.

"Hello, Madge, what pranks are you up to now?" queried a sharp-featured,
grizzle-headed man, as she entered the gate from the opposite direction
to that of MacKenzie's house.

"Nary a prank, except to watch the sojers," she answered with a smirk.
"Be'n't they fine?"

Cronch looked at her keenly, but Madge never flinched.

"Yes, they're fine enough," he drawled; "but looking at soldiers is not
the thing for daft folks like you. Home's the best place."

"By St. Andrew, when they fight for the King and keep down the rebels, a
daft body might look at 'em," she returned, in seeming indignation.

"Get inside, girl, the wife says your work is waiting for you."

  'Twas a soldier lad
  That drove her mad
  When Maggie was a beauty;
  But now she's well
  She still will tell
  The lads to do their duty,

sang out the woman in piping tones, with a toss of her head, as she
entered the kitchen.

"Madge hasn't improved much!" exclaimed the loyalist friend who had
joined Cronch to ascertain the latest news.

"She's harmless though," was his answer. "She used to be both cunning
and crazy--now she's got the jerks, but that won't matter so long as she
does what she's told."

"Well, what about the business? Did you manage it all right, and hear
things?"

"Yes, and I saw every one of em. They intend to keep together, but they
are not unanimous. MacKenzie tries to lead 'em all by the nose, but he
can't."

"Why not swoop down on the whole batch and have done with it?"

"It'll be better to let 'em fry in their own fat. They arranged to meet
regularly once a week in the same place, to mature their plans. Let 'em
do it, I say, till they think they have 'em perfect; I'll watch 'em with
a cat's eye. Then we'll do the eagle business; and if we calkilate
right, the Governor can nab every man of 'em, put 'em in the stocks, and
give us the glory."

Madge came out again to gather an armful of wood, still crooning:

  'Twas a soldier lad
  That drove her mad
  When Maggie was a ninnie.

"Shut up, Madge!" exclaimed Cronch, testily. "You needn't be a greater
fool than you have to be."

"So I'm a fool too," she replied, with gaping eyes. "One's bad enough
without t'other:

  A fool's an imp without any brains,
  A madman's got too many;
  Don't lose your share, or you will be
  As big a fool, as any."

"Stop, I say!"

"I'm stoppin', but I've got to take in another armful yet." And she
hastened in and out again.

"Will you report to the Colonel at once?" the man asked.

"No, it would be better to wait further developments."

"As long as you can keep your ear at the knot-hole."

"That's where the trick comes in. I had to lie still and dare not move.
It will be easier next time, though, for the meeting will be after dark.
Luckily I know the place well and going in by the back stair there'll be
less danger."

  The soldier's the man for me,
  His red coat and goatee;
  With powder and shot
  He'll give it 'em hot
  And send the rebels to----

"Madge!" shouted Cronch again, savagely.

But Madge had secured her last armful, and as she entered the kitchen,
she closed the door behind her and peeped through the crack.




CHAPTER VII.

MEETING OF LIEUTENANT STUART WITH HARRY THOMPSON.


"Heave slowly, men," cried the stranger, "or you'll smash your boat on
the pier. The wind is terrific." He ran his skiff on the shore and,
hauling it well in, stood on the little wharf to help with the larger
boat. It came in with a sweep, then, shivering for a moment, bounded out
again with the receding wave.

"Throw me your rope--now for your oar!" And seizing the wide end of the
blade, the other being held by a sailor, the broadside of the lifeboat
swung in and was fastened to the dock.

Marie's eyes were fixed upon the stranger. Suddenly she recognized him
and, rising to her feet, she bounded out with the rug still wrapped
around her.

"Why, Harry! Harry Thompson!" she exclaimed, in excited tones, for it
was only now that his presumption in calling her by name was understood
by her. "To think of you being here without me knowing it--and that we
should owe our lives--Jessie's and mine--to Lieutenant Stuart and you.
Oh, sir, this is an old friend from Fingal's Notch, whom I have not seen
for years. Thank God, too, Jessie is alive."

The two men grasped hands.

"Let us lift Miss Stedman out," said Stuart, "she cannot help herself."

Consciousness had not returned.

"Carry her to my house," cried Ned, who was there in all eagerness ready
to give assistance. "And you, too, Miss MacAlpine, it is only a step.
What did I say? That storm was sure to come. Lord! to think you both
were nearly drowned. And I, like a blamed fool, let you go."

"You'll never do it again," cried Marie, hysterically, for the terrible
strain was telling upon her.

"No, I never shall."

"You can't. The _Fawn_ is smashed. Oh, Lieutenant Stuart, what could we
have done without you and Harry?"

"We only did what we couldn't help doing," was his answer as they
carried Jessie.

"Come right in, Miss," cried Ned; "the wife will get some dry things for
ye."

"And send at once for the doctor and to Bradley Hall for fresh clothes
for Miss Stedman and myself," returned Marie, as she entered the
cottage. The order was quickly executed, for a crowd had gathered round
them and many offered their services.

The rain had ceased and the clouds were breaking as the two rescuers
stood for a few moments together before parting.

"This is making acquaintance under unusual circumstances," said Stuart,
looking keenly into the other's face.

"Yes, but I'm mighty glad we met," returned Thompson. "If either one of
us had been absent, both of 'em might have been lost."

"I don't know but you're right. It was you that saved Miss Stedman
anyway. Still," Stuart added with a smile, "it was your boat that
smashed into the canoe and threw them off the wreck."

"Yes, that's true; but if a skiff could do so much damage dead against
the wind, what would your heavy craft have done, bearing down upon the
canoe in the very wake of the storm?"

"Ah, there you have me! Suppose we cry quits and declare that honors are
even."

And again they shook hands.

"You are from the war-vessel," said Thompson, looking askance at the
_Transit_.

"Yes, we arrived two days ago and sail east again to-morrow."

"Bringing in arms and ammunition to the fort," suggested Harry.

"Not necessarily so," returned Stuart, with equal _nonchalance_; "while
on the lakes we've got to move up and down, you know. It would be
against nature for a cruiser to lie still."

"So, true to her name, she roves?"

"Yes," replied Stuart, looking Harry again in the eyes, "and you, too,
must be a rover, strayed from your moorings at Fingal's Notch?"

"True enough, I've been roving for two days, but in one direction,
straight west from the islands; I only arrived yesterday."

"You'll take a rest then before you return?"

"That's scarcely optional; I've work here that will keep me busy for a
little; upon it my movements depend."

"Knowing Miss MacAlpine, you must know her father," said Stuart.

"I should rather think so; that skiff is owned by him. It's as light as
a feather, yet as strong as hoop-iron. If it hadn't been it could never
have breasted this gale."

"True, indeed; Mr. MacAlpine is coming to-morrow, I believe. If he
arrives early enough, perhaps I shall get a chance to see him."

"That's doubtful. He'll be here and away again, almost before you know
it. Celerity of movement has always been his habit."

"His daughter has the same accomplishment well developed," said Stuart.

"She always had. Celerity and precision made her one of the best shots
in the islands before she was fifteen."

"I knew she could swim and paddle, but I never heard that she could
shoot."

"I've seen her take a partridge's head off at fifty yards with a
small-bore rifle; and when the sportsmen laughed at her, she repeated
the feat half-an-hour later under similar conditions with a black
squirrel."

"She certainly has accomplishments."

"Accomplishment isn't in it. She comes of the Stuart race, sir; when she
goes home the whole of the islands will be at her feet."

"And well they may," returned Stuart, his eyes flashing.

At this moment a carriage dashed down to the wharf to carry the young
ladies back to Bradley Hall. Marie was already dressed and waiting.

"Miss Stedman will still need help," she said in much concern, as she
appeared at the door. So the two men lifted her gently into the
carriage.

"When shall I see you again?" Harry asked of Marie. "I must have a talk
to-night; after all this time we have not had five words together."

"I would like to, but it may be difficult."

"But, Marie, I have many things to say."

"Well, Miss Bradley may object, but you are an old friend and I owe you
much. Yes, I will see you at eight o'clock."

"And the man from the _Transit_," said Stuart, lifting his battered hat,
which bore marks of its recent conflict with the elements, "will not
impose his presence upon you again to-night; but to-morrow morning, if
you will name the hour, he will ask in person how you both have fared."

"It is very kind of you," she replied with a slight flush. "Perhaps ten
o'clock would do; and the girls, whose lives you have helped to save,
will be delighted to receive their guest,--at least one of them
will--but poor Jessie!"

With a chirrup from the driver the horses started, Jessie's head resting
on Marie's shoulder. A few minutes later, they reached Bradley Hall,
where Dr. Rolph, who had already been summoned, awaited their arrival.




CHAPTER VIII.

DR. ROLPH AND THE OPERATION


Dr. Rolph was a shrewd politician. He had a large head and a big soul,
but he liked to be on the safe side. Being a Liberal, both from heritage
and principle, he always voted for reform measures; while he coquetted
with the Tory administration for the good things of office. Hence, he
was coroner, gaol physician, and medical attendant upon the Governor's
family; while his scientific knowledge, professional skill, and suavity
of manner, secured for him a large following among the people. He was,
in fact, that great social functionary, society's doctor.

While ostensibly a member of MacKenzie's prospective Cabinet, provided
that the forthcoming revolt should come to a successful issue, he was
too astute to commit himself to the extent that his leader desired. That
evils existed he knew well. The people were heavily taxed, and the
Government applied the money thereby obtained to suit their own
purposes, irrespective of the wishes of the people's representatives. A
certain church was pampered by special privileges. All official
appointments were either direct or indirect gifts of the Crown.
Responsibility to the people did not exist, and there was no promise of
change. A wise administrator could readily ameliorate these evils. Of
this he felt sure; and in the vain hope that in time he might be asked
to act as intermediary to partially satisfy the people, he was willing
to hold back the car of Juggernaut, if he could.

Driving home from his round of professional visits during the afternoon
of the storm, his mind was so full of the subject that he gave no heed
to the rain, reaching his office earlier than usual. When he heard of
the wreck of the canoe he was amazed to learn that his adopted niece,
Jessie Stedman, was one of the victims, and that a messenger had arrived
to secure his help in her behalf.

"She's awful bad, sir," said the man, "and they're taking her back to
Bradley Hall."

Bidding the man jump into his carriage and give an account of her
condition, he drove over, arriving in time to direct her removal to the
house. She was still unconscious.

"It is all my fault," cried Marie, in a voice of deep contrition, as she
noted the cloud upon the doctor's face. "Jessie wouldn't have gone if I
hadn't persuaded her."

"It was a foolish escapade, right in the face of a threatening storm,"
he returned; "but there is no use lamenting now, the deed is done. Tell
me how it happened?"

Frankly and graphically she told the story.

"So you saved her life," he commented, reflectively, as she spoke of
treading water and holding Jessie up with the one hand.

"I held her until the men came. That was all, they saved her."

"Oh! but you did the first part. The men only carried on the work you
began, and it is not finished yet. The child is still in danger. Has she
spoken?"

"Not a word."

"No wonder. Her skull is fractured and depressed over the left temple.
It is a very serious business. Where is Miss Bradley?"

"I am here, sir," replied the Principal.

"Jessie will have to be put in a large room where there is plenty of
light, for an operation will be necessary," said the Doctor.

"Her own room is a good one, but Miss MacAlpine's is better. She might
have hers," said Miss Bradley.

"Jessie's welcome to mine," echoed Marie, "but I would not think of
leaving her."

"Is not your father coming for you?"

"He is, but I must stay. After what has happened it would kill me to
leave her before danger is over."

"Bravely spoken," said the Doctor, "you shall be one of her nurses. If
she were conscious she would rather have you than any one else. It is
fortunate, Miss Bradley, that you can spare the room. It is better for
her than my own house would be, and, as you know, she has no other
home."

Then he hurried away for his instruments. By-and-by he returned,
accompanied by a younger man, and they examined the patient more
thoroughly.

"It is a large depression over the Island of Riel," said Dr. Backus.

"Yes," added Dr. Rolph, more seriously, "unconsciousness is deepening;
the effusion must be stopped if possible."

"The sooner we operate the better. Fortunately she will feel no pain."

"It would be terrible to lose her," said Dr. Rolph. "She is in a sort of
trance now."

"So much the better for her. It would be grand if we could put every one
into a trance who required an operation. The curse of surgery is the
pain it produces," said Backus.

"Some day that will be possible, though perhaps not in ours," muttered
Rolph; "but we must to work while we yet have sunlight."

So the doctors did the operation, Miss Bradley remaining with them to
render what assistance she could; while Marie, in an adjoining room,
anxiously waited for news of the condition of her friend.

Fully an hour passed away. Sometimes quick steps were heard in the
operating room; now and then low words were passed from one to the
other; and occasionally a groan struck Marie's ear. After a while there
was a sharp cry of pain, and Marie, with hands clenched, stepped to the
door.

"Yes, you may come in now," said Dr. Rolph, in a low voice. "Do not say
anything; but hand me that other bowl of fresh water and those extra
sponges. There, that will do. You are a brave girl, Marie MacAlpine, and
I may as well tell you what we have done. We have raised the depressed
skull and removed a lot of blood clots that were pressing upon the
brain. Jessie will be better now if we can keep the fever down."

"And will she become conscious again?" Marie whispered, eagerly.

"We think so, although it will take time to tell."

Then they placed her gently in bed, and adjusting the dressings about
the wound, prepared to leave.

"This has been a terrible strain upon Miss MacAlpine," said Dr. Rolph in
an aside to Miss Bradley. "If she is to do part of the nursing she will
need to rest first. So we will only give her three hours to-night, say
from nine to twelve; and have her rest at once."

"And who will stay with Jessie and apply the lotions?" Marie asked in
much concern.

"I will provide someone," replied the doctor, "but you must lie down
now."

"I am sure I cannot sleep if I do."

"Nevertheless, it is the doctor's orders to try; or I am afraid we will
have to find someone to take your place."

"Well, I will do my best."

But Marie's mind was in a whirl, while her limbs were stiff and sore
from her long and trying battle with the elements. She feared that the
effort would be useless. After a while, however, Nature's restorative
evinced its power and she fell asleep, with mingled thoughts of her
engagement to see Harry at eight, her nursing duties at nine, and her
father's orders to start for home on the morrow, fleeting through her
brain.




CHAPTER IX.

MARIE IN CONFERENCE


"This is atrocious of me, Harry; I promised to see you at eight o'clock,
and here----"

"It is all my fault. So don't say a word, please. When I arrived, Miss
Bradley explained the circumstances. So I insisted not to call you. You
needed a long rest after such a severe strain."

"How good of you! But we have only fifteen minutes left."

"That's the unfortunate part. It is like being compelled to run a mile a
minute."

"Or swim one in two. But what of father? Has he sent me any special
message?"

"Yes. This letter in particular. I was commissioned to deliver it in
person the moment I saw you; but I did not arrive until after you had
started on your canoe trip; and after that, the unexpected excitement of
the afternoon drove it out of my mind."

"No wonder," said Marie.

She opened the letter and glanced over its pages. As she read on a
troubled expression came into her face.

"Father insists that I must be ready to return without an hour's delay,"
she said, in a constrained tone. "I can do everything he wants but
that. After what has occurred, it will be impossible to go back with
him."

"Not return with him, Marie?" exclaimed the young man in surprise. "It
is for that only that he is coming; and at a time, too, when both he and
you are needed at Fingal's Notch. Surely you have no good reason for
declining to go back with him?"

"But I have; Jessie is exceedingly ill, entirely due to my wilfulness.
She has undergone a terrible operation; and I have decided, with the
Doctor's full approval, to remain and help to nurse her until she is out
of danger."

"But that cannot be necessary. The whole thing was an accident, for
which you are not responsible. You saved her life, and when your father
is coming for you, Marie, that should be enough."

"But it isn't. There is no use talking; I feel that the whole blame is
on my shoulders. It would be cowardly to leave her now. But tell me
more. There are some things my father only hints about."

Harry drew his chair closer and spoke in a suppressed tone.

"There is danger ahead. The whole country is on the verge of rebellion;
and, although not known except by his friends, your father is the head
of the _Thousand Island League_."

"Against the Government?"

"Yes, against the Government. The people are ripe for revolt in the
Lower Province; and we cannot tell how soon it may come among the
islands, or here, its very centre. It is only reasonable that your
father should want you home before the break comes."

"Still a week or two cannot make any difference," said Marie, seriously.
"I have heard of disaffection among the people ever since I came; and
from appearances they are no nearer rebellion now than they were then."

"They are so much nearer, Marie, that your father does not intend to
leave his boat. He directed me to arrange for the transfer of your boxes
to the wharf at once, so that you could return with him without delay. I
would not go against you for the world, Marie, and you know it; but
these are the Commodore's orders, and what am I to do?"

"There is nothing for you to do," she replied in an imperious tone. "My
things for the present will stay where they are. I will get what my
father wants and have them sent to the _Petrel_ by noon to-morrow, and
at the same time go and see him myself. There will be no delay. But my
time is up--and I thank you again from the bottom of my heart for all
you have done for me." Her concluding words were in a softer tone and
her eyes moistened as she spoke.

The young man's face flushed and he held her hand in both of his, the
action telling its tale.

"I would do ten times as much if I could!" he exclaimed, passionately;
"I was to return with the _Petrel_; but if you stay longer, so shall I."

"You'll do nothing of the sort," she returned, indignantly. "There will
be no occasion for it whatever. I will ask Dr. Rolph to-morrow how soon
danger will be over; and will tell my father when to send the boat for
me again."

"Dr. Rolph!"

"Yes, it was he that did the operation."

"He is the colleague of MacKenzie, the head of the whole movement!"

"That does not prevent him being a gentleman and my friend."

"Possibly the doctor being your friend, your father will be more willing
to yield."

"Shall I see you again?" Marie asked.

"Certainly, to-morrow on the _Petrel_."

"Good-night."

And in another minute she was at Jessie's side.

       *     *     *     *     *

During her three hours' vigil, Marie had much to think of. Nursing the
sick was something new to her; but she persistently, though timidly,
carried out the orders, while Jessie remained unconscious of the regular
application of the cooling lotion. The room was still, and after ten
o'clock outside noise ceased, save for the occasional bark of a dog, or
the hoot of an owl in the adjoining grove. Jessie's even and regular
breathing was a comforting assurance to her. She was sleeping
peacefully, something the doctor had mentioned as particularly
desirable. It made the outlook more hopeful, and while her fingers were
busy, Marie's mind soon became engaged in her own affairs.

The even tenor of her life was over. For two years it had flowed
uninterruptedly in a definite channel, with the prospect of simple
transfer homeward when her school days should cease. Now she felt that
she had come to a parting of the ways, and she knew not whither she was
drifting. Instead of a clear sky shining above her head, nothing but
clouds were visible. What did she know of war or the tumult of war? Why
did her father set his face against the Government? What injury had it
ever done to him or his? Yet being her father--a stern and honorable
man--he must know the truth. Still if he was contending for the right,
what of Sir Francis Head and Her Excellency, his wife, who had always
been her friends? And what of her canoe trip with its dreadful disaster?
Did she not owe her life to two men, the one, a loyalist of her own
blood; the other, a friend, who in a few weeks, or even days, might
become a rebel? These men had entered into her life, the one anew, the
other for the first time, yet she felt that coming together during those
few terrible moments when her life was in jeopardy, their influence
might remain even to the end.

At last her hours of watching were over, and resigning her duties into
the hands of another nurse, she slipped into bed, to dream of storms
raging, armies fighting, and her two friends wildly struggling with each
other to release her from the cabin of a ship which her father was
deliberately blowing up into the air.

The shock awoke her. The sun was well above the horizon, and as she had
much to do that day, she dressed hastily and went in for breakfast.

"How is Jessie?" was her first greeting.

"Doing nicely," was the response. "Dr. Rolph was here early and he left
word that on account of your father's visit, your services will not be
required again until the evening."

"That was kind of him. But when will he be here again?"

"At eleven o'clock."

So she hurried away to carry out her father's instructions, returning in
time to receive Lieutenant Stuart at the appointed hour.

"Our movements are very uncertain. The Captain issued orders this
morning that we must be outside the eastern gap by eleven-thirty. But I
could not leave without fulfilling my promise," were almost his first
words.

"It would have been a grief to me if you had. I could not tell you
yesterday how deeply grateful I am."

"Gratitude should be the other way," was his answer. "If it had not been
for your little mishap I should possibly never have had the pleasure of
knowing you so well."

"But the little mishap nearly cost Jessie her life," said Marie.

"Sometimes we express our deeper thoughts in lighter vein, but how is
she?"

"Sleeping quietly and still unconscious. The doctor says she is no
worse."

"That has a hopeful sound, I am glad to hear it. I believe she will get
well. But what concerns me most just now is the future."

"Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof," she quoted with
carelessness that was only seeming.

"Yes," was his answer. "That is well enough for a proverb; but it will
not do for our days. Do you know, Miss MacAlpine, I have discovered that
we are cousins?"

"Who told you?" she exclaimed, her cheeks tingling notwithstanding her
effort at self-control.

"My first suspicion was when I heard Miss Stedman call you Marie Stuart.
And I assure you the surprise was doubly welcome when Lady Head said
that it was true."

"I knew before we were introduced," said Marie.

"The usual way," was his rejoinder; "men are such slow coaches."

"It wasn't by intuition though," was her laughing response. "I received
my information from the same source that you did, by a mere reference to
ancestry."

"Well, granting that we are cousins, we should have similar interests.
Possibly you can help me to solve a problem."

"Women may have wit but men have wisdom. I am afraid you cannot get much
aid from me, for I never solved a problem in my life."

"You are the only person, man or woman, who can aid me," was his
answer.

"What is it?" Her eyes dropped as intuitively she grasped the thought.

"I want you to influence your father to keep the peace. Convince him of
the foolishness of rebellion. Then among the islands, at least, there
will be no war."

"You do not know my father," said Marie, her face for the moment
becoming pallid. "Do you think a Highland chieftain would ask advice of
a woman upon such an important matter, least of all his own child?"

"His daughter is not a child, Miss Marie, but a genuine woman, filled
with the blood of the Stuarts as well as the MacAlpines."

"The Stuarts and the MacAlpines were always ready to fight and to die
for their rights. What Donald MacAlpine says is law, and Marie Stuart,
his daughter, would die before she would show the white feather."

"Forgive me, I know it. I am proud of you, as every Stuart would be. The
trouble is, that I, a soldier of the King, with our troops, will have to
patrol the lake and fight for the Government; while your father will
lead the lake division of the rebel forces. There is no use mincing
matters. The time of conflict will soon come. It is terrible in this new
country to have a Stuart fighting against his kin--for your brothers
under their father's banner will help him to fight his battles."

"Of course they will. Why should they not? Whether is it better to fight
for one's country and one's home; or to come, as you have done, to
trample out one's rights?"

"I didn't come to do that, Miss Marie. Heaven knows I didn't. The
soldiers of the King came to keep the peace, to quell rebellion, to
restore order, until wrongs can be righted, and injustices removed."

"Then their first duty will be to quell rebellion," said Marie, stoutly,
in defence of her father's cause.

"God grant that the riddle may be solved in some other way."

"But it won't. The MacAlpines believe that they have wrongs to right;
and their faces will be turned to the foe, whatever happens."

"Don't talk of foes. That should never be."

"But if it must, what then?"

"Stuart against Stuart?"

"Possibly even that," and tightly her fingers gripped each other.

"Then may my blood be the first to be shed."

And clasping her hand for a moment, he hurried away.




CHAPTER X.

COMMODORE MACALPINE'S MEETING WITH HIS DAUGHTER.


"Daughter, it is fine to see you again, straight and dashing; taller,
too, and more winsome than ever." And, rugged Scotchman though he was,
he clasped her in his arms with strong tenderness.

"And you, father, how little you've changed! Not a grey hair. Scarce a
line in your face. The same blue eyes, and just the old look. Don't be
stern though, please."

"Not much danger, child, when you are round again. But where are your
things? I told Harry Thompson to be sure and have them here as soon as
we reached harbor."

"Isn't he here yet? He must be on the road. He told me I would see him
when I came. But, father, I want to talk to you before he comes. You
must put all the blame on me."

"What are you talking about, Marie? You didn't answer my question--I
don't understand."

His face had become grave. Something unusual must have happened.

"I have a little story to tell. Come into your cabin and let me tell it
there."

"But my question," he repeated, doggedly.

"Come in, father, and then I'll answer you," and with a forced laugh she
led the way.

Enchanted by her appearance, but vexed by her wilfulness, he followed.
Then, putting her hands upon his shoulders, with saucy affection, she
looked up into his face.

"Don't you know, father, that with a woman--I'm a woman now--the longest
way round brings the quickest answer? Just another kiss to start with.
Two years was an awful long time to go without any."

"Well, here goes, child," and he gave her several.

Then she told her story. It came quickly, for she had already related it
several times, concluding with her plea to remain.

"It's lucky you escaped so well. You were always too venturesome, Marie.
But it can't be done. You've got to go home with me."

"But it must be done, father. I must remain with Jessie until she's out
of danger. I told you why."

"That's no reason at all. The doctor can easily find a competent nurse,
and your stay would not make an atom of difference in the result."

"It might, father; we've been room-mates ever since I came to the
school. She's been a sister to me. And it's simply that I can't leave
her until she's better."

"All foolish sentiment, child; you've done your duty to her already, now
it's your duty to me that must be considered."

"But I only ask to stay a week. Her father and mother are both dead,
and she hasn't a single relative in the world but the doctor who attends
her."

"It's no use talking, I say. It can't be done, and for reasons that I
need not mention, it won't be done."

It was quite evident to Marie that further persuasion would be useless,
and for a moment she nerved herself again for the conflict, and then
returned to it.

"But, I repeat, it must be done, father. I am sorry, but if I can't have
your permission, I shall stay without it."

"You mean to say that you defy me to my face?" he asked, in a low, stern
tone, with a look, which, if she had not had previous contests with him,
would have struck terror to her soul.

"Don't be unreasonable, father." She met his eye steadily now, although
her heart thumped wildly and her knees shook beneath her. "I told you
that every bit of the accident was my own fault, and think you, after
saving her life in that wild storm, that I'm going to forsake her now,
with her life still in danger. If you do, you don't know what Marie
Stuart is made of, even if you are her father."

"So you left your things at the Hall in order to carry out your project
of disobedience?" he asked in frigid tones.

"No, I left them because it would be useless to carry them here and back
again."

"Well, you are here now and will stay here, until I send for them," he
muttered sternly.

"But you won't!" and this time, with flashing eyes, she drew herself to
her fullest height. "If you pull out from this wharf without letting me
land, I shall jump overboard and swim ashore."

"Tut, you little goose, to think that you can prevent me carrying out my
will by such a nonsensical threat as that!" he exclaimed, passionately,
turning his back upon her. "Ye gods, after educating my child in the
so-called best school in the land, and coming in my boat all this
distance to take her home--to find, instead of a loving, grateful
daughter, that she has turned into a rebellious little jade, is simply
maddening. But we'll soon see who is master here. Jerry!" he called out
to a figure that had entered by a door behind him.

"I'm not Jerry," returned the new arrival as he stept quickly forward.
"But I heard your taunt, sir. There must be some mistake, and I'll not
stand by and hear Marie called a 'rebellious jade,' even by her father."

"The deuce you won't! What right has Harry Thompson, a new renegade, to
interfere between myself and my child?" he stormed, this time losing
what little self-control remained.

"The right of the man who saved my life," said Marie, more coolly than
she had yet spoken.

"No," said Harry. "There were two of us. I only wish I had done it all
myself."

"And who was the other precious cargo?" cried MacAlpine, still blind
with fury.

"An officer in the King's navy," was the answer.

"Oh! that's what he is. One of the d--d enemies of all the Colonies. And
you are sneaking back to be where he is, eh?"

"That's not true," said Harry, firmly. "Lieutenant Stuart's boat has
left the harbor and does not expect to return. I do not know what this
altercation is about; but I do know that you are unjust to Marie,
terribly unjust!"

"Terribly unjust, when she defies me, and adds insult to defiance?"

"I want to do neither the one nor the other," returned Marie, biting her
lips and bravely keeping back the tears. "But I'm of age; I'm
twenty-one; and I will not be forced to return now when duty says I
should stay."

"Duty, you jade! By every law of God and man you are smashing duty to
atoms when you refuse to return home with your father."

Marie's heart was palpitating wildly, and her cheeks were hot and
flushed as she leaned against the table for support. Passionate though
her father was, and strong though her own convictions had always been,
she had never experienced a scene like this before. Minor conflicts had
not been infrequent during her girl life, due largely to his irrascible
temper forcing its way over all obstacles. Now, she believed that a
principle was at stake, and much as she loved her father,
notwithstanding all his faults, she was determined not to yield.

"There is no use in my staying any longer," she said in as quiet a voice
as she could assume. "The afternoon will soon be gone, and Dr. Rolph
said that my duty to-night would commence at six o'clock."

"Dr. Rolph!" exclaimed her father with a start.

"Yes," she answered, again meeting his look, while she extended her hand
to bid him good-bye, "he is Jessie's uncle."

"Jessie's uncle--MacKenzie's right-hand man!" he ejaculated.

"Both travelling by the same boat that you are," interjected Harry,
discerning a possible outlet from the difficulty. "All you men are
engaged in a common cause. What's the use quarrelling about it?"

"And you still insist on going back?"

MacAlpine was evidently weakening, though he declined to see her hand.

"Don't be angry with me, father, but I certainly do."

"Well--after all--you may go for to-night--I must see
MacKenzie--possibly I may not leave until to-morrow."

"Thank you, father," and she turned to leave the cabin.

"Stay, child," cried MacAlpine, softening still more; "I've been cross
and you've been stubborn. Let's cry quits. I may even see Dr. Rolph. If
so, I shall talk with him about it."

She held up her face, and taking both her hands he kissed her again.

"But about this other chap. He only did his duty as a man. Even a
Hottentot would do that. But he's not with us, he's in the enemy's
camp. You must give him a wide berth. We in Canada must be loyal to each
other and down on our oppressors of whatever stripe. They are our foes,
and the sooner we let them know that the better."

"I don't think you need have any fear about Lieutenant Stuart," said
Marie, calmly. "Harry told you he left the harbor on the _Transit_ this
morning, and is not likely to come back again until long after I leave."

Still her eyes dropped beneath his searching gaze.

"Tell me more about him."

Harry tried to attract her attention. He nodded, coughed and made signs,
but all in vain.

"It is strange," said Marie, toying with a ribbon at her throat, "but to
my surprise I discovered that he was a distant connection of ours, the
youngest son of Lord Vancroft."

"What, that jackanapes!" exclaimed MacAlpine, getting angry again. "The
last man in the world that I would willingly be under obligation to. The
son of the man who disowned your mother because she married myself, the
head of the MacAlpine clan."

"I don't think you should blame the son for the father's act," said
Marie, evidently willing to take up the cudgels again if needs be.

"It's all in the blood. Race proud, sure enough, and it would be purse
proud, too, if they had anything to back it with."

"Not a very gallant thing to say when you married one of the race."

"All the more fool was I. Still, after all, I'm proud of you, girl;
you've got lots of pluck. But you must keep a level head whatever you
do. And always remember that you are a MacAlpine."

"I am sure, father, I shall never forget it."

Then she bade him adieu again, and Harry accompanied her beyond the
wharf.

"So you got your wish," he ventured, as he pulled at some tall weeds by
the roadside.

"If it had not been for Jessie, nothing in the world would have
prevented me going home with father," she replied. This new strain, so
different from the one of yesterday, was telling upon her, and her voice
trembled. "He has always been good to me."

"Yes, and to everyone else on the islands. Quick and passionate, but
faithful to his friends. He yielded to you at last, or I don't know
where we would have been by this time."

"I feel sure that he'll let me stay for the week that I asked."

"It will involve another trip."

"If my father cannot come himself, he can surely send my brothers."

"Or I could come," said Harry. "The _Petrel_ is one of the best little
steamers on the lake and is not a bit hard to manage."

"Oh, yonder are Dr. Rolph and Mr. MacKenzie, going toward the boat!"
exclaimed Marie, quickly changing the subject, as two figures approached
the wharf from a different direction.

"Yes," replied Harry, "they are to meet your father; I arranged for it
this morning. It is too bad, but I will have to go back at once, as I
promised to be at the boat when they arrived."

"What are they going to do?"

"Plot, of course. It is an open secret among ourselves that they intend
to overturn the tyrannical government of this Province. This time it
will be by open revolt, as all other means have proved futile. I believe
they are right. Good-bye, Marie, until to-morrow."

For a moment she stood still as Harry hastened away toward the _Petrel_.
Then casting her eyes beyond the eastern gap in the far distance, she
could see the smoke-stack of another steamer, which she knew must be the
_Transit_.




CHAPTER XI.

MRS. BOULTON'S RECEPTION AT HOLLAND HOUSE.


  The imps may fight
  Where'er they light
  On land or lake or lea,
  And the deuce may turn
  And each of 'em spurn,
  Yet Mac's the man for me.

"Who's that?" exclaimed Jessie. It was the afternoon of the fifth day of
her illness; and conscious again, she was dreamily watching Marie, who
sat with her needle-work at the window, through which a gentle breeze
was blowing in from the bay.

"It's daft Madge coming up the path," said Marie; "no matter where you
meet her she is always singing. I wonder what brings her here?"

"What are the words? It sounds like 'imp' and 'light' and 'fight,' but
it's hard to catch them."

"No wonder, for her voice is cracked. She always sings low as if afraid
of being heard. It's one of her doggerels. She has dozens of them. There
she goes again, but she's nearer. Listen!"

  And he who dares
  Run up the stairs
  And glue his ear to the crack,
  Will rue his fate
  And quicken his gait,
  For the man he's after is Mac.

In another minute there was a loud rap at the door, and the maid ran up
with the message.

"Mad Madge wants to see you, Miss."

"Mad!" ejaculated Marie.

"She's civil and harmless; they call her that because she's daft."

Marie hastened down. The tall, distrait woman was standing in the hall.
First she glanced at Marie. Gradually her eye brightened and she peered
into her face as she came nearer.

"I can trust ye. You're the right one. This is for ye, Mr. MacKenzie
sent it."

"Was there any other message?" Marie asked as she took the letter.

"No, only that I was to give it to no other body, and he told me what
you were like."

"Thank you, but you'd better wait; perhaps there will be an answer."

"No, not for me to take; if there is one you must carry it yourself."

Then she turned and ambled out of the room and down the walk, again
singing in a low monotone:

  And he who dares
  Run up the stairs
  And glue his ear to the crack.


The words became fainter as she neared the road. Marie watched her a
moment, and then hastened to her own room to read the letter.

It ran thus:

    _Dear Miss MacAlpine:_

    _I have just received word from your father that he will be
    here again at noon to-morrow. The special object this time, as
    on the former occasion, will be to take you home. I am glad to
    hear that Miss Stedman, thanks to your careful nursing, is
    recovering so well. In fact, Dr. Rolph assures me that all
    danger is over, and much as he values your services, they will
    not be required any longer. For that matter, he is sending
    another person to take your place to-night, in order that you
    may devote the few remaining hours at your disposal to
    leavetaking and preparation for departure. Dr. Rolph would have
    taken this message to you in person, had he not been summoned
    hastily to a more distant duty. With many compliments, I am
    ever, your father's friend,_

    _William Lyon MacKenzie._

The letter was an unpleasant surprise to Marie. It came from a quarter
least expected. That her father should make this announcement through a
third person was a distinct shock to her. Could he not have trusted her
when she had given her faithful promise? Surely he had not lost
confidence, entirely, in his daughter. It seemed like a premeditated
plan to have the message so worded and conveyed as to make it
imperative for her to obey. And when she remembered that Dr. Rolph and
Mr. MacKenzie and her father were all in league with each other, she
realized that further opposition would be useless, even if she desired
to remain the two days yet due her promise.

Returning to Jessie's room she told her of Mr. MacKenzie's note.

"My only surprise is that they let you stay so long," was Jessie's
comment. "Now I am almost well and can easily spare you. But Marie, you
must not forget the Holland House party this afternoon. You know you
promised to go if I were well enough."

"If you really are, I would love to go," said Marie.

"Certainly I am, and when you are away, I can't talk. Miss Bradley won't
let me."

"Jessie is right," said that lady, who had just entered the room. "I
also received word from Mr. MacKenzie that you were to leave to-morrow;
and as it may be your last opportunity, you must really be one of the
guests at Holland House. Mrs. Boulton intends to serve tea on the lawn
among the roses, and it will be a delightful gathering."

"Do go," reiterated Jessie, opening her eyes again. "As Miss Bradley
says, it will be your last chance; for the bowls at the Grange and the
archery at Castle Frank, I suppose, you will have to miss."

"Yes," said Marie, "Mrs. Dalton's is to-morrow. I might possibly go
there, if I deferred leaving until the evening; but the archery at the
end of the week is out of the question. I am glad, though, even to have
the invitations. They will be kind memories of the closing days of my
school life."

"All due to the overlapping of your time here after the rest of the
young ladies have gone," said Miss Bradley, "and possibly to the fact
that your name is getting abroad as a bit of a heroine. English people,
you know, always idolize those who do things."

"They could never put me on that list, for I nearly drowned Jessie,"
said Marie.

"Yes, so nearly that it took two men to save her life," continued Miss
Bradley, shrugging her shoulders. "But, my dear, you have only time to
dress, so you had better hasten. I will take care of Jessie until the
new nurse comes."

"Thank you, but what should I wear?"

"Your new white frock with the flounces," suggested Jessie. "You look
sweet in that."

"Thank you, too," and away she went.

"Come in and let us see it before you go."

"If you'll promise not to talk any more."

"I'll be dumb as an oyster until you are back," and again Jessie closed
her eyes.

       *     *     *     *     *

Holland House, with its brown front, massive turrets and panelled
windows, was a notable mansion in those early days of the city. At the
time we speak of, although castle-like in structure, it was
comparatively new, and embellished with many treasures of art brought
from beyond the sea. Like its namesake in London, where Fox for so many
years dispensed the good things of life to his friends, and where wit
and repartee sparkled among the guests like old champagne fresh from the
cellars, so Holland House in this western city was noted for its
gatherings of the wit and wisdom and beauty of the land--and it was an
honor to be a guest within its walls.

When Marie arrived with Mrs. Hagarman, her chaperon, many people had
assembled. Some, passing beneath the gothic arches, were being received
by Judge Boulton and his wife; while others were scattered up and down
the spacious rooms or else out on the green sward by the elms.

"I'm so glad you could come," said Mrs. Boulton, "and sorry that Miss
Stedman is not here also. Still, we have good reports of her progress, I
am happy to say."

"And you are a much-discussed young lady," added her husband, holding
her hand for a moment between both of his. "Two young gentlemen, who
from a distance have long been your ardent admirers, laid a wager this
afternoon. One swears that you swam with Miss Stedman in your arms for
half an hour before relief came; while the other swears just as
positively that it was only for ten minutes."

"I hope the bets were large," said Marie, her eyes sparkling.

"Martin and Golding, what were they?" Colonel McNab asked, moving with
her to one side, as the two admirers came up to be introduced.

"One pound apiece," was the answer; "the loser's money to be applied as
Miss MacAlpine may suggest."

"Then I would suggest that the losers' money be the nucleus of a fund to
purchase a new city lifeboat," was her laughing answer, "and both of you
have lost, for I only swam with her for a single minute. But remember,
this is only a suggestion."

"And a very good one, too," said Mrs. Hagarman.

"Agreed," cried Martin; "if Golding is willing, we will get up a
subscription right now, heading the list ourselves."

"Be sure and carry it out," echoed the Attorney-General's wife; "I shall
be glad to be one of your number. Come inside, Marie. There's a picture
in the library that I don't think you have seen. I know it will interest
you."

Bowing to the young men, Marie followed her.

"Why, it's Prince Charlie!" she exclaimed, exultingly. "I certainly
never saw this one before. Where did Judge Boulton obtain it, I wonder?"

"He brought it from England when he returned last month. It is one of
Romney's pictures."

"It is like a small one my mother had in oils that she prized very
highly, and that I shall always keep."

"Are you not related in some way?"

"Yes," said Marie, slowly and almost reverently. "He was my
great-great-grandfather."

"Really, I never thought it was so close as that."

"The propinquity is certainly very remarkable," came from a familiar
voice over her shoulder, which, notwithstanding all her efforts, caused
Marie's blood to tingle.

"Lieutenant Stuart!" she exclaimed, in complete amazement.

"Yes, Miss MacAlpine."

"Yet you went away a week ago, never to return?"

"I didn't expect to, but a soldier must do his duty. I am here under
orders."

"And in plain clothes."

"Does that surprise you?"

"You were in uniform before."

"Oh, yes, I forgot! Everything was so vivid when I saw you last. This
time my visit is a surprise to myself."

"And how did it happen?" Marie asked. There seemed to be mystery
somewhere, and involuntarily she thought of her father, as they stepped
out upon the lawn into the freer air. "The perfume of these roses is
exquisite," she continued, to remove the point from her query.

"Yes, delightful--it was only a message our Captain wished me to carry
in person to Sir Francis. The _Transit_ lies outside the harbor and two
of the men rowed me over. So, having an hour to spare, I called at the
Hall, enquired about Miss Stedman, and then followed you here. I could
not come to the city even for an hour without making an attempt to see
my new cousin again."

"It is kind of you."

They walked on beneath the elms.

"You would think it strange to find me still here," said Marie.

"Yes, if I had not learned the reason at Montgomery Island."

"And who could tell you there, away at the entrance of the St.
Lawrence?"

"Cannot you guess?"

A startled expression appeared for a moment in Marie's face.

"It could not be Harry Thompson?"

"But it was. Of course he did not enter into particulars; but I gathered
from what he did say, that there was a brief conflict between a Stuart
and a MacAlpine; and that the Stuart won."

"That is not the right way to put it," returned Marie, indignantly.
"With me the Stuart and the MacAlpine are one."

"Pardon me. You are right. But when the _Petrel_ came for you without
avail the conclusion seemed reasonable."

"Are not the MacAlpines as reasonable as the Stuarts?"

"I only wish they were," was his answer, shrugging his shoulders. "I did
my best to obtain an interview with your father at Montgomery, but
utterly failed."

"Possibly he heard who you were."

"Unfortunately he did. I was rowing in plain clothes among the islands;
and seeing the _Petrel_, I hailed one of its men and asked to see the
Captain, giving my name; and in five minutes received the message that
Commodore MacAlpine was engaged and could not see anyone."

"He might have been very busy," said Marie.

"The answer had one salutary effect at any rate," said Stuart, looking
again into her face.

"And what could that be?"

"Must I tell you?"

"If you wish."

"It raised my high esteem of his daughter one hundred per cent at
least."

"I did not know that military men were mercenary," she replied with
affected seriousness. "But, really, has anything unusual happened?"

"Only continued development. The Islanders are arming and drilling; and
I wished to have a talk with your father while yet there was time."

"And you came with a message to Sir Francis upon the same subject," said
Marie in a lower key.

"Yes, I conveyed to him the general news, although I still suppressed
your father's name."

"Why did you do that?"

"I thought it best while you were here--Miss Marie--I must claim a
cousin's privilege--it would be better for you to remain in town and not
to return home until after this trouble is over. I am convinced that it
would be safer."

They were at the far end of the lawn beneath the spreading branches of
the trees, out of hearing of the rest of the guests.

"You are very kind in your solicitude, Lieutenant Stuart, and I
appreciate all that you have done for me," returned Marie, drawing
herself up as she often did when under unusual nervous tension. "But
such a thing I could never do. My father's home is my home. He comes for
me to-morrow. The necessity of remaining here is over, and I shall be
very glad to return to him."

"Bravely said; I honor you for your courage; and if you are there, you
may rest assured that Fingal's Notch shall not be touched if I can help
it."

"If it is, our women will fight as well as our men; and my own rifle may
be heard from, for I know every island in the whole group, and almost
every cave."

"But I wish we were out of it, Cousin Marie, and both of us away across
the sea."

"Both of us to turn the white feather? Could we be Stuarts and do that?"

"No, by heaven, we could not! But need we like pagans fight each other
to the death?"

"How soon shall we commence?" Marie asked with a serio-comic air.

"I'm not joking, but it will be weeks at least."

"That will give me a chance to go home and have our men put up ramparts
of defence," she continued in the same tone. "On our islands we could
build batteries and forts and store our dens and caves with provisions
for a prolonged siege. Then, armed to the teeth, like the Knights of the
Roundtable, we could defy our enemies."

"Perhaps," said Stuart, responding to her sense of humor, "where the
islands are so numerous and rocky, you could dig subterranean passages
from one to another and, like the genii of old, live in an enchanted
palace."

"And being enchanted, it could never be captured even by an invading
Stuart."

"I am afraid one Stuart is captured already, body and bones, heart and
soul; but not by the cause--heaven help me, no--but by the enchantress
of Aladdin's palace."

"Oh, here you are! Do you know, Miss MacAlpine, that I have been
commissioned by our hostess to escort you to the refreshment booth?"
exclaimed Dr. Rolph, coming directly towards them.

"Oh, thank you! Doctor Rolph--Lieutenant Stuart."

"Bless my soul, one of our life preservers. I haven't seen him since the
day of the rescue. It was grand work you did that day, sir; may it
always be as good. Let me thank you again."

Stuart bowed. "We can only do our best," was his answer.

"If we all did that there would be no commotion. But when all pull
different strings, there's the deuce to pay. Come, my lady nurse, time
is money."

"You are not going?" exclaimed Marie, as Stuart extended his hand.

"But I must, my time is up."

"And shall I not see you again?"

"I'm afraid not--unless it be away in the future--possibly at Aladdin's
Palace."

"I thought you were going to give that a wide berth."

"That all depends," he said, and the slight tint on her face was
reflected in his.

"What can he mean?" said Dr. Rolph, as he watched his retreating figure.

"Been reading 'Arabian Nights' perhaps," said Marie, a far-away look
coming into her face.

"That's the way with these young navy and army beggars; they are good
enough at an accident, but with so much idle time on their hands, they
are not much at anything else. A little more solid reading would be
better both for themselves and the country."

"I don't think Lieutenant Stuart is a lazy man," said Marie.

"Well, the laziness will be knocked out of him and all others like him
before long," said the Doctor, turning round again.

"But what can you have against Lieutenant Stuart? Don't forget what he
did for us, Dr. Rolph."

"Oh! I'm thankful to him for that, the exercise of one of the
humanities, which we all possess; still what we really want are men like
your father, who, although it is not publicly known, is ready to stand
up and fight for the rights and liberties of the people; not a lot of
naval and military cads, who trespass on the country and never earn
their salt. But I am wandering from the subject I wished to speak about.
You no doubt received Mr. MacKenzie's letter, and have made preparations
to leave to-morrow."

"I can answer both questions in the affirmative now that Jessie is doing
so well."

"Yes, thanks to your care."

"Could she not come to Fingal's Notch, too, as soon as she is strong
enough to travel?" said Marie.

"She might; it would be an excellent place to recuperate before cold
weather comes, if it were not for the political problem that overhangs
the country."

"Oh, but that would not matter! She would be quite safe, I think, with
us--with me."

"So she would. I feel sure of that, for you are the truest-hearted girl
that ever lived. This is not an old man's flattery, for I have a wife to
love and a daughter almost as old as you are."

"My father says I'm a jade!" she exclaimed, incredulously.

"That is far from the truth, and no man knows it better than he does.
Yes, Jessie shall come to you."




CHAPTER XII.

THE VOYAGE HOME.


"Oh, Donald! Oh, Charlie! It's so good to see you. I never expected that
you both would come. I thought it might just be father. It's simply
splendid."

"It is a lark--and a first-rate one," said each in succession as he
hugged and kissed his sister.

"Golly, but you are a stunner!" cried Charlie, the younger one, a
strapping youth of nineteen, with eyes as blue as the sea and hair the
duplicate of her own. "I always said you'd make a handsome woman. Girl
isn't in it with you."

"You'll just queen it, when you get back, or my name isn't Donald
MacAlpine," cried the elder brother.

"And such boys! Why, you are men already."

"Of course we are. We can shoulder a musket, or punch an enemy, or drill
a company, or do anything you like, that's any way reasonable,"
volunteered Charlie.

"Military, military, military, is all we hear about!" exclaimed Marie,
with a dubious laugh. "So different from what it used to be."

"But then you are grown up now. You were only a girl when you went
away."

"That must be it. I'm getting very old, you know."

"Of course you are; I wish I were twenty-one."

"You needn't," said Donald briskly; "you're getting there fast enough."

"You were always a philosophical clansman," said Marie.

"And Charlie was always a prig of a Stuart," returned Donald.

"Oh, Donald! we are all Stuarts, but not prigs, surely."

"Donald isn't a responsible party," said Charlie, drawing down the
corners of his mouth. "He thinks Gaelic, with its _ich dhu_, is the only
language worth speaking; and he's been studying it so hard that he has
forgotten how to speak English decently."

"Guess that hit's fair enough. Beg your pardon, Charlie," returned
Donald, good-naturedly slapping his brother on the back.

"But where is father? Did he not come?"

"He's down at the boat, waiting for us. What do you think his orders
were?"

"How should I know?"

"That if necessary we were to use a due measure of persuasion. If that
didn't avail, moderate threatening was to follow. If resistance still
continued, careful exercise of force was to be resorted to. And if that
did not produce the desired effect, we were to seize our liege lady and
carry her, willy-nilly, body and bones, directly to our man-of-war."

"You are certainly a polite pair of subjects."

"We are always ready to acknowledge our allegiance and perform our
vows," said Donald.

"And pay homage," said Charlie, preparing to drop on one knee.

"Stop your nonsense and lead the way," cried Marie, laughing heartily.

"So that's the racket, is it? Where are your boxes?"

"All strapped and ready, at the head of the stairs."

"Charlie's luggage-master. He has a man at the door with a dray for
them. If you are ready we'll start."

"In another minute." And Marie ran upstairs to say good-bye to Jessie.
How many tears were shed history has not recorded; but the parting was
relieved by the prospect of a further meeting at Fingal's Notch before
the summer ended. Then Miss Bradley kissed her on the forehead, bade her
adieu, and Marie departed.

       *     *     *     *     *

Before nightfall they were far out on the lake and the ordeal of Marie's
first meeting with her father was over. Although the former incident
rankled in his mind, Mr. MacAlpine made no allusion to it. It was as if
nothing had happened and Marie was happy.

"You'll find things different when you get back to the island," he said,
as the four grouped themselves together on the forward deck. "We have
made many changes."

"Fingal's Notch you wouldn't recognize, if you didn't know it was the
same place," said Charlie.

"You could not change the shape of the island," said Marie.

"Not the shape, perhaps, but certainly the appearance," said her father.
"The trees we planted have grown bigger, and the old house has been
taken down and a larger one built on higher ground."

"And you never told me!" exclaimed Marie. "You don't mean that my own
little room, that I prized so highly, has been taken away."

"Yes, we do," said Donald. "But your things are all right, piled up to
fix for yourself in your new room, which is twice as large as the old
one."

"But it can never be the same," said Marie, sadly. "I knew every inch of
my old room, from the wooden rafters of the ceiling, the cedar boards of
the walls, the little maple mantel, and the round peg upon which my
cuckoo clock hung, down to the oval window through which I used to watch
the sun rise. Now it is all gone."

"Oh, but everything is better and built on a larger scale! Our new house
is of stone and three or four times as big as the old one."

"The funny part of it is," put in Charlie, "that father has built it
right against the solid rock, and they are so nearly alike that you can
scarcely tell where house ends and rock begins."

"You cannot tell at all unless you examine it closely," said her father;
"and by treating the stone in a way I have discovered, I would defy even
an expert to tell the one from the other."

"And about your room, Marie," said Donald, who did not like the look of
distress still visible on Marie's face, "it, too, has an oval east
window, but bigger than the one in the old house."

"No, child, we didn't forget you, and rather than make you uncomfortable
about it, we kept the whole thing quiet for a big surprise," said her
father, soothingly patting her hand.

"I hope I shall like it," said Marie, courageously. "In fact, I am sure
I shall."

"To tell the truth, it's the nearest thing to a castle that I've seen
for a long time--a fitting house for the MacAlpine clan."

"You could pack a whole regiment inside at one time, if necessary," said
Donald.

"You couldn't do that," said Charlie, shaking his head.

"Why not?" demanded Donald.

"Oh, yes, I forgot," was the answer; and hearing the words, Lieutenant
Stuart's mention of Aladdin's Palace flashed through Marie's mind.

"Yonder goes that cruiser again!" exclaimed MacAlpine with an angry
growl, as a steamer away to the leeward could be seen gaining upon them.
"She's the biggest vessel the navy has on the lakes; and no matter where
you go, you are sure to meet her one way or the other."

"It's the _Transit_, sure enough," said Donald. "The cut of her jib and
her smoke-stack differ from all other steamers on the lake."

The boys both knew that Lieutenant Stuart was second officer on the
vessel; and of the important part he had played in Marie's rescue; but
their father had warned them that the subject was a distasteful one, and
that all discussions of it with Marie must be avoided, and they were
accustomed to obey.

For an hour in the moonlight the two vessels, differing widely in
tonnage and equipment, but each heavily armed, pursued their way side by
side. They were scarcely a quarter of a mile apart, but no
acknowledgment of each other's presence passed between them.

The sight of the _Transit_ made Marie serious; but the boys chatted on;
while her father, restless to a degree, rose and walked the deck.

By-and-by Marie went to her little cabin and tried to forget both the
present and the past in much needed sleep. Not so her father. For weeks
now, almost daily, the _Transit_ seemed to have watched his course;
whether up or down the lake, the surveillance had almost become a
menace.

MacAlpine was a man of strong passions, possessed of fixed ideas, bred
in the bone. Once in possession, it was impossible to move them. Had the
_Transit_ pursued the ordinary course of a warship in time of peace, he
would have thought nothing of it. But to be pursued and watched from day
to day was a different matter; and, grinding his teeth, he vowed
vengeance upon both ship and crew. He could bide his time, but if this
continued much longer, he secretly determined that the punishment should
be adequate to the cause.

After a while the warship put on extra steam and passed the slower
vessel. Then the Captain, leaving the _Petrel_ in the hands of another
officer, sought rest likewise.

The sun was still near the horizon when the little steamer reached the
first of the islands that studded the eastern end of the lake. It was a
glorious morning, July being at its best. The drouth of summer had
parched to aridity some of the fields on either shore; but recent rains
had produced many touches of green; while the forest, verdant in beauty,
sheltered the islands on both lake and river.

Marie rose early. The first glimpse of the islands could not be missed.
It was a return to the homeland, and with rapture she took her first
long look.

"It is just the same, Charlie; the same old coloring, the same old
beauty, as sweet and dear as it ever was. The blue waves, the white
gulls and the islands never change."

"Yes, Marie," slipping his hand up to her shoulder. "You and I see it
through the same eyes we used to do. Wouldn't it be great if all these
thousand islands were bound in a single knot, and you and I were the
King and Queen?" he exclaimed, ecstatically.

"What a boy you are!" was her laughing answer. "After we were crowned
I'd want a king of my own for a husband and you'd want a queen for a
wife; and then where would we be?"

"You are too practical, Marie," he blurted out, his face reddening with
excitement; "instead of accepting my poetic vision, you'd make us fight
for the division of the kingdom to see who would get the biggest half."

"I'm afraid that is what it would be, Charlie."

"Reckon we won't do it then. Better let things stay as they are."

"Oh, if they only would!" cried Marie. "Look how peaceful these islands
are. People building houses upon them and making little gardens; the
farms on both sides of the river quiet and orderly. No noise whatever,
no commotion, yet they say that deep down beneath all this peace and
good-will there is wild unrest; and in the end there will be rebellion
and rapine and war."

"I'm afraid it's true, Marie, but they say there's good reason, for the
Government oppresses the people. It may be so on the mainland, but I
don't think it is among the islands."

"Then why does father side with the malcontents?"

"He says that the people's cause is a righteous one, and that they need
all the help we can give them."

"And he's determined to support the cause?"

"He certainly is."

"What does Donald say?"

"He swears by the MacAlpine clan. Whatever the chief says is law, and he
would die rather than disobey."

"In fealty he is right; and we must do as Donald does," responded Marie,
gravely.

"Yes, we must."

"A house divided against itself cannot stand."

"That's true, too. There is no use arguing with father. He's just as
determined and masterful as any chief the Highlands ever had."

"Almost as masterful as the Stuarts," said Marie.

"Yes, more so," responded Charlie.

"I wonder if that is really true," said Marie, reflectively.

The little steamer plowed on its way, passing between beautiful islands
covered with underwood and crowned with the spreading branches of ash
and elm trees; then through a medley of lesser islets, scattered
broadcast on the deep waters of the lake, with brakes and lilies along
the shallow edges. Further still rose a huge mound, dome shaped, as
though it had been the tomb of kings. As they advanced the islands
became more rude and irregular. Huge masses of granite here and there
stood boldly out, while tall pines reared their bare trunks skyward
above them; and maples and oak and cedar with variety of tint and
outline added charm to the scene.

"Yonder one must be it!" exclaimed Marie at last. "We have passed all
the others. Here's one we used to call Hickory, although it was said
there never was a hickory tree upon it. And that is Jungle, the home of
rattlesnakes, as dense as ever. Yes, we're coming to Fingal's Notch now.
But how strange! Those poplars have grown so tall, and that big willow
at the edge almost hides the view--now we are getting at it. Why, it's
like the pictures of the Castle of Otranto, and big enough to have a
huge dungeon beneath it. How still it is and yet how beautiful, almost
buried among the rocks and the trees!"

"Do you like it, Marie?"

"It makes me shiver to look at it, and yet I believe I do."

"It draws one," said Charlie, solemnly.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh! I don't know. Was there ever a witch in our family?"

"What a question! Have you been studying Highland folk-lore, as Donald
has the Gaelic?"

"No, but there's something queer about our new house. The place was all
in the rough when I went away to college in January and I didn't observe
anything then. But when I came home in June, I did. Father and Donald
and the men had been working hard to finish everything up by the time
you would come home. So all was complete but the fixings in your room
when I arrived. Just you examine for yourself, but don't say anything to
any one about it, until you are satisfied, and we have another chance to
discuss it with each other."

"Taking it all in, Marie?" said her father, as he came up the gangway
with Donald. "What do you think of my castle building now when you see
it?"

"It is handsome and strong, father," was her answer. "It looks as if you
intended to fortify the island."

"That's what I do intend if I can only get the cannon to do it with.
One's got to be canny, though, when there are so many d----d cruisers
plying up and down the lake."

MacAlpine always scattered his oaths freely. His sons were better
controlled.

"The people are yonder ready to receive us," said Donald. "Can't you
recognize them, Marie? They are all down on the wharf."

"Yes, indeed, there's my old nurse Jean, in her white cap, waving her
handkerchief. Here mine goes too; and old Andrew, the piper, he's
actually blowing his whistles; and David, the fiddler, and Billy and
Jock."

"Andrew's doing you special honor, don't you see; he's donned the tartan
as well."

"Brave old boy, why he's marching round in a circle treading time to the
swirl of his bagpipes."

In a few more minutes the little steamer drew close to the wharf, and
willing hands made her fast. Then with shouts and laughter and welcome
greetings Marie's old friends and servants gave her an ovation.

Of all the greetings, old Jean's was the tenderest. She threw her arms
round Marie's neck, her cheeks wet with tears, and cried out: "Ye
mither's bairn--ye're welcome, aye welcome--for the de'il's at work at
hame without ye. Coom, lassie--coom," and she led the way. "Ye're
breakfast's all ready, het and waitin' for ye this hoor lang."




CHAPTER XIII.

JESSIE'S VISIT TO THE EAGLE'S EYRIE.


Summer was over and September well nigh half gone before Jessie Stedman
was well enough to pay her long-looked-for visit to Fingal's Notch. The
glorious autumn hues of the Canadian woods were commencing to appear.
The heavy masses of foliage on the island trees were beginning to turn;
streaks of yellow were discernible here and there; while the breeze
floated elm and ash and chestnut leaves gently downward to re-carpet the
earth. The pines and spruces seemed darker and denser in their foliage
than in the earlier summer days; but the frosts still holding off, the
scarlets and deep purples of the woodland were not yet to be seen. Still
the islands teemed with life. Now and then a grouse would wing its
flight over to an adjacent wood, while pigeons swept in clusters through
the air, preparing for a longer flight. Civilization had already touched
the islands, and bobolinks and song-sparrows, king-birds and robins,
proclaimed by their presence and their songs a right to a home in the
clearings.

It was the third day after Jessie's arrival. She had rested well at the
Eyrie, and her eyes had opened wide with astonishment at what she had
seen within its walls; for Marie had showed her everything. Then they
wandered off to the woods by themselves. Jessie felt strong again. The
scar upon her temple could scarcely be seen, being adroitly covered by a
droop of her hair; and she rejoiced greatly in being with her friend
once more. The balsamic odors from the woods, the breezes from the lake,
and the warmth of her reception, gave her new life.

The girls had much to talk about.

"And have you not seen him since?" asked Jessie.

"No," was the answer. "How could I? The British ships patrol the lake.
There has been no outbreak yet, and father's vessels and theirs keep as
wide apart as ever."

"But you have Mr. Thompson with you," said Jessie, in a lower key.

"Oh, yes! He is frequently here. Sometimes I wish he was not with us
quite so often."

"Why, Marie, when we owe so much to him?"

"For that matter, I don't think I owe him quite so much as you do,"
returned Marie, with a laugh. "You know, Harry saved your life; Mr.
Stuart saved mine."

A faint color rose to Jessie's cheek. They were in a little open dell in
the woods, on one side of which Charlie had built the rustic bench upon
which they were seated.

"Of course, being unconscious, I didn't know how it all happened," she
murmured; "but I know you told me that it was Mr. Thompson who lifted me
into his boat."

"And a difficult task he had of it; to pick you up in that terrible
storm, and not upset his little craft, was a hard job for even Harry
Thompson--one of the strongest and most skilful oarsmen among the
islands."

"I never had a chance to tell him how grateful I was," said Jessie, her
face still glowing in color.

"You'll soon get one," said Marie. "He's been away now for two days and
may come over any time."

The wind was blowing on their faces, carrying their voices backwards,
while drowning the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Yes, even now, and I have brought an old friend with me. I picked him
up in my fishing, less than an hour ago." The speaker had caught her
last words.

Startled, they both turned. Harry Thompson, followed by Lieutenant
Stuart, in plain clothes, stepped into the open. The latter was so
unexpected that a flush for the moment spread over Marie's face.

"This is not Aladdin's Palace," he said, greeting her as if they had met
only yesterday, "but Feronia's grove, where she deals out justice to her
bondsmen."

"Say, rather, the Ultima Thule of Castor and Pollux," was her laughing
response. "But this is a delightful surprise. We were talking of both of
you only a moment ago."

"Think of his majesty and he'll appear," said Harry.

"I'm afraid that's a subtle fallacy," said Jessie; "I have thought of
you, Mr. Thompson, over and over again these two months, and you never
appeared."

"I was too far away to respond to the mandate," said Harry, jestingly.

"Was that it?" Then she thanked him. They were standing apart from
Stuart and Marie. The deep blue of her eyes and the tone of her voice
touched him. The fall of her hair over the left temple only enhanced her
beauty.

"To a prudent oarsman it was a mere coincidence," he returned, lightly.
"In facing a storm, too, it was a keen pleasure to help a little."

"Though I may not mention it again, I shall never forget," was her
response, as she saw his eyes again following the other two.

"Where are they going?" he asked, as Marie and Stuart stepped from the
dell to higher ground among the trees on the further side.

"Marie must be showing him the grotto," returned Jessie. "You know,
she's great on the old Greeks and caves and poems and things. Only
yesterday she showed it to me, declaring that Castor and Pollux used to
share their alternate half-years there."

"I see, and she was talking about those two old chaps only a minute
ago." But his face hardened a little.

Jessie laughed and they sat down on the bench to await their return.

"And how did you happen to come across Lieutenant Stuart?" she asked. "I
am afraid it would go hard with Marie if the Commodore were to find out
that an officer of the _Transit_ had been here."

"We'll take care of that. He was catching bass with two of his men when
I ran across him. They were in the boat, but he was on shore standing on
a rock and pulling them out fast enough. It gave us a chance for a talk.
So he shouted to his men that he would be back in an hour--and here we
are."

"Marie is delighted."

"So I see," was his response. "The Commodore is away to-day, is he not?"

"Yes, he went with Donald and his men farther down the lake and won't be
back until evening."

"I thought that was the order; and as it was evident that Mr. Stuart
desired to visit the island, I could not refuse."

"I am glad you brought him."

"He showed such grit in that canoe escapade that I couldn't help but
like him, even if he is on the other side. Still I don't want him to
steal the heart of our Marie."

"Marie's heart could never be stolen, it would have to be won."

She flashed a glance into Harry's face, but he did not see it. His eyes
were still peering through the trees at the two standing at the entrance
to the grotto.

Stuart was pleading very earnestly.

"It is quite impossible," was Marie's answer. "Father would not think of
it for a moment."

"So I must relinquish all thought of a run to the Eyrie."

"I fear you must."

"Thank heaven for this brief moment, then."

"I am glad, too, for it gives me a chance to thank you again. I owe you
so much."

"A thousand times, no. It is I who am the debtor. But this horrid
contest! God grant that it may never come."

"But it will," was Marie's answer. "I know my father too well to believe
the contrary. The Patriots of the Islands will die before they will
yield."

"But the madness of it, Marie--hundreds against thousands--a few ships
against Britain's fleet."

"Yet little Greece could whip the nations--and my father is King of the
Islands."

"And may he ever be--But my time is up. And our signal?" he whispered.

For answer she pursed her lips; her heart was beating wildly, but there
came no sound.

"Yes, that is it."

Bending low, he kissed her hand. Then Harry and he departed.




PART II.

CHAPTER I.

THE BEGINNING OF THE REBELLION.


Months passed away. Step by step the fever of revolt was fanned in both
provinces, ready for a single spark to set it ablaze. In Lower Canada
the danger was the more imminent and the progress toward rebellion the
more rapid. The Frenchmen of the Lower Province believed that they were
particularly oppressed. In the recent election French-Canadians had been
returned to the Assembly in larger numbers than ever, holding the House
by an overwhelming majority; yet important places of emolument and
office were still given to men whose homes and hearts were in England;
while Frenchmen, no matter how eloquently their claims were supported,
were persistently and repeatedly ignored.

With all this, Papineau demanded justice but not preference for his
countrymen; while preference but not justice was granted to the other
side. Responsible government and control of the finances raised in the
Province were denied to the representatives of the people and, as a
consequence, disaffection continued to spread.

Before the winter of that year arrived, bands of armed men frequently
assembled, avowedly to discuss politics, but in reality to drill,
Montreal being the centre of the revolutionary movement. The "Sons of
Liberty," as the disaffected French-Canadians called themselves,
established their quarters in every section of the city. These were
tacitly supported by the Church, the meetings being frequently held
after mass, without receiving priestly censure.

It was at St. Charles, twenty miles from the city, however, that the
first strong ground was taken. Here two thousand people assembled to
hear Papineau, LaFontaine and Girouard speak. The addresses were all
inflammatory, the speeches being under the protection of a body of armed
militia hostile to the Government; and a "Declaration of the Rights of
Men" was freely subscribed to.

Then came the turning point. Warrants were issued for the arrest of
Papineau and his chief conspirators; but they fled to St. Denis and St.
Charles in the Richelieu District, to join their compatriots in the very
act of revolt.

Brief and terrible for the insurgents was the battle that followed. They
were completely routed, scattered in every direction and driven from the
field, leaving the major part of the forces dead or wounded behind them.
The pages of history graphically tell the story.

Papineau was undone. With his first defeat his physical energy vanished.
Instead of remaining true to his compatriots whom he had led into
revolt, he showed the white feather, abandoned them in the moment of
danger, and precipitately sought refuge beyond the boundary line, to be
exchanged later for long years of exile in France.

His conduct was an enigma. He was a man of culture and refinement, of
commanding presence and great personal magnetism, a rhetorician and an
orator. It is said that he could sway a French audience as the wind
sways at will the leaves of the forest. Possessed of strong affection
and vivid imagination, with a keen perception of what he considered to
be inherent justice, he yet missed his role. His hand relaxed when it
touched the plow. He forsook the cause, which he had spent years in
proclaiming, the moment that defeat exhibited its ghastly visage.

Possibly he was a dreamer, imagining vain things, building impossible
ideals upon sandy foundations, until, coming face to face with hard
facts, the stubborn realities of life, his ideals and his enthusiasm
alike fell shattered to pieces at his feet.

Possibly ambition was his guiding star, spurred on by egotism, failing
to grasp the situation until defeat was inevitable, then shrinking
within himself rather than face the coming doom.

Possibly, too, he was mentally a hero, but lacking in integrity of
purpose; seeing the truth by the light of reason, but possessing not the
strength and manhood to wrest it from the thraldom of error and plant it
upon heights.

Little did MacKenzie know of the disaster that had overtaken his
confrere at St. Denis. The very night that the "Sons of Liberty" were
defeated so overwhelmingly in the east, he was discussing with Dr.
Rolph, in the latter's office, the terms of a new "Constitution" which
he had drafted. He had carried the document over with him that he might
the easier outline it to his associate.

"I have embodied in it all the main details," he exclaimed,
enthusiastically. "It covers the whole ground of sound, constitutional
government; and it is so worded that it will be impossible for the
errors which have existed for ages in favored England ever to obtain an
entrance into Canada, let us once obtain control."

"You speak as if success were a foregone conclusion," said the Doctor,
gravely meeting MacKenzie's look of exultation, "and that before the
first shot has been fired, or our supporters drilled, or our ammunition
gathered."

"That's only partly true," was the reply. "The people, I know, have been
drilling more or less for months; there are arms in abundance which are
readily attainable; and to-morrow I intend to ride out on my grey mare
and bid our men be ready for service upon a moment's notice. But this
has nothing to do with our new 'Constitution,' which is a matter of
necessity as well as history. As wise men we must be prepared for every
emergency, and be ready not only to unfurl our banner, but to show the
people that we have a sound Constitution to fight for--one that will
ensure to every man the possession of all his just rights."

Dr. Rolph glanced over it for a minute or two, then handed the document
back again.

"All abstract theory, an intangible mesh of words," he commented,
shaking his head. "What we want, what the people need, are a few graphic
sentences, thoroughly boiled down--something that will tell them at a
glance what they are fighting for."

"Well, here they are, taken almost at random from the 81 clauses of the
Constitution." And MacKenzie read out a number of clauses.

"Still I am not so enthusiastic as you are," returned Rolph, gloomily;
"if it wasn't for the fact that we are hammering it into them, the great
mass of the people would not believe that they are oppressed at all. It
is only by pushing that you can drive them. Leave them to themselves and
they wouldn't budge."

"It's time then that we gave them ideas," said MacKenzie.

"Yes, and if you will ride out among them to-morrow, you will know by
nightfall what genuine support you are likely to receive."

"Late as it is, I shall strike off a number of copies of this synopsis
to-night, and be out in the country before daylight. Meet me at my own
office to-morrow night at eleven, and notify, too, the rest of the men;
will you?"

"You may depend upon me. I am with you," returned the Doctor. "Anderson,
Captain Lount and Morrison will all be there. Still, don't push things
too hard, Mac; you have spirit enough, but you are not rugged; and if
there is hard work to be done, it is important that you should conserve
your energies."

"I'm little but I'm wiry," was the answer, "and I've lived long enough
to believe that when a man has the nerve he can in the end accomplish
whatever he aims at. It is only cowards that fail."

"Well, good-night, MacKenzie. Success for to-morrow."

"God grant it, Rolph. Good-night to you."

"A bundle of wisdom, yet a visionary enthusiast. Still he's in the
right, and we've got to support him," muttered Rolph to himself, as he
watched MacKenzie pass through the gate out into the darkness.

       *     *     *     *     *

MacKenzie was as good as his word. Long before daylight, with his
coat-pockets stuffed with copies of extracts from the "Constitution," he
had saddled his grey nag and was out on the road. Very gently he pursued
his way until beyond the outskirts of the town; then he put spurs to his
steed, for he had a long day's work before him. But his grey mare was a
trusty beast, sure footed, tough and strong; and, like her master,
determined to accomplish what she aimed at.

To the nearest village was his first ride, where he spoke earnest and
emphatic words to the few men who gathered to hear him.

"We're with you, Mac. We're with you. Down with the traitors!" was the
cry. "When shall we come?"

"How many men have you?"

"Sure, we've ten drilling with clubs, and three of 'em has muskets."

"Dan O'Connor has put iron prods on our pikes," cried another man.

"Well, my men, continue to drill every day and get all the men and
muskets that you can. In ten days we'll be ready. I'll let you know in
good time."

"Three cheers for MacKenzie and good gover'ment," and away he went.

Several times this was repeated, and then he reached Stouffville. He had
sent word that he was coming and twenty men had gathered to meet him.
Some had come as supporters of the proposed rebellion; some as
opponents; some to see the man and hear what he had to say, ready to
throw in their help if they found the scheme feasible and worthy of
support, but not otherwise.

For this MacKenzie was prepared. An able speaker, sometimes flowery in
his oratory, always distinct and earnest, not infrequently eloquent, he
soon convinced all before him, the willing, the unwilling and the
lukewarm. Whatever they might be to-morrow, to-day they were his.

Then for half an hour he personally drilled them. But it was a sorry
business. What muskets they possessed had been left at home; and much as
had been promised, there had been no previous attempt at regular drill.
Still by persistent effort he instructed them in a few rudimentary
exercises, taught them to stand with tolerable regularity in two lines,
and, what they liked best of all, to stand at ease. Then he picked out
two of the brightest of the young men, pronounced them the officers of
the company, issued final orders, and started for the next village.

Before the day was entirely gone, Markham had also been visited and
Lloydtown reached.

MacKenzie was both encouraged and depressed. All were willing to listen
to his burning words; all were convinced, as never before, that they
were a wronged race, that their rights had been trampled upon, that they
had been unjustly taxed, that an obnoxious Church had been fostered and
pampered at their expense, and that their postal rates were ten times as
much as they ought to be. These things must all be remedied. MacKenzie
said so and it must be true. He had represented them in Parliament over
and over again; put there by their own votes; and having been equally
often unjustly expelled from his seat, it behooved them to rally round
his standard. They must defend their martyred hero and follow him into
battle. If they could not do this with muskets and rifles, they would
drive out the enemy with staves and clubs, and place their beloved
leader on the throne of state.

Their protestations were long and loud; yet MacKenzie could not forget
that up to this very day nothing had really been done. These were the
forces upon which he relied most--the yeomen of his own county. How
would they acquit themselves, ten days hence, when his own destiny, and
the destiny of his country, would be placed in their hands and in the
hands of others like them?

With weary brain and tired body, having covered more than eighty miles
on horseback in a single day, and having spoken to the people many
times, he wended his way homeward to keep his appointment at the
midnight caucus; knowing well that some even there were no more loyal to
himself and his cause than were the raw recruits upon whom he must
depend to fight his battles.




CHAPTER II.

FINAL CONSULTATION WITH THE COLONEL.


MacKenzie's promises had been large. Not only must the Family Compact,
which had ruled the Province so dishonestly for many years, be swept
away, and a good stable Government put in its place, but even the
villainy of British rule must be overthrown. Not a vestige must remain.
As a free people, Canadians must rise in their might and show to the
world what stuff they were made of. And to guarantee that all would be
well, he promised a large, free homestead to each of his brave followers
who would be faithful to the end.

"Canadians!" he cried, "do you love freedom? I know you do. Do you hate
oppression? Who dare deny it? Do you wish perpetual peace, and a
government founded upon eternal, heaven-born principles--a government
bound to enforce the law to do to each other as you wish to be done by?
Then buckle on your armor and put down the villains that oppress and
enslave our country. Put them down in the name of that God who goes
forth with the armies of his people. Put them down, I say, in the
strength of the Almighty. You give a bounty for wolves' scalps. Why?
Because wolves harass you. The bounty you must pay for freedom (blessed
word) is to give the strength of your arms to put down tyranny. One
short hour will deliver our country from oppression; and freedom in
religion, peace and tranquillity, equal laws, and an improved country
will be the prize.

"Up then, brave Canadians, get your rifles ready and make short work of
it. Our enemies are in terror and dismay. They know their wickedness and
dread our vengeance. Aye! now's the day and the hour. Woe be to those
who oppose us, for in God is our trust."

Such was MacKenzie's final appeal sent in fly-leaf broadcast among the
people. The effect was what he desired. Men rubbed up their old muskets
and gathered in little groups to drill; while the women, with equal
enthusiasm, melted lead into bullets for the fray. Pike heads were
forged and fastened to hickory poles. Long smooth clubs were made by
dozens; and, heterogeneously armed, men in all directions to the north
prepared to march upon the city.

But--"The best laid schemes of men and mice gang aft aglee." Although
MacKenzie had listened to Madge, never doubting her sincerity, he placed
little reliance upon her statement in reference to her uncle, and only
mentioned it incidentally to his colleagues. But the crafty Cronch was
not idle. In his espionage he ascertained that at a conference in which
Dr. Rolph was unavoidably absent, Mr. MacKenzie had announced to the
rest of his confreres that an uprising of the people must take place on
the 7th of December and that during the intervening days, he himself
would personally be away recruiting; that by the date mentioned, two
thousand men would be ready and under the control of their new
Commander, Colonel Van Egmond; and that Dr. Rolph would have full
supervision until MacKenzie's return, when all would act in unison.

As soon as he was certain of MacKenzie's departure, Cronch, ostensibly
to report the condition of his sick child, hastened over to the
doctor's.

"Well, Cronch, what's the latest?" said Dr. Rolph, who looked upon the
lame man as a pretty accurate purveyor of the most recent items of
interest.

"More news than you could shake a stick at. But, first of all, Gertie's
better. She took all your medicine."

"Glad to hear it. But what else? You say you have a budget?"

A sly look came into Cronch's face; and, peering beneath the peak of his
cap at the doctor, he replied: "The militia are out at drill. They are
coming in fast; and I hear say that by the 6th or 7th, Sir Francis will
have an army big enough to wipe MacKenzie's men clean off the slate. Of
course, I'm only a private citizen, my game leg prevents me being
anything else; but it seems to me, if the Patriots intend to do
anything, now's the time."

"You mean at once?"

"Yes, right off."

"What do you know about them?"

"Only that they are coming in as fast as the Lord will let them. I
believe even now they could gather together a bigger bunch than the
Governor could. But wait until the 7th and he'll double 'em easy."

"But MacKenzie's away and won't be back until the 6th."

"He must 'a' left some one in charge, I reckon; and I'd bet my last
pound, there are men in his camp who could find him and bring him back
in a jiffy if they wanted to."

"You exaggerate the situation, Cronch. Everyone knows that the Governor
hasn't a single regular left. He sent them all to help the Loyalists
against Papineau a month ago."

"For all that, Sir Francis has the gold and his men are scattering it
around lively among the new recruits. Mark my word, but if they wait
till the 7th, they'll rue it to the last day they live. But it's none o'
my business. This is all mum, mind you. Glad the child's better," and he
shuffled away briskly for a man whose game leg was so lame that he could
not be recruited.

Rolph was in a quandary. What should he do? He had always been Cronch's
physician, and although the man was considered peculiar, and had the
reputation of being a spy, he could not conceive of any reason why he
should deliberately lie upon such an important subject. He would at
least sound the other Confederates. If Cronch's idea was correct, it
would take all the available hours to gather men together and put them
under control. If this could be done it might even be better to besiege
the city and get possession of the armory that night. "Would to
heaven," he muttered, "that MacKenzie were here."

While he was yet considering the predicament that he and his party were
placed in by MacKenzie's absence, Captain Lount entered the office.

"It's a deuced box to be in!" exclaimed the latter, on hearing the news,
"but I don't see that we can do much. We haven't many men yet; and
MacKenzie expects to swell the number to two or three thousand by his
own exertions during the next two or three days."

"Will they be armed?" Rolph asked.

"Yes, with clubs and pikes and rusty old swords, but not many with
muskets, I fear; unless Colonel Van Egmond, the new Commander, brings
them with him."

"Do you think he will?"

"How can he? There are none in the country except the four thousand
stand of arms lodged in the City Hall."

"If there is any truth in Cronch's report, in two days, let alone three,
the Governor's loyal troops will have them in their possession if
nothing is done to prevent it."

"Undoubtedly."

"What would you advise, then?"

"If we only had men we might take the bull by the horns, and seize the
firearms at once before Head will even think of it."

"Suppose we try it, will you assume command?"

"I will if you, as MacKenzie's head man, say so."

"Nothing ventured, nothing won, we'll do it."

So as speedily as possible a courier was despatched to secure
MacKenzie's return. Then, Rolph and Lount, fully convinced of the
accuracy of Cronch's report, quietly mounted their horses and rode out
in different directions to hastily gather in the men.

Meanwhile Cronch, in a roundabout way, carried the news of the possible
attack by the "Patriots" to Colonel Fitzgibbon. His chief motive was
hatred of MacKenzie, and to accomplish his discomfiture he had
determined that no stone should go unturned. For weeks he had been
gathering information upon the plans and prospects of both sides; and
now it seemed to him that the people both in town and country were so
bent upon revolt, due almost entirely to MacKenzie's influence, that the
only chance for his defeat would be to precipitate action by his
followers in the absence of their leader; the Loyalists in the meantime
being notified of the fact and ordered to seize all available arms and
ammunition.

But even with this new information at hand Colonel Fitzgibbon had a
difficult task to accomplish. Sir Francis Bond Head was still of the
opinion that rebellion in the city was out of the question, a simple
impossibility; and that any man who persisted in the belief that such a
thing could occur was a madman of the first water.

"I'm sorry, Colonel, that you place any reliance on such a story," said
His Excellency. "Don't let the villainous masquerading of that man
Papineau carry you away. He, as we know to-day, is a run-away criminal,
his rebellious followers are defeated and his cause lies dead in the
dust. Here our streets are quiet and our men peaceable. Even the
renegade MacKenzie, whom I have a good mind to clap into prison,
scarcely shows himself. Do have good sense, my dear fellow; there is
nothing in the world to fight about."

"And I am sorry, your Excellency, that it is so impossible to make you
see the truth."

"The Governor may be right, Colonel," said the Attorney-General, a broad
smile expanding his face, "but I suppose it's every one to his own
profession. Sir Francis in his place of authority wants to turn the law
on MacKenzie for acts of attempted sedition; while you, as a soldier,
want to scour the country in search for enemies, whether there are any
in existence or not. My advice would be to clap the hot-blooded
Highlander in gaol to fry in his own fat, if he has any, and let the
country gang its ain gait."

"That's just what it will do," returned Fitzgibbon, angrily. "I give you
my word as an officer in Her Majesty's service (Queen Victoria), unless
we take efficient means to prevent it, there will be an attack on our
city by armed rebels within the next twenty-four hours."

"Pooh, pooh!" exclaimed Sir Francis. "I would advise you as a military
officer to carry that story to the marines."

"And mightily soon I would, if any of their vessels were in port."

"But, Colonel, what definite data have you for all this hubbub?" Sir
Francis asked in more serious tones.

"Simply these, your Excellency: In the northern villages of Bradford,
Markham, Lloydtown, Stouffville and other places, the people have been
drilling for weeks, and now, under orders from MacKenzie, they are
marching straight for the city."

"Steering, not marching," said Sheriff Jarvis, superciliously.

"Even so, I doubt if our own men would march much better, when you
remember that I have not been allowed even to drill them," said the
Colonel.

"Well, where is MacKenzie? I might at least order his arrest," said the
Governor.

"As well order the moon to stand still. He is out in the country
gathering in his men."

"Well, tell us what you want," said Sir Francis, with an air of mingled
weariness and annoyance. "I still believe the whole thing is a
wild-goose chase; but I suppose something must be done to satisfy you."

"Send couriers in every direction," said the Colonel, ignoring Sir
Francis' mood, "with strict orders for every militia man to be at the
City Hall by noon to-morrow; and issue instructions for arms and
ammunition to be handed to them through their officers. I will attend to
the rest."

"Well, gentlemen, shall it be done?" cried the Governor, glancing round
the conclave of half-a-dozen men.

There was a clatter in the hall and a man rushed in.

"Your Excellency," he cried in excited tones, "Tom Jeffries of the Don
Mills has ridden in at full speed from Markham. He says that the rebels
are marching in to attack the city. They are not five miles away."

"How many men did he say there were?" Sir Francis coolly asked,
elevating his eyebrows.

"He said there would be fifty, at least."

"Ah, well, that will do."

And the man sheepishly backed out of the room.

"And how many armed men can you gather together before the night closes
in?" Sir Francis continued, turning to Colonel Fitzgibbon.

"Perhaps a hundred and twenty-five."

"That will do also. You might put them under orders and intercept these
men if necessary. That will be sufficient for to-night. In the morning
we will hold an early council and decide what further need be done, but
you may consider yourself Adjutant-General. Oh, by-the-way, Hagarman,
did you say that the little steamer _Victoria_ is at the dock?"

"Yes. It is to leave for Hamilton at nine this evening."

"Ah!--it might be as well to give orders for it to remain over night.
One never knows--possibly I might decide to send a message somewhere.
Will you see to it--thanks. Good night, gentlemen. To-morrow
morning--say at nine."




CHAPTER III.

SHOOTING OF COLONEL MOODIE AND CAPTAIN ANDERSON.


As Sir Francis returned to his library a change came over the expression
of his face. Hauteur and anger were more marked than ever. The children
had retired for the night. He and his wife were alone.

"What is it, Sir Francis?" she asked, slipping her arm into his, as they
walked up and down the room.

"Why, my own knaves are fools, and the other fools are knaves."

"Please explain yourself. I don't understand."

"Nobody does. I don't believe I understand myself."

"Tell me what it is, it can't all be a riddle."

"Well, I've been governing these people to the very best of my ability.
I've been brain to them ever since I came--the only brain they've got.
I've worked night and day for them. I've spent the miserable pittance
the Government has exacted from them to the very best advantage--ten
times better than they could ever have spent it themselves, and still
they are not satisfied. Yet I believe they would have been, but for the
miscreant MacKenzie, a blatherskite who never knows when to hold his
tongue. The only proper way to treat these people is to frown them
down--to entirely ignore their existence; and if we had followed this
plan, even MacKenzie would soon have failed to rouse them. But now our
man, Fitzgibbon, wanting no doubt to establish a reputation for military
prowess in the colony, comes to the front and insists upon preparation
for a battle, knowing full well that when two game-cocks meet a fight is
sure to follow."

"So MacKenzie and Colonel Fitzgibbon are the game-cocks?"

"Of course they are."

"Not very flattering to our Colonel."

"Perhaps not, but I know for a fact that the possibility of a conflict
between the so-called Patriots and the Militia has been talked of for
months, aye for years, by the people--fanned to some extent by the
Colonel, himself--whereas, if he had done as I always have
done--entirely ignored the possibility of such a thing, the flame of
rebellion might never have been suggested. But things have come to such
a pass that, to-night, I was almost compelled to give him leave, as
Colonel of our forces, to arm the militia at once, and hold them in
readiness for possible attack."

"I'm glad you did."

"You--glad--you in the melee, too!"

"You may be as blind as a bat, my dear, but I am not; there _is_ danger
of an uprising--a serious danger, too."

"By heaven, if there is, it is not due to any defect in my government;
but to the fool-hardiness of busy-bodies who will never let well enough
alone."

"I never questioned for a moment your desire to do your best by these
people," said Lady Head, holding her husband's arm still more closely,
as they continued to walk the floor; "but I have always contended that
you should be less arbitrary."

"How could I help being arbitrary when my Councillors, chosen from the
best men in the land, have not brains enough to give reasonable advice,
but must leave the initiative always to myself? Whatever I propose they
always accept; when I ask their opinions they defer to my judgment, and
with them my words become law. And if this is the case with educated
men, like my Attorney-General and my Solicitor-General, what reason
would there be in accepting the suggestions of such men as MacKenzie and
his tribe, and making their whims the law of the land?"

His wife knew that argument was useless, and, at the present time, too
late to be effectual; but there was a distressed look upon her face. The
position, in her opinion, was a very serious one.

"Is there any immediate danger?" she asked.

"Of what?"

"Of an attack upon the city."

"Not of material moment. Even if it should be made to-night, Col.
Fitzgibbon must have three times as many men as the rebels can muster;
more than that, they will be better armed."

"Have you provided any extra guard for us here at Government House? I
noticed only the ordinary patrol to-night," said Lady Head, stopping in
her walk and facing her husband.

"Zounds, madame, how silly you are! If an attack is made at all, it will
be miles north of here, at the head of Yonge Street; and Fitzgibbon will
surely have gumption enough to intercept them on the way. Besides, I
never believe in showing the white feather. Until to-morrow the guard
will remain just as it is."

"So, knowing that revolt may take place at any moment, even to-night,
you have provided no extra protection for the children and myself."

"None will be necessary, my dear. There is not the slightest danger, and
cannon have already been placed on the lawn. But in case a miracle of
evil should actually occur, I have provided for it. By my orders the
steamer _Victoria_ will lie in the harbor all night; and, if necessary,
I shall appropriate the vessel, without a moment's notice, for our
service. But, wife, I am tired. I have had an exceedingly wearisome day,
and shall require to rise very early. Had we not better retire for the
night?"

And whether his wife was sleeping or not, half an hour later, Sir
Francis was enjoying to the full the quiet repose earned by the
conscientious discharge of his manifold and onerous duties.

       *     *     *     *     *

Before midnight the bells of the City Hall rang out a long and fierce
appeal. Colonel Fitzgibbon dispatched one of his cadets to give the
alarm. It was to signal that the rebels were approaching the city in
force, and that all loyalists must prepare for the defence.

The alarm roused Lady Head, who had just fallen asleep; and while
shaking her husband--still dreaming of his integrity to principle--the
Colonel's messenger brought the news that Government House itself might
be in danger.

"Great Heavens!" cried the Governor, springing from his bed in actual
alarm at last, and donning his outer garments. "How in the name of all
the fiends can that be?"

"It is exactly as I said," returned his wife. "Here is our house
unguarded, and you haven't a man to protect it."

"We'll soon remedy that," returned the Governor, testily. "Jackson," he
cried to the messenger, still waiting for instructions, "tell the
Colonel I must have a guard of ten men sent here immediately, a matter
of the highest importance; now make haste," and to quicken the man's
speed, and insure good service, he slipped half a crown into his hand.

"What shall we do?" said Lady Head, excitedly; "barricade the windows?"

"No," thundered the Governor, "call the servants, and have them dress
the children, and pack boxes with what you need. As soon as the guard
comes, I shall take you down to the steamer. It is armed and will carry
you off on the lake, where you will all be safe. Then I shall return to
council with my men. This despicable villainy of revolt must be put
down at once, and its leaders hung at the gallows. I have had a warrant
out for the arrest of MacKenzie for a week, and was a fool not to put it
in execution before now."

       *     *     *     *     *

Meanwhile Col. Fitzgibbon issued orders for the rousing of his
followers, and the guard of honor demanded by the Governor was quickly
sent. An order was also issued for citizens to gather at the Parliament
Buildings, ready to meet the enemy, leaving a special guard over the
stand of arms still in the City Hall.

But there was other work that night for him to do. To reconnoitre was a
necessity, and leaving Major MacNab to superintend the gathering in and
arming of his followers, he cantered up Yonge Street with two of his
most trusty youths, deciding to do this in person.

Soon they were out of the city, but everything was quiet; not an enemy
or even a friend in sight.

"We'll push on to Yorkville," said the Colonel. "It is only another
mile."

"Norris and I intended, with your permission, sir, to ride till we had
them in sight," said Young, touching his hat.

"Well, we shall see," was the answer. "There must have been some
mistake. The message was that the rebels were almost in the city."

"Yonder's the commencement of Yorkville and yet there isn't a man to be
seen!" exclaimed Morris in a low voice.

"Halt!" muttered the Colonel. "If that story proves to be a hoax, I
shall have the perpetrators punished. As it will be useless to go any
further, I shall return at once to countermand any march Major MacNab
may expect to be necessary. In the meantime my order is for you both to
remain here until I send relief. Return then, or sooner, if the enemy
appears, and report."

"Aye, aye, sir," was the answer.

But by the time the Colonel was a hundred yards away, the young men
commenced to argue the point.

"Why stay here for long, mortal hours sucking our thumbs?" said Norris,
who was not accustomed to military drill.

"Freezing our toes, you mean."

"We could walk our horses up and down, perhaps."

"Like a pair of fools who had nothing else to do."

"Neither we have. Suppose we push ahead, keeping our eyes skinned
between the snow and the moon? We must be careful not to plunge into the
renegades, though. They'd either shoot or nab us."

"It's my impression they'll do neither, for by all accounts they've
scarcely a gun among them," said Young. "I'm glad to say, though, that I
carry a brace of pistols in my belt that Uncle Dick made splendid use of
in 1812; and it's for his nephew to keep up the record."

"The deuce of it is, when riding on horseback at night time, one's aim
is apt to be wide of the mark," returned his comrade.

Forgetful of danger, they were emerging from the strip of woodland below
the hill.

"Yes, very wide of the mark," rang out from a stern voice, as four men
sprang out of the thicket and grasped their horses' heads. "Hands up or
we fire."

And immediately the youths' hands shot heavenward.

Then while two held the horses, the others took possession of Young's
renowned pistols, and dismounting their prisoners, bound them securely.

       *     *     *     *     *

When the Colonel reached Government House, after giving orders at the
Parliament Buildings to Major MacNab, he found that the Governor's
family, with the exception of Sir Francis, were all on the steamer--for
the mild winter had not yet frozen the bay over--and that the latter
with his guard had returned and was awaiting his arrival.

Mr. Powell, whom he had met going north an hour earlier, was already
back again, interviewing the Governor.

"So, Colonel, the first blood has been shed!" exclaimed the latter.

"Indeed! where? Whose was it?"

"Powell will tell you."

Powell's eyes were wild with excitement.

"You met me going out with McDonald as you were coming in," he said.

"Yes."

"It couldn't be ten minutes later, when on the road to Montgomery's
tavern we met the enemy. MacKenzie must have got word somehow, for he
was with them. They nabbed us before we could cry halt, and we had to
surrender. I take it that everything's _fair in love and war_--so when
Mac asked me if I had any firearms, I held up my hands and said 'No.'
Then they bunched us off to one side, and set Captain Anderson and two
other men on guard. They didn't tie us, though. So I watched my
opportunity, and seeing Anderson's horse standing loose, I ripped out a
pistol and let the Captain have it. He dropped in his tracks. There was
a terrific howl among the men. They didn't seem to know who did it, and
before they had time to think, I was in the dead man's saddle and here I
am."

"And what became of McDonald?"

"Here I am too, sir, but I can tell you a different story to Powell's.
He escaped, thank fortune, and shot his man; but by the Lord, we have
lost a better man than that renegade Anderson could ever be."

"Who was it?" cried Sir Francis in excited tones; "not one of our own
brave men, when we have so few of them?"

"It was no other than Colonel Moodie."

"Great heavens!" shouted Sir Francis, still more wildly; "a retired
officer of the regular army. Not engaged in active service--nothing less
than a dastardly cold-blooded murder."

"So it was," returned McDonald. "When Anderson fell, I managed to slip
away in the excitement; but I ran north towards the tavern to cut
through the woods and get clear of the rebels, when who should I see
but the old gentleman with his stick marching towards town. A guard of
men standing on the road cried 'Halt!' but he paid no attention, and the
next moment a fellow on the hotel verandah seized his rifle and
fired--and the old man dropped."

"A terrible chapter for the first night," said Colonel Fitzgibbon. "No
plebeian's blood, but that of a Colonel on one side and of a Captain on
the other."

"And for all this MacKenzie must answer."

"Yes, and he shall."




CHAPTER IV.

THE FIRST SKIRMISH.


"Make the most of it, boys. We are hale and hearty, if we are hungry;
and by the Lord, if we ever lay hands on that villain Powell--"

But the speaker was interrupted by a stentorian voice singing out:

  Swing him up on the nearest tree,
    He's surely worth the catchin',
  For while we're fightin' to be free,
    He's a damned assassin.

"You are right there, bosses, both of ye's. And it's all well enough to
be singin' yer songs and cussin' the villain that shot one of our best
men; but here we are, nearly a hundred of us, gathered together after
walkin' all day, and the landlord of this bastely shebang hasn't a
mouthful of vittles for us."

"True, Mike, but he's got the whiskey."

"Bad whiskey, too. Is that the stuff to fight your country's battles
upon? Be jabers, a full stomach for me."

"Drink it up, man, and it'll make you forget your stomach."

"Yes, rot your insides out all night--neither supper nor breakfast--then
fight your battles in the morning."

"Well, boys, here's to the success of the Patriots, our liberty's
defenders."

The big room of the "Montgomery" was full. Each had something to say,
while many raised their glasses and drank the toast with a cheer.

"And here's to Lyon MacKenzie, our leader, the biggest patriot of us
all," cried a tall, slight man who was turning grey.

Then the men, tired though they were, sprang to their feet; and with a
wild cheer, that made the ceiling ring, they drank the toast, crying out
"Our new Governor! Our new Governor!"

"Why, men, what's all this about?" It was MacKenzie himself. He had just
entered the room, after riding back from a night vigil over the city.
His hair was unkempt, his dress soiled, and there was a look of distress
and weariness upon his face. "No, no," he cried, his color rising.
Instantly he mounted a chair, so that his short figure could be seen by
all. "You are wrong. We are not fighting for office but principle.
_Truth_, _justice_, _and honor_ are our watchwords; and for them we are
willing to sacrifice everything but our manhood."

"You are right there, sir, but what about grub? We've hardly had a bite
to-day?"

"Neither have I had anything since morning. I am sorry we can have
nothing to-night; but a good substantial breakfast is arranged for and
you shall have it early. But, men, don't drink any more of this bad
whiskey. It is not fit for pigs, much less for men."

"But when ye've naething to eat and nae bed to sleep on, what else, man,
can ye dae?"

"Yes, there's the point," cried MacKenzie, looking indignantly round the
room. "What drunken fool was it shot Colonel Moodie? It was a cowardly
deed, one of which every man of us should be ashamed. And Captain
Anderson, too, on our own side, a piece of base treachery. Both
dastardly deeds, but the murder of the veteran was the fouler of the
two. Better cut one's right hand off than stain it with so base a
crime."

"MacKenzie is right," cried Captain Lount, who was afraid that his
leader's indignation might carry him too far. "We must fight squarely
and above the belt. Shoot your enemy face to face, kill him if you can;
but never let a Patriot again take even an enemy's life in cold blood.
Now, boys, you must lie down and sleep while you can, for by daylight we
must be up for breakfast."

"And after that the battle," cried MacKenzie.

"Aye, aye, sir, we're with you," echoed the men.

       *     *     *     *     *

MacKenzie had returned in hot haste. He was a mile or two from
Stouffville when the message reached him that Rolph had suddenly decided
to attack the city. It filled him with consternation. Two more days
could have doubled his strength; and he knew of accoutrements that were
coming in. It seemed like madness for a conflict to be precipitated by
one of their own leaders, when so weak in numbers and so inefficiently
armed.

But the die was cast, without his consent or even knowledge; and
chagrined though he was, and indignant that the probability of success
should be so materially lessened, he decided to accept the situation and
face it.

What made the matter harder to bear, and the solution more difficult,
was the fact that although orders had been sent out for the men to
muster at Montgomery's Tavern, the interim commander, the man who had
issued the order, was not even present. It was partly with the hope of
seeing him on the road to the city, that he had made the night ride
already related; and the disappointment only deepened his gloom.

By the next morning many more volunteers had come in; and all
breakfasted together as arranged for. Lingfoot, the landlord, however,
was a canny Scotchman, and would not consent to deal out a single plate
to the "Patriots" until MacKenzie, out of his own pocket, had liquidated
the bill.

"Lingfoot's a loyalist," whispered Lount, when he saw MacKenzie handing
over the money.

"All the more reason why we should pay him," was the answer. "But what's
yonder? Isn't that a flag of truce?"

"By heaven, it is, carried by a dragoon in uniform, with two other men
on horseback."

"Sir Francis must be getting weak in the knees," said MacKenzie, rubbing
his eyes to see more clearly.

"Somebody else is getting weak, too. You may well rub your eyes; I
always thought we were over hasty, but having espoused the cause, the
only square thing to do is to stick to it."

"Why, it's Rolph!" exclaimed MacKenzie in amazement; "the man who
ordered the fight to commence to-morrow--coming with an offer of truce
from the enemy! And who is that with him?"

"Robert Baldwin."

"That man I can respect. He's an honorable citizen, if he is a Tory. But
oh, ye gods! to think of Rolph, the man of all others that I trusted."

"They are almost here," said Captain Lount, who for the time had command
of the insurgents. "Let us meet them in the open."

"So be it."

MacKenzie's big head was thrown backwards as he led the way. He greeted
the salutations with a nod, but the proffered hand remained unnoticed.

"His Excellency, our Lieutenant-Governor," commenced Mr. Baldwin,
blandly, "sends to you greeting. He regrets that from causes unknown to
himself a portion of his people have become disaffected. He desires that
you will give him the reason."

"He also," said Dr. Rolph, in a conciliatory tone, "desires to know what
they want, and upon what terms the malcontents will return to their
allegiance?"

"You can tell Sir Francis Bond Head," said MacKenzie in frigid tones to
Mr. Baldwin, ignoring the presence of the Doctor, "that although one of
our chief officers, a man in whom, unfortunately, we placed complete
reliance, has failed us, the mass of our men, true to their principles,
are continually increasing in numbers, and are ready to seize the city.
You may also tell him, that the only terms we offer are the terms we
demand: _Independence and a Convention to arrange details._"

"Tell Mac he's all right," said Rolph, in an aside to Lount; "he'd be a
fool to surrender, and after this fracas is over, I shall be with him."

"Pray what are you doing now?"

"Playing the diplomat and gaining time," was the answer.

And wheeling round the truce-bearers galloped back toward the city.

"There they go!" exclaimed MacKenzie, watching the retreating figures,
"Rolph leading on the canter. What could possibly have induced him to
take this step? I never thought him a coward."

"The Doctor's canny. He likes his bread buttered on both sides,"
returned Lount. "He says he'll be back again. Possibly, but rest
assured, he'll not fight for the cause."

"I wish I'd known that before, but let it drop. We've defied the
Governor, and it behooves us to act at once. We must attack the city."

"It is our only chance, for loyalist reinforcements are coming in faster
than Patriots."

"Then with your division, Major, you had better march down Yonge Street;
and with mine I'll enter by the western road and, gathering recruits on
the march, meet you on Queen Street with your heavier arms. Then
unitedly we'll raid the armory."

And so it was arranged, and with all the speed they could muster, they
commenced to follow out the plan. But Dr. Rolph was not going to be
dropped so easily. Scarcely had MacKenzie reached the street when a
second flag of truce arrived, carried by the same three men.

       *     *     *     *     *

"How, now," cried MacKenzie, "has the Governor, like a sensible man,
yielded to the inevitable?"

"No," replied the Doctor; "he demands unconditional and immediate
surrender; and promises justice tempered with mercy."

"Reinforcements are coming in. Steamers bearing loyalists and ammunition
are already in the harbor," said Baldwin, "and, Mr. MacKenzie, as an old
friend and fellowtownsman, I implore you to yield while there is yet
time."

"Take back water! Eat my own words! Be false to my life and actions for
the past ten years! Be a traitor to the people! Proclaim that the truth
is a lie! Never! Tell Sir Francis Head that we defy him, and will
quickly prove at the point of the bayonet whether he or the people shall
be master."

"I must say I admire MacKenzie's pluck," said Rolph, again in an aside
to Lount. "But about the points of your bayonets or the guns behind
them? Are they not mythical? What Baldwin says is true. But if you are
bound to hold out, my advice would be to wait until six o'clock, then
attack the city in force after dark. Do not wait until to-morrow, for
Head will have lots of men and guns by that time."

"Is that your ultimatum?" said the Sheriff, formally.

"Certainly it is," replied MacKenzie, in more even tones, "and that man
with you I also defy, and dare him to do his worst."

"Don't be a fool, Mac. Sir Francis knew that I was your friend and that
I endorsed your views in a measure; so when I was down attending his
sick child, he asked me to act as intermediary. That's why I came. Rest
assured, if I don't fight with you, I certainly shan't against you."

"Yet you did your best to kill our plan of action by countermanding my
order."

"I knew nothing of the offer of truce then."

"Truce or no truce, you can carry back my message," replied MacKenzie,
turning his back indignantly upon him.

"There is no use prolonging our conference," said Mr. Baldwin.

"None whatever," returned MacKenzie; "the breach is an open one."

And the truce-bearers, touching their hats, galloped back again in the
direction of Government House.

"I ordered Lieutenant Jones to wait until I received your message," said
Captain Lount, turning to MacKenzie.

"It was just as well. Don't know but that we might do as Rolph advises
after all. Let us mass our men at the toll-bar and send out runners to
bring others in. After supper, we'll charge down Yonge Street upon the
city."

And while the "Patriots" were eating, he addressed them, doing his best
to inspire them with courage. Rumors had come in from several sources
that Sir Francis had only five hundred available men, and that the
reinforcements that MacKenzie would receive on entering the city would
be fully as many, thus making his own force the larger of the two.

The badly armed, undisciplined mob believed the tale, and although their
leaders were chiefly untrained civilians, they were ready to obey the
order. The officers, too, with the exception of Lieutenant Jones and
Captain Lount, knew as little of military discipline as did their
followers. Lount's rifles were placed in the front, followed by the
pikemen; these kept some sort of order, but the boys and men in the
rear, carrying clubs and sticks, made a sorry addition to the invading
force. Still all were on the alert and did their best to make their
approach noiseless in the moonlight.

Their first success was the capture of a couple of horsemen of Major
MacNab's advance guard. But this was followed by an unlooked for
catastrophe, for from behind a fence unseen loyalists poured a volley of
bullets into the ranks of the approaching "Patriots."

Lount's company instantly returned the fusillade, and then, obedient to
orders, dropped flat to reload. The effect was disastrous on both sides.
In the moonlight it revealed to the loyalists a dense body of men, armed
for aught they knew, rushing upon them; while the undisciplined
insurgents, not understanding the manoeuvre, fancied that their front
line of men were all slain.

Hence, each side, panic-stricken by the first fusillade, stampeded,
holus-bolus, straight for home.

"We shall all be killed," yelled a valiant pikeman, who did his best to
outstrip his fellows. "Everyman in the Captain's line is shot."

"It's a lie," shouted Lount. "Every man is alive. Not one killed. Halt!
Halt!" But it was no use.

Mr. MacKenzie rode furiously up and down the road, waving his sword and
insisting that no one was hurt; that the retreat was a mistake; and that
every man of the loyalists had fled in the opposite direction. But words
were useless, and the whole force, riflemen included, never stopped in
the race for life until they reached the toll-gate.

Then, when they came to a halt, MacKenzie upbraided and stormed and
threatened, but all in vain. Rally again, for that night at least, they
would not. By the time that he and a few of his more staunch supporters
arrived at the Montgomery, he was still more amazed, for their
headquarters were deserted, and whether they intended to return in the
morning or not, the majority of his valiant followers had gone home.

In mute agony, MacKenzie wrung his hands. After a while he went to bed,
planning and praying that victory and not disaster would attend the
battle of the coming day.




CHAPTER V.

THE BATTLE OF MONTGOMERY'S TAVERN.


It was MacKenzie's unselfishness that made him a "Patriot." With a
strong sense of justice and an intense love of truth--as he saw
it--every wrong must be righted, not in the future, but now. What right
had error to prevail? By what law of the Divine should oppression
continue, even for a moment, when there were men, able and willing to
spend their lives, their energies, their all, in accomplishing its
removal? And why should other men grovel at oppression's mandate and be
willing to shed their blood and their lives also in defending a cause so
monstrous?

Through long hours of that night he tossed in sleepless agitation upon
his bed, trying to unravel the mystery before him. How much seemed to
hang upon the morrow. And after the little skirmish of the night, with
the cowardly retreat of his men, the prospect seemed dim enough. The
attitude of Rolph worried him greatly. How could the attack of the
loyalists from the ambush have occurred unless they had knowledge of the
march of his own men? And how could that knowledge have been obtained?
Soon the cloud assumed even blacker form. The picture of the "Patriots"
retreating to their own homes with only a dim promise of return in the
morning to fight under his banner was appalling. And then his wife and
children and mother in their house on York Street, would they be
molested? Would the tyranny of the Family Compact even invade his home?
The children of his household were very dear to him, and his sweet wife
had always been a comfort, even in the days when his printing press and
type had been scattered and destroyed by the mob; but the woman who
would rise in this emergency and take first place in defence of the
sacredness of his hearth, he knew would be his mother, who with big head
and little body and tottering footsteps would, in her old age, like
Deborah, defy the armies of the Philistines.

MacKenzie had never doubted himself. To him his way was the only one,
the God-given road, which of all others he must follow, believing in his
heart that Divinity would guide his footsteps. At last with a passionate
prayer upon his lips, he dropped off to sleep.

       *     *     *     *     *

When daylight came the first news brought from the city by a runner was
that Dr. Rolph had concluded that discretion was the better part of
valor; and that he was now making his way as fast as his horse could
carry him toward the United States.

But the "Patriot" forces were gaining again; hundreds of new men had
come in, and with over five hundred strong, MacKenzie awaited the
arrival of Colonel Van Egmond, the new Commander. Hence, the day was
spent in drill, scouring the country for rations, and waylaying mails
and stages for the plunder incident to war.

The next morning, however, all was ready. The force of circumstances had
delayed the conflict to the period originally designed by MacKenzie; but
these very circumstances had weakened his following, while they had
strengthened the loyalist party. Still Van Egmond had joined them and
they prepared for the fight.

The attitude of the contending parties had changed. The alarmed Governor
had taken courage again, for incoming steamers in the early morning had
landed several companies of armed yeomanry, greatly increasing his
forces; while the newly arrived Colonel Chisholm gave additional
strength to the command.

"This will alter our plans," said Lount to MacKenzie, as the men were
getting into line. "The loyalists will be the attacking party."

"Nothing of the sort," was the answer. "I insist upon carrying out our
original plan of an attack upon the city."

"I am afraid we will have to do what the gods decree," said Col. Van
Egmond. "The loyalists are already approaching in force, and whatever we
may do hereafter we will have to rally round this old tavern now.
Listen, the bugles are coming up the street."

MacKenzie sprang to his feet and ran down the road to be sure that the
news was true, while Van Egmond turned to his men. To his amazement out
of three times the number, not more than two hundred were armed. Still,
the loyalists had to be faced, and he realized that a battle was
inevitable.

MacKenzie's heart quaked. True enough they were coming in overwhelming
numbers. Could his little band of badly equipped men stand the charge?

"Shall we try it here, as we are?" he asked, showing temerity for the
first time, as he realized the danger to his men.

"Certainly," was Van Egmond's answer. And the men quickly formed in the
little copse in which he had placed them. "We must fire in relays," he
continued, "twenty rifles at a time. The order is 'Fire,' then drop in
the rear and reload, while the next twenty take their places. So our
shooting will never cease until the enemy is scattered."

"So be it," cried Lount, who hurried his men to the open field protected
by the barn, "but my relays will be smaller--my men are fewer."

"Aim well! Fire!" cried the Colonel, as the loyalists came within easy
range, thus taking the honor of opening the battle.

The attacking force was taken too quickly to fully realize the
situation, and for a moment halted; but the order for a broadside upon
the wood brought a tremendous shower of lead into the "Patriot" ranks,
who were only saved from decimation by the protection of the trees. As
it was, some fell.

"Fire again!" and a minute later, "and again"--"and again," rang out
from Van Egmond's lips, as peal after peal from his little band of
rifles startled the ears, while it riddled through the ranks of the
royalists. They were out in the open with no protection from the
well-aimed bullets of the insurgents.

Maddened by the fact that men were falling, either dead or wounded, the
Adjutant ordered his men to "Charge."

So firing again at the thin line standing among the trees, they made a
rush with fixed bayonets. It would have been a sorry fate for the
"Patriots" but for an unexpected diversion.

Lount, dashing suddenly with his men from behind the building, ordered a
flank fire upon the attacking force, diverting their attention to an
unexpected quarter; while the pikemen rushed pell-mell upon them with
their bludgeons before they had time to turn and fire.

MacKenzie's heart sank when he saw the full force of the loyalists'
charge upon the defenders of the wood; but when he noted the double
manoeuvre, hope for the moment revived; and standing by Van Egmond's
side, he cheered on his followers.

For more than an hour the battle raged. Two to one, with one side fully
armed, and the other poorly equipped, made a very unequal contest. Yet
at times it seemed as though the chances were almost equal. Van Egmond
and Lount and Jones from their knowledge of arms inspired their men
with confidence; while MacKenzie's cheering voice and active body, never
a moment still, filled them with zeal. The "Patriots" knew that it must
be a fight to the finish. It must be victory now or at least a drawn
battle. Otherwise their cause would be lost. Somehow the events of the
last two days had impressed this upon MacKenzie's mind, as never before;
and his own thought had reacted upon his people.

"It is now or never," he whispered into the Colonel's ear during a
momentary lull.

"The question is how long can we hold out? The foe is weakening. They
stagger under our shot; but they outnumber us so terribly that our men
cannot stand it. Look how many have fallen. Twenty minutes more and our
powder and shot will be gone."

"Bravo, men--that was a good one--for heaven's sake do it again,"
muttered MacKenzie, as another volley was fired from the rifles. "See
they fall back."

But it was only a manoeuvre of the Adjutant's to make a more effectual
charge. While this was going on, Lount's force, now sadly weakened, made
a dash and joined them.

"I'm afraid it's all up," he cried. "The pikemen are already
surrendering."

"But not the rifles," said MacKenzie.

"Not yet," muttered the Colonel. "To prolong the fight, though, we'll
have to retreat to the farther side of the wood, and get among the trees
on higher ground."

"Very well," returned MacKenzie; "you know best, but do it quickly. We
haven't a moment to spare."

Another broadside poured into their midst. Van Egmond's coat was torn
and blood spurted from his sleeve, while a man fell at his feet.

"Zounds! that's Sergeant Riggs," cried Lount, "my right-hand man. One of
the best fellows that ever lived."

"Men, right face, forward to the farther wood," cried the Colonel.
"Double quick. We must get there before the enemy. Captain, have your
men loaded?"

"Yes, not a minute ago."

"Well, stay here and give them another round as they try to cut off our
retreat, then rush through the wood and come in on the rear."

"Aye, sir, I will."

And it was well that he did, for the shot was a surprise, and checking
the sweep of the loyalists as they wheeled toward the rising ground, it
enabled the "Patriots" to secure the desired position.

"I fear our option will be brief," muttered the Colonel, as he again
faced the assailants. "See, they have reinforcements coming. Yonder is
Sheriff Jarvis, at the head of a fresh relay. Where are our horses?"

"In the wood, at the turn of yonder copse," said MacKenzie. "But I shall
not forsake my men."

"You'll have to directly; why not now? There's a reward on your head--a
thousand pounds, dead or alive."

"That signifies nothing. The revolt arose through me. I must stay with
my men."

"But your family--your wife--your children?"

"God help them. Just another volley, Colonel."

"Ah! yes, the chance is a good one, and they shall have it."

Instantly the order was given, the men wheeled and poured another one
into the avalanche that was bearing down upon them.

"Now; retreat, retreat," was the muttered order, passed along the line.
And having fired their last shot, every ounce of powder gone, the men
turned and fled.

"Stay here a minute longer," cried MacKenzie to the officers. "Give the
men a chance; then our turn will come."

The thicket there was somewhat dense, so that the retreat was not at the
moment noticed; and to cover it still further, Van Egmond and Lount each
picked up a loaded rifle and fired.

"Now's our chance, MacKenzie. Straight for the horses."

"This way then, it is shorter--quick."

The stampede through the wood was a memorable one. They were not fifty
yards ahead of their pursuers. At first horsemen tried to follow them,
but the thicket was too dense.

Then a body of men rushed through the woods in hot pursuit, firing their
rifles as they ran.

Soon the horses were in sight, together with a man seated on his own
beast while he held another by the bridle.

"Ah! yonder is Jack Connell, waiting for me," cried MacKenzie, while
still running. "I may escape, but you must cut your straps or they'll
capture you."

He swung himself into the saddle and dashed down the road, followed by
Jack, his pursuers not twenty yards in the rear, while oaths and
ineffectual shots were still fired after him. When he got in full swing
he glanced back in time to see Colonel Van Egmond and Lieutenant Jones
spurring along a side-line, while the unfortunate Captain Lount,
surrounded by the loyalists, was a captive.




CHAPTER VI.

THE MANLINESS OF OGILVIE.


MacKenzie's first thought was to get away north among his friends, where
with all the calmness he could assume he might consider the final issue.
So, accompanied by the faithful Jack Connell, he rode straight for
Newmarket, knowing well that every effort would be made to follow him in
his flight. For hours they were on the road, running the gauntlet of
many queries from both supporters and opponents whom they met. The short
day, however, favored MacKenzie, and it was dark before he entered the
village and rode to one of the hotels. Still the question was, when
everybody knew him, how was he to avoid general recognition? While a
thousand other men might disguise their identity, with him it was
impossible--once known--he would be known forever.

"How shall I do it?" he asked of his man.

"Your horse is known, too, sir."

"Yes."

"Suppose we tie up in the dark corner of Ogilvie's shed. Then I'll go in
and send him out to you."

"That will do, but be quick about it."

The man acted with alacrity, and in a few minutes Ogilvie appeared.

"What, MacKenzie!" he muttered, "has it come to this? Defeated and on
the retreat?"

"Both, unfortunately."

"But, Mac, this won't be tolerated. I've been recruiting for a week and
have sixty men I can lay hands on. Still we can't talk about it here.
Come into the hotel--nothing to fear, every man about the place is a
friend."

"That may be," replied MacKenzie, "but if anything can yet be done, my
presence should be known to none but our staunch supporters."

"There may be something in that. I'll take you in the back way and give
you supper in a room by yourself. After that some of our best fellows
can see you."

"Thank you, that will do."

An hour later he was in an upper room at Ogilvie's, discussing the
situation with a dozen men. The younger ones urged a renewal of the
struggle. The older men shook their heads.

"How many men have you?" MacKenzie asked.

"Sixty-five, sure," cried a youth of twenty, who was acting
drill-sergeant.

"And how many rifles?"

"Guess we've a dozen straight; we had more, but the fellows round
Richmond Hill got some of them when they joined the 'Patriots.' Still
the rest can all get pikes. Every man of 'em."

"That has been our curse," said MacKenzie, bitterly, "want of arms. At
Montgomery's tavern we had six hundred men; but only two hundred had
guns; while our opponents, a thousand strong, were all armed. Our men
fought well; better than the enemy, but they have all the ammunition in
the country in their possession, four thousand stand to draw on while we
had nothing."

"Then, in all conscience, why did you start the fight?"

"Because we thought we could seize the ammunition and take the city
while yet the enemy was weak. But we missed our mark. Now, when we've
neither guns nor ammunition to fight with, even though our men are
willing, it would be worse than useless to try it again."

"And would you give up at once and forsake the cause that you've been
fighting for for years?" a man asked in surprise.

"That depends," said MacKenzie, reflectively. "If we can ever win it
must be by aid obtained outside of ourselves."

"What do you mean?" cried a young man at the other end of the table.

"I mean that there is reason to believe that we have friends on the
other side of the line, who, without involving their Government, would
willingly give us aid if the way were open."

"You are right there. You have sympathizers on the border States who
believe that the Canadians are an oppressed people, trampled upon by
nincompoops who have more brass than brains, men who pretend to govern
and don't know how, who cheat the people out of their earnings and give
them no return; and when these men know that the 'Patriots' are driven
to the wall and need help, they'll be mighty glad to come to their
assistance."

"Not so fast, Patterson!" exclaimed Ogilvie. "You've been five years in
business in this village, far away from the States; you speak too
positively."

"I've mighty good reason for what I say. I'm a Yankee myself, through
and through, and my father's a Yankee ship-master. It's from him I get
my information."

A murmur of applause ran round the room.

"More than that," continued Patterson, encouraged by the manifest
assent, "perhaps Mr. MacKenzie is willing to go over there and see what
assistance he can get."

"That sounds reasonable," said a middle-aged man who sat next to
Ogilvie. "What say you, MacKenzie? After all the work you've done,
ending up with defeat to-day, I don't think it would be wise to go on
with the fight unless you get substantial aid, and Yankeeland's the
place to get it."

"It's a very serious problem," replied the rebel chief, solemnly; "yet,
bad as the result has been, good will come out of it. I don't believe
England really intends to injure her colonists; but she has sent out men
to govern us, who, when far removed from central authority, have assumed
the role of petty tyrants. Our revolt will open her eyes, and she will
make amends all the sooner--and if we can make the rattle louder by help
from over the border, it will come quicker still. My dream of
Independence, however, is almost gone. It was too visionary ever to be
realized. And I know too much about politics to believe that the
American Government would ever go to war with England in order to annex
her colonies."

Suddenly the door opened and in stalked two more men.

"Gosh! it's comfortable here," cried one, glancing round the room and
edging up to the stove. "What a batch of fellers, too! What's up, boss?"

"Having a smoke, don't you see?" replied Ogilvie. "Take a cigar?"

"You have one, too," to the second man.

"Sartin," and the latter, turning to MacKenzie, asked him for a match.

"By jimminy, you men put a speed on," he continued; "when you overtook
us at dusk, Alick and I were trotting tolerable like, for it was cold,
but you fairly scooted past. Had a long ride, sir?"

"Yes, rather."

"Well, I must be going. Got another call yet; coming Alick?"

"Yes, Jeff, in a minute. Staying here?" Alick asked in a lower key of
Ogilvie as he neared the door, casting an eye in the direction of
MacKenzie. "Come to the bar, we want a drink."

Ogilvie nodded and followed. Jeff was waiting for them.

"Funny old chap," said the latter. "Suppose he's a stranger in these
parts?"

"Going to drive farther? Ogilvie asked, ignoring the last remark.

"Rather, reckon. Want to reach Stouffville to-night."

"And where did you light from, Alick?" enquired the landlord. "Haven't
seen you for a month."

"Was out in the lumber woods, but this cussed rebellion stopped things,
and drove me home. How's it going?"

"How should I know away up here in the bush, thirty miles from the city?
It's you driving fellows that bring in the news."

"Well, Jeff, we must get a move on. Here's luck," and draining their
glasses they went out.

Half an hour later the group upstairs dissolved, leaving MacKenzie and
Ogilvie by themselves.

"Those men came here purposely," said the former, "and one of them is a
spy."

"I thought as much. Alick is the son of a staunch old Tory, and has
lived here for years; the other man I never saw before. I think they
know all about the Tavern battle, though they did not mention it."

"Yes, and Jeff is already on my trail."

"I shouldn't wonder. What do you propose to do?"

"It's a desperate measure, but the only safety will be in flight."

"But where to?"

"There's the rub. I'm thirty miles farther from the States than when I
left Toronto."

"And the deuce of it is, you will almost have to retrace your steps."

"Yes, and be dogged by the military. They will intercept every road."

"If these men recognized you and have gone back to Toronto with the
news, you'll need to start again to-night; but what direction is the
question."

"West by south, I suppose," said the fugitive, drawing nearer to the
stove.

"Well, MacKenzie, the moon doesn't set until morning. It is ten o'clock
now. I propose that you turn into bed at once. I will see that your
horse has an extra feed and will rouse you at two. Then, if you like,
you can strike south for Springfield on your way to the States and trust
to your wits and good luck to get you there in the end. I'll be sorry to
have you leave so soon, but if those fellows are after you, it wouldn't
be safe to wait any longer."

"I see it, and will follow your advice. But be sure to wake me, for I am
terribly tired and may sleep soundly."

"That's what I want you to do; and I give you my word that I shall rouse
you on time."

MacKenzie had scarcely touched this pillow before he was asleep. But
Ogilvie's quandary had only commenced. How could he best help his
fugitive chief was the question, and for another half-hour he smoked his
pipe, reflectively.

Meanwhile, Jack Connell having attended to the horses and given them in
charge of the stable boy, had gone off to the farther end of the village
to sleep with a friend, with the understanding that he was to come back
and breakfast at the hotel early in the morning and be ready to obey
MacKenzie's orders. Consequently, when the two young men came out, the
hostler was alone fastening up for the night.

"Have you room for my nag?" said Jeff, shoving open the door and walking
in with Alick.

"Guess not, 'less you take the outermost stall, next to the grey; and
it's too little for a big horse like your'n. It was never intended for
anything but a colt."

"We'll look at it," returned Jeff, touching Alick on the shoulder.
"That's his mare," he whispered, "dappled grey on the sides with a black
hind foot. Nearest horse to the rear door."

"Yes, I see."

"Will this stall do?"

"I'm afraid not. As you say, too small for my horse. You've got a good
stable though, boy. And that's your harness room?"

"Yes," said the lad, glad to hear a good word for his domain even at
closing time. "We've got a good kit there. General harness on one side;
saddles and bridles on t'other. We al'us hang 'em in sets." He held up
his lantern so that they could be examined.

"This saddle is still wet," said Jeff, "somebody must have been riding
hard."

"Yes, it's a little fresh. It belongs to the grey mare. Some gen'man, I
don't know who he was, rode her in to-night."

"I'm sorry you can't take my horse," said Jeff, moving towards the door.


"You might get him in at the 'Bear's Paws,' at top of the street,
perhaps."

"Thank you."

They went outside.

"What's the game?" said Alick, in an undertone, as they adjourned to the
shed where their horses were still standing.

"Do people know his horse?" Jeff asked.

"Yes, everybody in Toronto does. The grey mare with the black foot and
the little man in the saddle are familiar objects there."

"Well, the game may be a bold one; but we'll try it. There are a
thousand pounds on MacKenzie's head, dead or alive--"

"Only alive, I believe."

"All the same, next to the man is his beast. Capture the one and you've
got the other. To-night I shall ride MacKenzie's grey mare back to the
city, if it takes a leg. There I shall tell the story, help the men to
catch him, and get the reward. And after all is done I'll divvy up with
you a little for putting me on the track."

"And a mighty small piece of business it will be, after all," said
Alick, almost regretting the part he had taken in it.

"Small, when there's one thousand pounds in it, and when the Government
declares that he's a rebel not fit to live, and a demagogue who has done
his best to drive the people to perdition. By jimminy, if I could put
him into their hands, I'd be doing the country a service."

"Yes, to the tune of a fortune."

"Simply big job--big pay--the laborer worthy of his hire," Jeff answered
with a low chuckle.

"I suppose it would be better if he was out of the way," said Alick,
moodily. "Of course my father is a bigger Tory than I am, and he always
said that MacKenzie was the curse of the country."

"That settles it. If you are ticklish about the matter, this being your
home, I'll do it all myself, even to getting through that blasted door,
which I noticed the hostler locked before he went up street. But you'll
hear from me. Good night." Jeff whistled softly as Alick mounted his
horse to ride home; then leading his own beast away he stabled him for
the night at the "Bear's Paws."

When Ogilvie took his lantern to the barn at eleven o'clock to further
prepare MacKenzie's mare for the prospective journey, he discovered that
the staple of the lock had been pulled out. With an angry growl, he went
inside. The grey mare with saddle and bridle was gone. Then with a
savage oath he examined more closely. Nothing else had been disturbed.
Jack Connell's horse and accoutrements were all there.

"MacKenzie was right," he muttered. "That cunning scamp was a spy and a
thief. With an eye to the reward, he has galloped back to the city to
tell the story from the back of Mac's own mare. By Gad, if the fellows
here had known what he was up to, they'd have cooked his whistle for him
and fed it to his own gobbler. What in creation is Mac to do now? His
horse gone, his whereabouts known, and the whole southern country up in
arms to catch him."

Ogilvie hung his lamp and commenced to walk slowly up and down the
stable floor in deep thought.

"There is no use in rousing him," he muttered. "The man's done out, and
needs all the rest he can get--but he'll have to face the music. The
road was hard enough as it was--it will be harder now. If he had just
twenty-four hours of a start he might have done it. Now he's six hours
in the rear with the news all told, his horse gone, and a dastardly spy
to cope with."

"Ah! I have it," he said aloud at last. "We'll be even with him yet. Mac
shall lie till two, and then I'll rouse him."




CHAPTER VII.

INCIDENTS OF MACKENZIE'S RACE FOR LIBERTY


"Mac, it's two o'clock."

"Oh, thank you--I slept soundly--not a dream--haven't had a sleep like
that for weeks."

"You'd better be up."

"Certainly, I'll be out immediately."

"My wife will send you a cup of hot coffee in a minute. It's better than
whiskey for a night ride."

"You are all good to me."

In a few minutes MacKenzie was dressed and ready.

"I've not had much sleep myself," said Ogilvie. He didn't say that he
hadn't had any. "So I'll take a cup with you."

"That's kind. About my ride south, I suppose I'll have to go alone,
unless Jack is here."

"Unfortunately he isn't. My hostler said he'd gone to spend the night
with a friend, he didn't know where."

"Perhaps it's as well," said MacKenzie, jocularly. "A political refugee
with a price upon his head should be chary of companionship in his
travels."

"It will be rough, though, over a road you are not familiar with.
Perhaps I'd better rouse a man to go with you?"

"Not at all, thank you. I'd much rather go alone. Just give me an idea
what course to take to avoid the Toronto lines."

"I'll do that. By-the-way, here are a pair of gauntlets you might take
with you; I noticed the ones you wore are too light for night riding."

"Thank you, but they'll do very well. Of course I hadn't time to
change--the flight was too sudden."

"Nonsense, man, you've got to take them. When in these parts again you
can return them if you like."

"These parts!" and MacKenzie shrugged his shoulders. "If your word is
law, I suppose I must obey as well as give thanks."

"It's law in more ways than one," said Ogilvie, with a shrug. "Your
horse is saddled and ready; fresh as a daisy, too. Shall we go now?"

"Yes, after I pay my bill."

"Pay your bill! Talk about a man giving up home, and family, and
business, and property, and wealth, and country, and all he possesses,
for country's sake, paying a miserable tavern bill for half a night's
lodging! Man! what do you take me for? But come along, it will be
half-past two by the time you start."

MacKenzie was touched keenly. There was a lump in his throat as he
silently followed Ogilvie to the barn. After they entered the owner
closed the door. Two lights were burning instead of one, and a handsome
bay gelding stood saddled on the floor instead of his own grey.

"I had to make a leetle change, Mac," said Ogilvie, apologetically. "A
tavern-keeper is always responsible for what's put in his barn; and as
some d--d thief took the liberty to steal your grey mare, I, as in duty
bound, am putting another nag in its place. I'm awfully sorry that it's
a bay, when grey is your color."

MacKenzie's face grew hot and cold. Stormy passions raced through his
soul. The manly heart of Ogilvie was too much for him. Suddenly he threw
his arm over the big man's shoulder.

"Oh, the villain!" he cried, hoarsely. "Do you know, if you were a woman
I'd hug you?"

"I'm awfully glad I'm not," returned Ogilvie, dryly. "What would a giant
of a woman do with a kid for a lover? The only thing she could do would
be to cuff him."

"The world's doing that already."

"Let 'em cuff. It'll come out all right, Mac. But about Nap, he's well
broken to the saddle, sure footed, and can run like the wind."

"Why, he's your best trotting horse," said MacKenzie, reproachfully.

"I reckon so, but there are others coming on. See what a sharp nose he
has. Well, when he was down at the York races, some smart Alick hung a
green pumpkin over the racetrack to scare the horses. But Nap wouldn't
scare worth a Yankee cent. Instead of dodging the pumpkin he ran
straight for it, and his nose was so sharp and his gait so swift that he
split it clean in halves without getting a scratch or shedding a seed.
What think you of that for a horse? Huh! huh! huh! huh! huh!"

"Just as I think of his master for a man. I shall never forget." And
MacKenzie laughed in spite of himself.

"Well, keep him if you can. If they steal him, no matter. He'll have
done good work for you, that's all I want. Remember Ogilvie will always
be your friend, whatever happens."

"God bless you, man. But I must go."

Ogilvie led the way out and down the street to the crossing. Then he
gave him directions, and wringing his hand, stood and watched the
retreating figure as he disappeared in the distance.

"The best man the country ever owned," he muttered to himself; "and
going out alone, fleeing for his life, because he wants to give the
people bread instead of a stone. His big brain and little body thrown
into the mill to be ground to powder, lest he force for them their
rights--born too soon--yes, born too soon."

       *     *     *     *     *

For more than an hour MacKenzie's course was unimpeded. The snow was
hard-packed and without drifts. In some places the ground was bare, and
the horse being well shod, quickly left the miles behind him. The man's
spirits rose. If it continued like this he would reach Springfield
easily in the forenoon. But there was no such good fortune for the
fugitive. Soon he came to an open sweep of extended clearings, where the
north and south roads were drifted full of snow.

"I might have known it," he muttered to himself. "Last night's wind did
the mischief, leaving the east and west roads free."

Pausing for a moment at the crossing of a side-line with the concession,
the southern road blocked by a huge bank, he cast his eye westward. Away
in the distance was the forest.

"That's better," he muttered, "but a long run for you, Nap. Two miles
extra already, and our journey only beginning."

Nap snorted and tossed his mane, in seeming appreciation of his rider's
words, as he trotted westward along the concession line. When they
reached the woods, the cross-line was clear of drifts, and again
MacKenzie speeded southward.

Often the experience was repeated; actual progress was slow. Not a
single person did he meet on the road. Not a light did he see. At
irregular intervals, barns and houses were passed; but all was still,
save for the occasional howling of a hound or the barking of a watchdog,
as the refugee passed on his way.

When dawn came, MacKenzie was still in the saddle, although not sure of
his course. Looking around him he tried to realize the situation. He
could discern several houses along the road which looked familiar, each
one within its own clearing, smoke ascending from the most distant one.
It could not be very far west of Toronto, he thought, a region with
which he was tolerably familiar; yet the pine wood to the right, the
maple grove to the left, and the little creek which crossed the road
were all new to him; and he realized that he was farther away from the
city than he imagined. Of this he was glad, as it made personal
identification less likely. Instinctively he pulled his cap over his
ears, to further hide the contour of his head and face; surprised at
himself for experiencing an inward satisfaction that his present beast
was bay instead of grey. His gauntlets, too, were welcome in a way he
had not thought of before. While warm, and large, and comfortable, they
were of brown fur, while his own were the color of his mare.

Suddenly a dog bounded out of a house and made a dash for the horse's
head, followed by two men, who rushed forward, endeavoring to seize hold
of the bridle. But they were too slow, Nap leaped past them. Then, quick
as a flash, he turned, almost throwing MacKenzie from his back, and
striking out with tremendous force, laid the dog on the snow.

"D--n it, he's killed him!" ejaculated one of the men.

"And the fellow isn't Mac after all," cried the other. "Say, ----
stranger."

But MacKenzie was far down the road, in all seeming, heedlessly pursuing
his way. "After me so soon," was his thought; "people already on the
trail," for he had caught the words.

His first idea was to stop at the house where smoke was visible and pay
for a breakfast; but the incident put this out of the question. So he
rode on, intending to make the venture at the first cabin that he should
see in the woods; but the morning was half gone before the chance came
at a lumber camp.

MacKenzie was tired, as well as hungry and sore. He had been in the
saddle for eight hours, and come what would, he must obtain feed for his
beast if not for himself.

"I'll ask no questions, then you'll tell no lies," said the foreman,
after looking the rider and his horse well over. "Still I've seen you
both before now. The men are in the woods and won't be back till noon;
so there's time enough to feed you both before they come. There's the
barn. Take the beast over and the stable boy'll look after him, then
come in and the cook'll have something ready for you."

As MacKenzie rode on to the out-building the man stood still and stared.
"Well, I swan!" he exclaimed at last--"who'd a thought it? That man of
all others to be here at such a time--fagged out--and withered, as I
never saw him--and riding High-flyer, the fastest, cleanest horse in
York. Thank heaven, it's none o' my business. He shall have a square
meal, but the quicker he's on the road again, the better."

"How far is it to Springfield?" MacKenzie asked him, after he had put
his horse away.

"Twenty-five miles; be you going there?"

"Yes," replied MacKenzie, amazed that the distance was so great.

"Well you're on the wrong tack, and most of the road's bad. It will be
hard to reach it to-night. But the sooner you start, the quicker you'll
get there."

"That goes without saying," said MacKenzie, eyeing his interlocutor more
closely.

"I mean the sooner you and your horse leave these parts, the better I'll
be pleased," said the foreman with significant emphasis.

MacKenzie rose from his seat. "I'll go now if you say so."

"Not till you've had your grub," replied his host. "Is it breakfast or
dinner?"

"Both," was the answer.

"Well!" exclaimed the man, "at a lumber shanty, every stranger's welcome
to a feed, be he Governor, soldier, flunky, rebel or thief; it makes no
difference."

"Well, I--"

"Not a word, please. Them's the conditions. You and I must abide by 'em.
What we give you get, and there's no pay."

"But--"

"There's not even a 'but' in it. You finish your grub and I'll get your
horse out for you."




CHAPTER VIII.

A CUPBOARD AS A HIDING-PLACE.


In half an hour MacKenzie was moving on. In his belief both he and his
horse had been identified, although only twenty hours had elapsed since
the battle. Since then he had covered several times as many miles; and
half way back to Newmarket had passed men on his trail.

What would it be to-morrow, or even to-day, when the whole region from
Hamilton to Niagara would know of his defeat and flight? With
advertisements and posters offering a big reward for his capture, would
the people help him, or would they forget all he had fought for in their
interest, and for the sake of pelf, hand him over to the vengeance of
his enemies?

When in ordinary mood, MacKenzie was of a hopeful nature, and even now
was sanguine enough to believe that he could escape through the meshes
of the net that was gathering around him. He had some staunch friends
through the country on the road to the border, and of these he would
make the best use that he could.

One such friend was the attraction at Springfield. For a temporary halt
in his race for liberty, Mr. Renner's place especially suited him. He
was familiar with the long barn and side entrance by trail through the
woods; and the rambling log-house with its many additions, situated
within sight of the village. The point was, not protection while
there--it would be just the place for a rest--but to get there; and
worse still, to get away again and escape capture.

There was no way of sending his friend word. He might possibly not even
know yet of his defeat and flight. Still he would risk the unexpected
visit; and that night some time, if not captured on the way, he would
get there.

It was hours after midnight when Renner heard a low, rumbling knock at
his outer door. It startled him unpleasantly out of his first sleep.
What could it mean? He knew that a dozen mounted troops had arrived and
were stationed in the village for the night. But their carousals at the
tavern were over long ago, and now all would be sleeping. A thought
suggested itself. Was it really possible? Surely not--and yet it might--

The long, low rat-tat-tat was repeated. This time Mr. Renner jumped out
of bed and, drawing on his outer garments, hastened to the door.

"Who is there?" he demanded.

"A friend. Let me in," was the answer.

Yes, there he was, sure enough, the little man with the big head.
Noiselessly he opened the door and let him in. Then they spoke in
whispers.

"My horse is wet, standing in the barn, I had nothing to cover him
with," said MacKenzie.

"I'll attend to him," replied Renner. "You must stay inside; it won't be
safe to go out again; or even to strike a light. Wait here until I
return."

Renner hurried out to the barn. MacKenzie removed his wraps and took a
seat by the stove, fatigued, hungry, sore in every bone and muscle of
his body. In thirty-six hours he had ridden more than a hundred miles,
over bad roads, to find himself in the very den of his enemies.

When Renner returned the whispering conversation was resumed. Briefly
MacKenzie told his story. They could scarcely see each other's faces in
the darkness.

"And you are so used up," said Renner, "that when you awake in the
morning, you won't be able to move."

"But I must resume my journey," was the answer.

"When rested, but not till then."

"Yet you say they will search every house in the neighborhood
to-morrow."

"So they will, but they won't find the man they want in my house. I can
hide you too well for that."

"And my horse?"

"I've a special stall that I put him in, and I'd defy any one to find
it, unless the critter squeals."

"So you think I'll be safe here if I stay an extra day?" MacKenzie
asked.

"Yes, perfectly; the only thing will be to keep the children from
knowing. If they find out they might clatter, or the rascals might pump
'em. So you'll have to stay for a time where I put you--a regular state
prisoner. Man, why don't you eat more?"

"I thought I was hungry but I'm not," was the answer.

"Well, we'll tiptoe it through the youngsters' room. Back of that is a
place clean shut off from everything else. Oh, say, do you snore?"

"No, thank the Lord."

"It's a saving grace that you don't, for the children would be sure to
hear you."

MacKenzie was too tired to worry any longer, and, getting into bed, he
was soon asleep.

       *     *     *     *     *

The long winter night was over and the forenoon far advanced when
MacKenzie awoke. Renner was again beside him.

"I've brought you some breakfast," he muttered. "The wife's fixed it
specially for you; but she waited until the boys were off to school."

MacKenzie arose and dressed. Then he ate his breakfast with a relish.

"I'm grateful to have friends," he said. "And what news?"

"The troopers are on the warpath. My son Ted has just come up from the
village. He says they've already searched Scottie's and Dunn's houses on
the concession, as well as two others near the tavern; and he heard, on
the side, that they'd be here before noon."

"Will I be safe in this room?" MacKenzie asked.

"Quite safe; anyhow, if they should come in, look here. This chimney
comes up from the kitchen, and right behind it in this corner there's a
cupboard, which I'd defy anyone to find, even if they knew it was there,
when they didn't know the knack of opening it. Although it's not very
big, as there are no shelves in it, a man of your size could squeeze in
quite comfortably. Just step in and try it."

MacKenzie did as directed.

"And look upward," said Renner; "you can see daylight through, so there
will be no danger of suffocation, no matter how long you are a
prisoner."

"Yes, I see," returned MacKenzie. "A rather tight box, but just the
place for me. You couldn't have made a snugger fit."

"Well, as my wife and Ted both know all about it, and Ted's on the
watch, you'd better come down and take a whiff of fresh air in the shed,
while she arranges the room and makes it look natural. It would be hard
for a stranger to find the blind door, and, as you see, the window has
only two lights; still they give a view up the road, while one can't be
seen from the outside. Look!"

"Why, yonder are the men crossing the street by the tavern. Their horses
are all dark but one," said MacKenzie, in a tone of suppressed
excitement, "and that one is grey."

"They call her rider, Jeff," said Renner. "He isn't a soldier, but
monkeys round among the rest of the fellows a good deal, a sort of
leader. They toady to him. But let's hurry down so that wife can fix
things. The gang may be here sooner than we expect."

The woman had only time to put the room in order, when her son rushed in
with the statement that the men were galloping up the road straight for
their house.

MacKenzie hurried upstairs and, shutting himself in, prepared for
anything that might happen. First pulling off his boots so that he could
slip about without making any noise, he next placed them and his
overcoat in the closet and arranged the door so that he could step
inside upon a moment's notice. Then he looked out of his little narrow
window. The troopers were at the gate. Jeff was with them, sure enough,
riding his own grey mare. It made his blood boil.

Jumping off his horse, Jeff threw the bridle over the tie-post and led
the way up to the house. There was a loud rap at the door. The men
rushed in. Then came altercation, loud demands and angry replies from
Renner, tramping from room to room, slamming of doors, as the men
blustered about in their search for the refugee.

Soon someone made a rush for the stairs; and MacKenzie, after slipping
into the closet, securely fastened the door. Through a chink behind the
chimney he could hear the conversation.

"There's no use lying about it!" Jeff exclaimed in a loud and angry
tone. "I know for a fact that he steered straight for Springfield. This
is the place he aimed at; and here he is."

"Well!" returned Renner, contemptuously, "prove that you are not a liar
by finding him."

"We'll soon do that. He's in one of these blasted holes, sure as fate."

"Take care, young man; if you smash things, I'll fling you head first
down those stairs when you are through with your search."

Again there was rummaging.

The rooms were investigated. Beds were pulled out of place and
mattresses pounded. Finally, they were outside the wall of MacKenzie's
room. Pounding the wall produced a hollow sound.

"This must be a room, too," said the sergeant, "but where's the door?"

"Here it is," replied Renner, flinging the concealed door widely open,
and stepping inside. It was better by apparent frankness to throw off
suspicion. "This is our guest chamber."

"Guest chamber be d--d," muttered Jeff; "just the place to stow away a
scoundrel fleeing for his life."

"Find him, then. And if you don't, you know what you'll get. If it
wasn't for the soldiers I'd take you out and thrash you for your
impudence," returned Renner in well-assumed indignation.

"Don't know but I'll give you a chance," returned Jeff.

MacKenzie's heart beat rapidly and his breath came in short gasps. There
were many men in his little room, and they were pounding the walls to
find a hollow resonance somewhere. By-and-by he could hear Jeff's voice
close beside the chimney, and he almost suffocated in his effort to
control the sound of his own breathing.

The pounding continued. The man was right at his hiding-place. But the
wall of it was a huge slab. It sounded like a log, and to still further
deaden the sound and tantalize the men, Renner talked incessantly.

"A search like this is an outrage!" he exclaimed, vigorously. "If he
knew what you are doing the Governor would never permit it. He knows his
people too well to sanction such an imposition."

"We have his warrant," returned the sergeant. "Here it is."

"Let me see it."

The men gathered round him while he made the investigation.

"Yes, I see. You are authorized to follow the refugee and capture him if
possible; to search all suspicious places; to hunt for him through all
the apartments of any house or barn or other building where you have
good reason to believe he may be secreted or lodged."

"Exactly," said the sergeant.

"Yes, exactly. But what good reason can you show for the outrage upon
the house of a peaceable and loyal citizen? Tell me that."

"I've told you already," replied Jeff. "There's no use repeating it
again."

"But you haven't told me what the man is like, so that if he did happen
to squeeze into my house, unawares, I might recognize and capture him.
If you raise such a row over him, and scour the whole country to catch
him, it must be worth one's while to help a little."

"Do you mean to say," stormed the sergeant, "that you don't know what
this MacKenzie is like? Have you never seen the man, the rebel that the
whole country is wild to capture?"

"You've outraged my house without saying even 'by your leave,' and I
have asked a simple question," returned Renner, stiffly, "and I have a
right as a subject of the Queen, God bless her, to receive a decent
answer. What is MacKenzie like? Is he tall or short, large or small,
dark or fair, young or old? Give me, like sensible men, a reasonable
idea to go upon."

"If that's the way he talks, it's plain enough we're off the scent!"
exclaimed the sergeant, making for the stairway. "We've no more time to
waste. Come along, men."

Quickly they followed him and were soon down the stairs, but Jeff
lingered.

"Say!" he exclaimed, putting a wistful tone into his voice, and pursing
his lips toward Renner, "there's big money in this business. I've got a
kinder inside track on it, a chance that no other fellow has. I sorter
lead the militia in the hunt; and if you'll help me nab the fellow I'll
give you a clean hundred pound."

"That is generous," said Renner, eyeing him keenly.

"Don't know but I might make it two," sidling up a little closer, "being
as it is done neatly and soon. Wouldn't even be necessary to tell the
militia, for that matter."

"Still more generous," said Renner, contemptuously. "Yesterday the
Governor offered a thousand pounds to any man who would capture
MacKenzie. The offer is open and likely to be. Yet you have the cheek to
ask me to capture the man as soon as I get the chance, take the thousand
pounds, keep two hundred of it myself and give the other eight hundred
to you for nothing."

"But, I say--"

"Get out of my house--I've room for neither fool nor knave in it. Quick,
I say!"

Incontinently, the brave Jeff floundered down the stairs after his
compatriots; and as they cantered up the street again, MacKenzie quietly
watched them from his bedroom window.




CHAPTER IX.

ARRESTED AS A HORSE THIEF


Before the afternoon was over, more men arrived in the village to aid in
tracking the fugitive. The orders from Toronto were to scour the country
with all possible speed; and to leave no stone unturned to secure his
capture before he could cross the border. The offer of a thousand pounds
sterling upon MacKenzie's arrest was no small inducement; and when Ted
returned from the village at three o'clock he declared that a dozen
militia had arrived from the city to swell the number of the "Patriot's"
pursuers. As a consequence, Renner and MacKenzie had a long talk over
the situation, and decided that he should push on again under cover of
the coming night.

By midnight he had had his second long sleep, and, refreshed in body
with another hearty meal, he was once more in the saddle on Nap's back.
Ted acted as scout while his father led the horse out into the woods.
There he bade the fugitive adieu, wishing him God-speed on his journey.

"Slip this into your pocket," Renner added, handing him a flask of
brandy, "and here's some sandwiches my wife made; they'll balance the
weight of the bottle."

"You're just like the rest," was MacKenzie's response; "with so many
staunch friends I defy my enemies to capture me."

"True enough, Mac," whispered Renner, "but they'll be thick enough soon,
scattered like peas; and it won't be safe to travel on horseback much
longer. When daylight comes you'll be a good target for either eye or
bullet."

"What would you advise?"

"Just to pick your way. Steal along at night time from barn to barn, or
from house to house, and never stir in daylight between sun and sun. The
Government squad will be after you. They'd tear you limb from limb if
they could; but the people are your friends. They may think you were a
fool to risk so much on so slim a chance; but there isn't a man of 'em
from here to Niagara would give you up to the Governor, for all the
rotten gold that he carries. Good-bye, my friend, good-bye."

"Yes, good-bye," echoed MacKenzie with trembling voice, "God bless you."

There was moonlight enough for him to follow the woodland trail, which
led directly away from the village. Renner had given him full
directions, and for hours his journey south was almost entirely through
timber lands, thus avoiding the drifts. The snow here was light and the
roads good, making progress easier. His object was to steer for a point
west of Dundas and to reach the mountain ridge in rear of the village
for his first stop. It was a long pull and a strong pull, but he patted
Nap's neck and whispered in his ear, and the staunch beast, in sympathy
with his rider, put his best foot to the front.

"If I could only reach Merritt's house before daybreak," was the
fugitive's thought, and for this he made the effort.

Merritt had always been a subscriber to the "_Advocate_" while it lived,
and he was willing to trust himself in his hands. He knew something of
the location of the house, too. It was said to be on the corner of
cross-roads, with a block of clearing on each corner lot. As dawn broke,
after six hours' hard riding, he believed he had discovered the spot;
the description seemed verified, but there was no light in the house.

Tying his horse to the gate-post MacKenzie entered the yard and rapped
at the door. Soon a woman appeared. She had been fixing the fire for a
light.

"Tom," she cried, stepping quickly backwards, "there's a man at the
door. Come, quick!"

"Does Mr. Merritt live here?" MacKenzie asked; "excuse me for troubling
you so early."

"Nice time to come before daylight asking questions and scaring folks,"
was her reply. "No, he don't, but my man's coming; he'll talk to you,"
and she closed the door in his face.

"There's a rum-looking customer outside," she whispered to her giant of
a husband, who was donning his clothes. "He's wild and withered up like.
Looks like a big pollywog, with red hair and red eyes."

"You must have looked hard to see so much in a minute."

"So I did. He's so queer he scared me."

"Well, stranger, what can I do for you?" Tom asked on opening the door.

"Can you tell me where Mr. Merritt lives?"

Tom, with his broad shoulders, towered a foot above the little man
before him; and glancing from him to the steaming beast, he drew his own
conclusions.

"He lives quite a ways from here," was his answer; "beyond the
cross-roads."

"How long will it take to ride there?"

"Perhaps an hour, perhaps more."

"I'm sorry to trouble you; but will you tell me the direction, please?"

"It seems to me that both you and your horse need a rest, judging by the
appearance of things," said the man, eyeing MacKenzie still more
closely. "That's a mighty good beast you've got there. Pity to ride him
too long or too hard without feed."

"Yes, I know," was the answer; "that's one reason why I want to reach
Mr. Merritt's, so that I can feed him."

"How far did you come?"

"From near Springfield."

"For the land's sake! Riding all night, without stopping for a feed?"

"Not all night, but a good part of it."

"Well, I reckon, the best thing you can do is to put up here. We can
feed you both. The woman's got lots o' buckwheat batter and pork; and
after that I don't mind showing you the road. Step inside, I'll tend the
critter."

And without waiting for a response he stalked out to the gate and led
the horse away to the stable.

The woman in turn eyed the visitor.

"Put your things on the peg and take a chair," she said, jerking her
thumb over her shoulder. "Tom's boss, but I'd be blessed if I'd take a
tramp in at daybreak for nothing."

"It is not for nothing," returned MacKenzie, wishing to conciliate the
woman. "I shall be glad to pay for myself and my horse. It was good of
your husband to offer to take a tired traveller in."

"Well, well, we never takes no pay," she added in milder tones. "How do
you like your slap-jacks, with molasses or pork?"

"With pork mostly." He had noted Tom's remark.

"You can have both if you want to."

"Thank you. This is a cozy place you've got, and it's good to be by the
fire in the early morning."

"It ain't bad." This time she smiled.

The door opened and Tom came in. His keen eyes ran over MacKenzie's
figure. "You've had a hard run, boss," was his comment. "That beast of
yourn is clear grit; but you've given him a terrible run. He needs two
hours' rest to fit him for another dash for the States."

He was observing MacKenzie closely, and the latter knew it.

"I'm not taking him to the States," was his response.

"You're not, eh?" incredulously.

"I think I told you that Mr. Merritt's house was my present
destination."

"All right, sir, and being as you are bound to get there, we'll just
split your horse's feed and rest in two and start you off in one hour.
Breakfast ready, Meg?"

"Yes, you can start now, both of ye."

"Sit up, Boss. Say, that _is_ a dandy beast. Where did you say you got
him?"

"I didn't say I got him anywhere. I've had him for some time," said
MacKenzie, helping himself to the buckwheat slap-jacks offered by his
host.

"He's got a splendid back and legs and is strong in the withers. When
put to it, might carry a light man like you near a hundred miles in a
day."

"Possibly he could," said MacKenzie.

"Should make an A 1 trotting horse, too. Ever had him on the racetrack?"

"No, I never had."

"Peculiar, isn't it? Looks mighty like a dark bay that took the
sweepstakes at York two year ago. I happened to be down an' saw him. If
you hadn't said 'no' I could 'a' sworn this was the beast."

"It is peculiar," said MacKenzie, still masticating his cakes.

"Yes, damned peculiar." To change the subject MacKenzie talked about the
roads. Then, shoving his chair from the table, Tom announced that he had
some chores to do; but that in twenty minutes he'd have the horse
saddled and ready for his rider.

Before going out he whispered something to his wife. Instantly her mouth
dropped, her face elongated, and her eyes flashed a glance at MacKenzie
which he did not see.

"Where be your home, sir?" she asked, after her husband had gone.

"In Toronto," he replied, and concluding that it would be good policy to
ply her with questions, rather than satisfy her curiosity, he learned
that they had lived there for five years, that her husband's farm was on
a clergy reserve, that he had paid five instalments and had five more to
pay, that he was the strongest man in the township, could lift a barrel
of flour with his teeth, and was bailiff as well. All the information
she received in return was that his last stopping place was at
Springfield, and that he was not sure how soon he would return to the
city. Upon the latter point, she inwardly believed, although she had
never seen her guest before, that she could have furnished him with
substantial information if she had desired to do so.

But Mr. Thomas Ketchum, the bailiff, was at the gate holding his horse;
and MacKenzie, after thanking the woman for his breakfast, joined him.
He felt suspicious over his position. The grim humor of it interested
him. If this man willed it, he was a prisoner in spite of all he could
do. Although MacKenzie carried a brace of loaded pistols, the actual
fight being over, he knew that he would suffer capture rather than shoot
a man in cold blood.

Ketchum, however, was perfectly cool, and having on a rough pea-jacket
and gauntlets, was prepared for a tramp.

"Your beast has cooled off fine," was his greeting, "and he must have
been hungry, for besides hay, he's eaten more'n a gallon of oats. If you
get into the saddle I'll lead the way and show you the road."

MacKenzie mounted, but instead of letting the horse loose, the man
slipped his big arm into the bridle, and with his hand in his coat
pocket, sauntered along by his head. The situation was not a pleasant
one. Both horse and man were captured, sure enough. It might be from
sheer hospitality and goodness of heart, or it might be that they were
veritable prisoners. With Ketchum's huge strength and complete command
of himself, MacKenzie doubted much his ability to free his horse from
his grasp, were he to try it. In the meantime, the better policy was to
accept the conditions for the present and follow the man's lead.

For half an hour they pursued their way in silence, each man on the
alert. The sun being above the horizon, MacKenzie could take his
bearings. He had understood that the direction to Mr. Merritt's house
was due south; but after crossing the side-line to the next concession,
Mr. Ketchum turned his back on the sun and led the horse along the road
to the west. In the distance he could discern a large log-house with
smoke coming from the chimney.

"Is that Mr. Merritt's house?" MacKenzie asked.

"No, that is Squire Dalton's."

"Why are you going in this direction then?" he cried, suddenly pulling
his horse in.

But the man was prepared for any emergency and pulled in with the beast.

"Why?" he echoed, turning sharply round and facing MacKenzie with a
determined face. "Simply because I've arrested a horse thief, and shall
deliver the man for commitment and the horse for detention."

MacKenzie now for the first time saw the breech of a revolver protruding
from Ketchum's breast-pocket. The accusation coupled with this object
lesson cleared the atmosphere.

"So I am the thief and Nap the beast I have stolen!" he exclaimed, with
a ringing laugh at the absurdity of the idea. "What in the world made
you think so?"

The acceptance of the accusation was so singular that Ketchum's faith
was shaken. Still he felt in a measure sure of his ground and was not
going to be bluffed.

"The circumstantial evidence of the thief and the beast," was the angry
answer; "and if you want to know, I'll give it you straight from the
shoulder. Although you're the size of a horse-jockey, you're too old and
used up for one; yet after riding all night the best trotter in the
county, you expect me to believe that the beast is your own; when any
man with a grain of sense would know that its owner wouldn't be such a
d--d fool as to put on the road such a valuable animal for a whole
night's ride."

"That's horse sense," returned MacKenzie, who had arrived at the
conclusion that a candid statement might induce the man to favor his
escape, bailiff though he was. So he told him the facts. Ketchum was
astonished, as well as chagrined, at his own lack of astuteness. But his
features relaxed, for the story in its telling was evidently true; and
although an officer of the Crown, he had always sympathized with the man
who for years had been fighting for larger freedom.

"Yet I never heard a word of the fight," said Ketchum. "I knew the
people were preparing; and you answer to the description they give of
MacKenzie, but that a battle was fought, and you and your men defeated,
is news to me. Perhaps it's because I'm out of the way, for you've
missed it; Merritt's place is ten miles due east of here, straight on
the road to the Falls."

"Ten miles!" exclaimed MacKenzie, in astonishment.

"Yes, and the best thing you can do is to make tracks for the river. I'm
sorry I called you a horse thief, but you must acknowledge I had
reason."

"Yes, I see it now. Perhaps I'd better not keep the horse much longer.
This is the second time already that he has been recognized."

"You are right there. And past Dundas there'll be a lot of men after
you. Go clean south of Merritt's place, but not to it. From there east
the country will be full of scouts. Better sell the horse if you can.
Travel at night on foot would be my advice."

"The horse is not mine to sell," said MacKenzie.

"But the man gave him to you."

"I only regarded it as a loan. I intend to leave him in charge
somewhere, and, after I escape, write Ogilvie where Nap can be found."

"Well, that's the honest way, I suppose, but everything is fair in love
and war."

"But not to defraud one's friend."

"By jupiter, yonder are two men on horseback coming out of the woods;
you'd better get. Take the side-line to the next concession. Quick, or
they'll see you. Go south, then east, then south, then east. Do it three
times, and then due east till some other fellow gives you a lift on the
way. Good-bye, old man."

"Good-bye," and wringing the bailiff's hand he was off.

Fortunately the adjoining woods prevented his horse being seen by the
approaching riders, and he took the long incline on the lope. In a few
minutes the top was reached, and before the men had joined the bailiff
MacKenzie was speeding his way into the valley beyond.

The officer of law was naturally anxious for news from the seat of war;
so the troopers regaled him with a florid account, little dreaming that
while they were talking, MacKenzie was doing his best to increase the
distance between himself and them.




CHAPTER X.

REACHING THE RIVER.


MacKenzie lost no time by the way. Although tired from the long night
ride, his breakfast had refreshed him, and he was ready to ride as long
as the fates would permit. He was not a heavy burden for Nap to carry,
and the beast was in good trim. The coast was still clear, so he pushed
on determined to cover all the ground possible during the early hours of
the day.

He passed many people that morning, some riding, others walking.
Curiosity was depicted on every face; but no one stopped him, a nod or a
word being the only greeting. Religiously he followed the directions
given by Ketchum--to the south--to the east--to the south--to the
east--to the south--to the east, and then steadily onward.

He felt it to be a desperate business, this fleeing for liberty, and
while his eyes were constantly on the alert, his spirits became
depressed. Over and over again his thoughts centered upon his wife and
children. Still, amid all the gloom of the separation, and his dread and
doubt concerning them, he had satisfaction in knowing that for a time
they were provided for. He had left them enough money to buy the
necessaries of life, and although the loyalists in their desire for
revenge would swing him on the scaffold if they could, he did not
believe that even Sir Francis would lay a molesting finger upon his
household.

But what of the horror and despair that lay within those old walls? What
of the mother's anguish when she knew that her son was flying into
exile, with a reward upon his head, and scores of armed men in hot
pursuit? What of the wife's devotion, with future wrecked, home life
sacrificed, and her husband a ruined outlaw? What of the children whom
he loved? What of the cause upon which he had risked all and lost? In
bitter anguish he felt undone.

No wonder that his spirits fell and that hope seemed annihilated. But
men live in the present, not in the past nor the future. The bodily
functions do their duty just for to-day. The heart beats methodically in
never-ending rhythm year in and year out, and the brain inevitably
fulfils its mission, come what will. Terror may fill the heart, remorse
may wreck the soul, despair may grind the spirit in anguish, but life's
duties must be done; and the innerself, declaring its mighty ego, rises
subconsciously and proclaims its supremacy.

MacKenzie was growing hungry again. He had still his sandwiches and
brandy untouched; but noon was approaching, and these would not feed his
beast. Nap must be provided for. For an hour he had been on the main
road and saw more people; and as some scanned him and his beast
suspiciously, he rode on the first good opportunity into a barnyard,
and tied his horse in the shed.

Suddenly a mastiff bounded out of the barn with a savage growl. Nap's
heels were getting ready for another conflict, when the dog's master
appeared and called him off.

"Tige's savage and would nip you if I wasn't here," cried the man.

"He'll do it yet, if you don't call him off," returned MacKenzie,
sidling round to hold the dog at bay.

"Down Tige, down, I say. What do you want, Mister?"

"Not a great deal, just to ask you to take care of my horse till he's
sent for, if you will? He's a valuable animal. You'll be paid for your
trouble."

"That's a queer proposition," said the man, rubbing his nose vigorously.
"Who be you to ask me? And how do I know who owns the beast or where you
got him?"

"Will you do what I ask if I give you satisfactory answers to your
questions?"

"Sartin, or my name isn't Bert Rogers."

"You've given me your name. I'll give you mine. It's William Lyon
MacKenzie."

"You! Lyon MacKenzie! you--a fellow I could throw over the fence as
quick as I could a calf--you--the man who has set the whole country
ablaze and turned one-half the people against t'other, until one doesn't
know friend from foe. Man, you've given me a shake. I never heard what
you were like; but I calkilated you'd be a fellow with muscle, and bone
and sinew, as well as brains. No wonder the Governor's recruits licked
you and scattered your men like chaff when they took a chap like you for
chief."

"Nevertheless, the cause was a good one," said MacKenzie, angrily, "and
if I had succeeded, you like other men would have sung a different
song."

"Of course, the winning horse gets the prize; but you are the losing
one; with a big reward on your head, and the whole country after you."

"The people of the country, or the hounds of the city, which?"

"Well, the hounds, I reckon. Three different gangs have been along
already to-day. One fellow on a grey mare was in only half an hour ago.
He's keen for the dust, I tell you; and he offers any fellow he meets a
share of the prize if he will only help to lay hands on you. I've a
capital chance to go in halves myself," he concluded, with a broad grin.

"But being a man who can distinguish justice from tyranny, you'll scorn
to do what the villain asks."

"How do you know?"

"By the look of an honest man's face."

"I don't know--guess I'm betwixt and between," said the man, rubbing his
nose again. "There's good in quietude and order, even if you don't get
much from the state; and there's good in standing up for your rights and
demanding what is your due. Still, I'm too much of an Adullamite to make
a fuss either way."

"Time is pressing. Will you do as I ask you?"

"If it comes to that, I guess I'd fight for the under dog," said the
man, compressing his lips; "and a hundred against one couldn't get my
support, anyhow. If I can help you in a quiet way, I'll do it--but mind
you, I'm not in the racket for racket's sake, either for or against."

"I understand. So you'll keep my horse until he's sent for; and being
familiar with the country, you'll tell me how I can best and safest
reach Niagara river to cross the line."

"You've put it in a nut-shell; and I tell you frankly, there's not a
single house in the 'hull of this district where you could be stowed
away for keeps, no matter how much the people favored your cause. These
confounded troopers swing through every inch of your shanty. They come
one after another, and think nothing of investigating every cranny. So
of house refuge there is none."

"What shall I do then?"

"Being fagged out you ought to rest before going further."

"But where can I?"

"That beats me. Still, why not try my pea-rick? It's clean and dry. The
pigs have worried roads through it until it's honey-combed. I'll fasten
em out. Then you can crawl in and have a sleep. Stay there until night,
when you may steal away again. And being on a knoll not far from the
road, you can get a good view without being seen."

So, after telling his story more fully, MacKenzie hastened off to the
pea-rick and crawled in. Thoroughly tired out and secured against
molestation from the pigs, he was soon asleep. After a while Rogers came
quietly up to the rick and listened, but hearing the breathing of the
sleeper, he left him undisturbed.

By-and-by rain commenced to fall, rapidly melting the snow; but
MacKenzie's nook being thoroughly dry, he slept on. How long this lasted
he didn't know, until awakened by loud shouts on the road. Peering out
from his ambush he saw several horsemen noisily splashing to and fro,
and among them was a rider on his own grey nag. They had evidently
called a halt at Rogers's house. Listening intently, as the altercation
became louder, he detected Jeff's blustering tones above all others.

"A man on horseback came this way," he shouted, "but he didn't pass your
place."

"How do you know he didn't?" retorted Rogers.

"Both the farmers half a mile down the road swear to it."

"You must be as blind as a bat not to see the cross-roads before you get
to either of 'em."

"Cross-roads be hanged! When a man's running for life he makes a
bee-line. He don't do it by jags."

"That shows how much you know. A hare doubles on his tracks, and so
does a fox. If the man you are after has any gumption, he'll make all
the cross-cuts he can to throw you off the scent."

"By-jove, you've hit it. I wish we had a blood-hound here."

"As you haven't, why not divide into two parties, and size the
cross-roads for all they're worth? That is, if you are sure your man
came this way."

"Sure as death," said Jeff. "What say you, men?"

"We'd better feed first. We've got oats in our saddle-bags and grub in
our pockets," cried the sergeant. "Here it's three o'clock and neither
man nor beast has had a bite since breakfast."

"Stay if you like," said Rogers, quaking lest they would, "but it will
give your man all the better chance to escape."

"Guess we'll stay," snapped Jeff; "half an hour's neither here nor
there. But say, isn't that a feeding box over by yon pea-rick? Just the
place; our beasts are hot and will cool down better than in a stable,
now the rain's over."

"There's room in the stable for your horses," cried Rogers, his heart
beating wildly.

"The trough's good enough," returned Jeff, coolly; "but Pete, you might
swing out a jag of hay if this chap don't mind."

"Take all you want."

And Rogers commenced to whistle an old ballad as loudly as he could, in
the hope of awakening the sleeping refugee to a full appreciation of
his danger.

But MacKenzie needed no awakening. He had heard the gist of the
conversation, and for the first time he was positively afraid. He felt
as though his body was already in a trap and his neck in a noose. With
that group of men all round the pea-rick for the next hour, how could he
possibly escape detection? As the men were tired as well as hungry, what
was there to prevent any of them from crawling into the stack just for a
nap, as he had done? And if Rogers allowed his dog to come near the
rick, he felt sure that his fate would be sealed.

But Rogers was keen witted, and while not an ardent supporter of the
cause, he had too true an appreciation of the danger both to himself and
MacKenzie to run any avoidable risk. He cursed himself roundly for
suggesting the pea-rick, but once done, he must make the most of it; and
on the plea of getting something for the men, he hurried Tige into the
house and bade his wife on no account to let him out again.

Meanwhile, MacKenzie, after the momentary shock of danger, was making
the most of his position. Whatever he could do to avoid detection must
be done at once and without noise. He had discovered that the stack,
about twenty feet in diameter and more than a dozen in height, was
riddled with runways, all but one of them interlacing with each other.
This central beat, made probably by an unusually venturesome pig, had
been run to a higher level, his pigship having doubtless intended to
lord it over his fellows. To back up into this narrow hole, separate
from the others, and to face the outlet, seemed to be the only move
practicable. The question was, could he cover his hiding-place by piling
the straw in front of him so that no exploring trooper could detect the
run; and further, could he get enough air to live the ordeal through? At
least, he would try.

The men were too busy attending to their horses to hear the slight
rattle that he made; and he had the satisfaction of building a pretty
solid rampart, and almost suffocating as a consequence, before he heard
the voices of men as they stooped down and peered into the outer holes.

"Jimminy Isaacs," cried one; "regular hog-holes--the stack's full of
'em. They're clean, too. Don't know but I'll take a snooze."

"With Mac as a bed-fellow? Who knows but he's in here somewhere?"
returned his companion.

"Pooh," was the answer, the man stretching his long length with his head
not three feet from that of the man he was hunting.

"Pooh ahead, I'm going to look."

"And get a bullet through your brains if he is."

"I'll take my chances." And he crawled in and out through half a dozen
run-ways.

"Chee! chee!" he ejaculated, as he rejoined his comrade, already half
asleep, "how that does make you sneeze"; little knowing how vigorously
MacKenzie was pressing his upper lip to avoid a similar catastrophe.

"Did you find him?" was the question.

"Blowed if I did, but I'd bet my last pound some fellow's been here.
Took more'n hogs to put this stack jus' as it is."

"Shut up and lie down; I want to snooze, I tell you."

For some time the two men lay still. Both of them dozed, then something
moved.

"What's that? It was back of your head."

"A rat, I reckon, I saw two in the yard just as we came."

"I'm going to see, anyhow."

"Dashed if you will while I'm here. This is my caboose. Keep your own
stall."

And failing in his purpose, the man listened intently, while MacKenzie,
grim as death, scarcely breathed.

"Time to be moving," cried Jeff at last, "every man to his saddle."

"What's the hurry?" drawled one of the men from the rick.

"It's late," was the answer, "and we've got to try both the cross-roads
before the darkening."

"Bill, didn't I tell you? There's the rat," ejaculated the other man to
his mate, as they both crawled out, while a huge rodent bounded before
them across the yard.

"What's that?" exclaimed Jeff.

"This chap, after running through the stack like a rabbit, swore that
his rat was a man; while I swore that his man was a rat, and there he
goes."

"Shoot him, Phil."

"Save your shot for better game. You may bag MacKenzie before night if
you're spry. We'll divide at the side-line, two each way, to meet after
night at Berkeley's tavern, five mile south-east of here. What say you,
sergeant?"

The sergeant agreed; for although Jeff was not a soldier, he had been
given leadership in the chase, as he rode MacKenzie's mare, and was
supposed to know more of his plans than any of his fellows.

In a few minutes the troopers started down the road on the trot; and as
he heard the clatter of the retreating hoofs, MacKenzie shoved the
pea-straw aside and crawled out, half suffocated from heat and lack of
air.

"A deuced narrow escape," muttered Rogers.

"In two minutes more I should have had to give in," replied MacKenzie.
"The troopers' rat couldn't stand it any longer. Jeff's call saved him."

"So you are grateful to Jeff."

"Grateful! I'd wring his neck if I could. The beast is riding my own
mare, which he stole. Not only that, but he's pounding her to pieces."

"It's something new for a man to be run down by his own mare," said
Rogers with a grin.

"Rather than be taken by that fellow--he isn't a man--I'd pull a trigger
on him, something I never did upon a human being yet."

"He'll give you the chance before you reach the river, I reckon. Still,
this was a pretty close shave, and he missed it. Speaking about rivers,
there's the Sixteen-mile Creek you'll have to cross. It has only one
bridge north of the village, and they say it's mighty shaky. If a heavy
flood comes to-night, and the sky's rotten enough to warrant it, the
bridge'll go before morning, and then where will you be?"

"On the other side. I'll cross it first."

"It will take you five hours to get there, and it won't be safe to leave
here until these men are settled for the night."

"That means back to the rick again."

"Yes, until ten o'clock. After dark I'll bring you some vittles."

A team came rattling along the road, so MacKenzie backed once more into
his lair to solace himself with his sandwiches and a pull at his flask,
while Rogers hastened to the house, for rain was again falling.

       *     *     *     *     *

For long hours the rain came down in torrents. It was midnight before
the storm broke. Then the sky cleared, the moon and the stars were out,
and MacKenzie sallied forth. Rogers gave him explicit directions, and it
was light enough to see the way. There was little danger of meeting
anyone at such an hour, but as he trudged on, splashing through the mud,
MacKenzie's eyes and ears were continually on the alert. Steady walking
was something new to him, but with a brace of pistols in his under belt,
and a stout cudgel in his hand he pursued his way, determined to reach
the Sixteen-mile Creek, if possible, before the bridge could be swept
away. He knew something of the locality, for only the year before, when
prospecting over the possibilities of revolt, he had visited much of the
region. Pressing steadily onward throughout the night, he reached the
spot as the day dawned. The little stream had swollen to the dimensions
of a river, filling and overflowing its banks. Turning to the right he
walked up the bank for a mile or more in search of the bridge that was
said to cross it. But misgivings soon presented themselves. As the light
became clearer, squared timber, planks, and pieces of scantling
successively swept by. Tired as he was, he hurried on faster than ever
to know the truth. And presently, emerging from the woods, he reached
the road where it crossed the creek. Hurrying to the water's edge, he
stood aghast, for the supporting blocks on the banks of the stream were
all that was left of the bridge.

What should he do? So far no one else had arrived on the scene; but this
quietude could not continue. The neighbors who knew of the danger would
soon come to investigate. What made the matter worse, there was no
possibility of crossing the creek dry-shod except at the village; and to
appear there either by day or night would mean capture. To cross at once
was imperative. Looking closely, he thought the water would come up to
his neck if he waded; but as the temperature was at the freezing point,
although he might live through the effort, it would only be to chill to
death on the other side.

But MacKenzie was a man of quick decision. Two minutes' reflection was
sufficient. Glancing sharply in both directions along the road, and
seeing no one, he stepped behind a tree, and stripping everything off
but his hat, he rolled his clothes up into a bundle, tied them and his
boots with his suspenders, and holding all aloft on his stick, walked
into the stream. Instantly his teeth commenced to chatter and his limbs
to shake. But he had made up his mind he would go through the river or
down it, one or the other. With a strong plea to God for help, he waded
right on. Soon he was up to his middle; next, to the waist, and at one
time even to the chin. Then his footing became unsteady. The current was
sweeping him off his feet. Chilled to the bone, but with his clothes
still aloft, he lurched forward. This time he stubbed his toe on timber
in the bed of the stream. The sharp sting of pain acted as a stimulant,
and with his feet on a log his shoulders were out of the water. Taking
advantage of the impetus thus gained, he again lurched forward and in
another minute reached the bank and crawled out.

But he was chilled through, thoroughly benumbed. He feared he had not
strength enough left to dress himself, and as a result must perish of
cold after all his efforts to escape. But a wild yell from the other
side of the creek roused him. At this moment, too, he remembered that
there was a little of the brandy left, and even before looking across,
he took the flask from his pocket and drained it. Then with numb fingers
he commenced to put on his clothes as well as he could. The liquor was
stimulating his circulation. His dry clothes, too, quickly gave him
warmth; and while tugging at his long boots he looked across the stream
at the youths who were still yelling.

"You are a brick if ever there was one, but what did you do it for?"
shouted one of them.

"Where's the nearest house?" was his answer.

"There's one two miles down east, and another off to the left on the
cross-road."

"Golly, you ought to have a good breakfast after your swim," cried the
other youth.

"Thanks," was his answer, and waving his hand to the lads, he took to
the road again as the sun appeared above the horizon.

       *     *     *     *     *

By high noon the next day MacKenzie was in sight of the Niagara River.
The place he aimed at reaching was the house of Captain McInnes, whom he
knew to be a staunch friend. The difficult thing was to get to the house
unobserved. As he neared the river he was continually dodging in and out
of the woods in order to escape detection. People along the Niagara by
this time all knew of his defeat; and were aware that he was a political
refugee, using every effort in his power to escape across the border;
and that he was attempting to do it right through their midst.

Hence when he entered a little copse of pines not far from the Captain's
house, hours passed before the coast was clear enough for him to dare to
leave it. Couriers passed and repassed. Soon Jeff on the grey mare rode
by on the gallop, to come back on the trot half an hour later.

"Confound his infernal impudence!" muttered MacKenzie, as Jeff
disappeared down the river road again. For a while all was still.
Cautiously he stole to the edge of the wood, and was about to make a
dash, when his ear caught a more ominous sound, and looking in the same
direction again he was chagrined to see several dragoons riding up the
road towards him. Backing into the wood, he once more secreted himself
and waited. Then they cantered past and away up beyond the head of Grand
Island.

"Now or never," was his thought as he again sallied forth. The coast was
clear once more, and, hurrying on, he was soon in the rear of the house,
where, fortunately, he met the Captain.

"I've been looking for this," growled the latter. "It was a God-send you
didn't come any sooner. The dragoons went through my house only a few
minutes ago. Step in here out of sight."

"Is there a boat available?" MacKenzie asked in alarm.

"The Government has seized every one they know of," was the answer.

"And are there no others?" he ventured.

"I only know of one."

"And whose is that, pray?"

"My own."

"Thank God."

"You may well say 'Thank God'," again growled the Captain, who was a
retired American officer, "for the fellows are here in full force, up
and down the line all day long. In half an hour they'll be here again.
There's not much of a chance. Still we'll try it and rush things while
we can. My boat's in the coach-house, twenty yards from the river; and
luckily Mike's always been a good friend of yours. Wait a minute till I
see."

Opening the door, he looked up and down the road. In another minute he
was back.

"Not a second to spare! Come!"

A word to Mike was sufficient. The three men rushed the craft down the
incline with a will. Part of the slide was cut through the bank of the
river, the public road coming to the very verge.

"Be jabers, ye'll have to hurry," cried Mike. "Yon's one of the
spalpeens coming again."

And not a hundred yards away was the grey mare with Jeff on her back
coming on the gallop. On the higher ground he had recognized MacKenzie,
and, yelling for others to follow, he put spurs to his jaded steed,
glorying at the chance of capturing the refugee at last. But the boat
was on the water with MacKenzie at the bottom and the two men at the
oars before Jeff could reach them. He was riding furiously. His prey had
almost escaped. He must be captured at whatever cost; and with a wild
yell he galloped to the edge.

"Good God!" exclaimed McInnes.

"What's the matter?" said MacKenzie.

"Matter?" returned the Captain; "the grey has stumbled and both horse
and rider have rolled into the cut."

"Great heaven!" ejaculated MacKenzie, in a tone of distress. "That's my
own grey mare, and the villain has killed her."

"Be aisy, sir," suggested Mike, deferentially, for to him the refugee
was still a hero. "It's the villain that's kilt and not the mare, I'm
thinking."

By this time they were out some distance on the river, and MacKenzie
peering backwards, saw his mare again on her feet. Evidently there were
no bones broken, in her case at least. But Jeff, who had not moved from
the moment of the accident, was still unconscious.

Beyond the crest the dragoons, who had been reconnoitring at McInnes's
house, were riding down in answer to Jeff's yell of triumph. But only
the two oarsmen could be seen, MacKenzie's body being discreetly hidden
from view. So when they arrived at the scene of the accident their
attention was divided ruefully between granting help to the sufferer and
observing the fast receding boat. The captain of the dragoons suspected
that MacKenzie was on the skiff; yet he could not be sure; and knowing
that McInnes was a reputable American, residing on Canadian soil, he did
not feel justified in ordering his men to fire merely on suspicion. So
MacKenzie, for a time at least, under the gis of the Eagle, was likely
to retain his freedom.




CHAPTER XI.

THE BURNING OF THE "CAROLINE."


Events followed one another in quick succession. It was soon known that
MacKenzie had escaped. The Lieutenant-Governor of Upper Canada forthwith
made a requisition upon the Governor of New York State to extradite the
refugee as a fugitive from justice. This the Governor promptly declined
to comply with, on the ground that MacKenzie's revolt was of a political
and not of a criminal character, the extradition of political
adventurers being contrary to the law of nations. Private individuals
and sympathizers with means to aid the cause were also rallying round
MacKenzie's standard, and General VanRensellaer offered his personal
support.

MacKenzie's head was again turned. The God of righteousness and justice
and truth once more was on his side! The cause of Liberty, upon which he
had sacrificed his all, was still alive; bowed down and crushed but
ready to be resuscitated! What made the renewed call appear to MacKenzie
like an order from the Divine, was that it came from others than
himself. He was ready and willing to abandon the cause as an impossible
issue. But when strong men, with good financial backing, declared that a
stand must again be made, with reluctant eagerness he accepted the
mandate.

Navy Island was the spot chosen for the foundation of the new republic.
Men came from both sides of the river, far and near, to swell the little
band of "Patriots," each one cheered by the promise of receiving 300
acres of land and $100 in cash as a fitting reward for his patriotism.
Surgeons were on hand to attend the wounded, lawyers to negotiate the
transfers and make the wills of the dying, and parsons to bury the dead.

A new Constitution, too, was quickly framed--MacKenzie was an adept at
this sort of thing--and a grand seal was procured with the motto,
'Liberty--Equality.' A patriots' flag, with an emblem of 'Twin Stars'
for the two provinces, was likewise floated on the air to cheer the
disaffected and make all men loyal; while William Lyon MacKenzie was
publicly proclaimed as first Provisional President.

General VanRensellaer drilled his men and fired his cannon at long
distance at the Britishers over the river; while shots from the other
side, equally harmless in effect, occasionally came back in answer.

And so the days passed, with scanty provisions but plentiful liquors;
muskets and cannon, powder and shot, soldiers and civilians, all jumbled
together in the little wooden shanties of the island, until Christmas
was over and the New Year almost on its eve.

Then something of note happened.

MacKenzie was in his little log office, busily planning the details of
the new Constitution, when, to his surprise, the door opened and his
temporary orderly announced the entrance of Marie Stuart and her father.

"It was risky to bring your daughter," said MacKenzie, after the first
greeting.

"Marie is not afraid to go anywhere," was MacAlpine's answer.

"Why should I be?" she asked, coyly extending her hand to the
Provisional Governor.

"To cross on the _Caroline_ is not without danger," replied MacKenzie.
"There are rumors afloat, and if an ugly battle was to occur this would
be a dangerous place for a woman. I have not brought my wife yet."

"Only two weeks since you escaped; you've scarcely had time," said
MacAlpine. "But I reckon we are safe. Donald and Marie came up from the
Islands to-day."

"He's your eldest son."

"Yes, the _Caroline_ is under his care until I go back. He understands
the boat as well as I do."

"Then your daughter will remain with us as our guest," said MacKenzie,
courteously, dimly conscious of the fact that accommodation for her
would be of the barest.

"Thank you, but she will return to the _Caroline_. We don't intend to go
ashore again until morning."

MacKenzie's brows contracted. He was not a timid man, nor in the
ordinary sense superstitious. But into his mind had crept a sense of
coming evil in some way coupled with the _Caroline_. A vision of a
burning steamer had troubled his sleep during the previous night, and
he dreaded lest his dream might come true. The _Caroline_, under the
command of its owner, Commodore MacAlpine, had recently been cut out of
the ice and was doing valiant service for the 'Patriots.' Many things,
from boots and flour and rifles, all the way to haversacks and hams and
cannon-balls, had already been brought over surreptitiously by that
vessel; and more than once, through his own long field-glass, had
MacKenzie seen the glasses of officers on the Canadian shore steadily
following the course of the little steamer.

During one of her trips that very day, a boat had been launched by the
British forces and sent half way across the river to scan her movements.
Two or three well-aimed shots from VanRensellaer's guns had spattered
around them, one even touching the gunwale of the boat. It was not until
this happened that they beat a retreat. Venturing so far in the daytime,
what might they not do under cover of the night?

"It would be better not to risk the danger," reiterated MacKenzie. "The
_Caroline_ is not safe quarters for a lady."

"Bah!" returned MacAlpine, "what can they do? They haven't a vessel
larger than a rowboat to cross the river with; and the _Caroline_
bristles with cannon as well as powder and shot, even if she is small.
You are too timid for a rebel, Mac."

"'Tis not the man, but the maiden I was thinking of," was MacKenzie's
answer; "but she's your daughter, not mine."

"Forgive me, MacKenzie; I didn't mean what I said, and from my heart I
thank you for your consideration. Perhaps it would be better to follow
your suggestion. For that matter, Marie and I could both go back and
sleep ashore for the night; and late as it is, Donald, who is keen for
the work, might bring over another load of ammunition and a consignment
of food-stuffs that has just arrived."

"God be thanked for that, for of flour and beans and sugar we are out
already. I never knew before how much stuff a gang of hungry men would
eat."

"But this is only the commencement of it."

"Yes, and the _Caroline_ is the only steamer we have to aid us; but you
have our gratitude, MacAlpine. Take care of her."

"I intend to, but we'd better be going, Marie, if Donald must bring
another load to-night."

"Just a moment, father. So your wife is not with you," said Marie,
speaking earnestly, and coming closer to MacKenzie. "Where is she?"

"Still in Toronto at our old home. A man arrived from there last night,
and he says she's had a hard time of it. There is no actual molestation,
but the Government and city officers prowl round the place from morning
until night and have already searched the house several times for
information that they can never get."

"Poor woman," returned Marie, in a tone of deepest sympathy. "I wish
with all my heart that we had her at our island."

"Yes," assented her father. "To marauders it is inaccessible. Once
there, she could rest in safety."

"I can only express my gratitude, but the children would be in the way,"
commented MacKenzie. "Over the line is the place for them, and I am
planning for their removal from the clutches of the villains that
oppress them. After that my wife will join me here at Navy Island."

"You may rest assured that I would do anything in my power for her,"
said Marie.

MacKenzie bowed over her hand and they returned to the boat.

When the _Caroline_ reached the main shore, several men were summoned to
carry out the orders for another loading.

"So you decline to pass the night on the _Caroline_ with me?" said
Donald, jestingly, to his sister, "and this my first night, too."

"I am willing, but father and Mr. MacKenzie are not," was her answer.

"No, we'll leave the whole thing to you, Donald," said his father.
"Beware of the rocks, and you know that shoal. There is light enough to
steer by."

"Are you going, too, father?"

"Yes, Marie and I will stop at the hotel. I've passed so many nights on
the _Caroline_, lately, that a change will be welcome."

"Well, good night."

"And for the present, good-bye," echoed Marie, with a little
unaccountable shiver, for her wraps were warm and the night was not
cold.

"And, remember, Donald, be vigilant, at least until after midnight,"
said his father. "I think I would anchor close to the island, or else at
the shore--not mid-stream--keep a steady watch, and don't unload until
morning. The men have had a busy day and are tired. Two or three of the
fellows, for that matter, might sleep in the shanty, after you cast
anchor."

"All right; good-bye, father and Marie." And seized by a sudden impulse,
he threw his arm round his sister's neck and kissed her. Almost a minute
passed before Marie released herself with a sob.

       *     *     *     *     *

At midnight Donald stood alone on the deck. For hours the night had been
growing darker; although anchored less than twenty rods from the little
wharf, he could scarcely see its outlines. It was for this reason that
he had not returned to Navy Island. The clouds had commenced to thicken
while he was loading; and discretion demanded that he should hug the
shore for the night.

Consequently, he did as his father bade him, and sent half his men to
the shanty for the night's rest; while the other half retired to their
berths, save one, who kept his place with Donald, near the wheel.

The air was still, like the hush before the storm; but it was full of
weird music. Donald had never heard it before. The distant boom of the
cataract, muffled by the drop into the huge caldron, struck a different
note to the minor key of the rapids. But in the quietude the tone seemed
unvarying, never ending.

For a while Donald stood mutely listening. Not a sound could he hear but
that of the waters. On the shore all lamps were out, and on Navy Island
only two or three lights could be seen. The air was chilly, and the work
being over, Sandy, the second officer, commenced to move uneasily.

"Don't see any use in two of us staying here," he muttered, at length.
"We've anchored for the night, and one watch ought to be enough at a
time."

"We must be wary," returned Donald, "and we're too close to the enemy's
camp to run any risk."

"What risk? There are no traitors in our camp; and the Britishers can
only cross the river in rowboats. They are not such fools as to come
over on a night like this; besides, one or two boats would be no good.
They would have to come in a shoal; and any man on the watch would be
sure to see 'em, even if it was as black as pitch."

"We'll wait a little longer, anyhow; it's not much after twelve."

"All right, sir."

Donald walked slowly up and down the boat peering out into the darkness,
while Sandy stayed by the wheel.

Half an hour passed away. It was nearly one.

"Say Donald," muttered the man again, breaking the silence. He had long
been in MacAlpine's employ and was a privileged person. "I protest
again, you ought to be in bed. I'll keep watch all night if you say so;
but for two of us, it is downright foolishness."

"Perhaps it is," returned Donald, doggedly; "but I shall stay. You might
lie down, though. Stretch yourself in the cabin, but do not undress; I
am not so sure of the situation as you are."

"Ah, ah! lad. You haven't had as muckle experience."

"For that reason, I am taking it now. I'll stand by the ship. Sleep
lightly; when I want you, I'll call."

"Aye, aye, sir; but it's so still you'll be sleeping yourself in a
couple of hours."

"Will I?" and Donald laughed.

Buttoning his coat up tighter, he again went to the stern of the boat
and peered out into the darkness. For many minutes he listened and
looked--seeing and hearing nothing but the beating of the waters. Then a
faint sound caught his ear. It almost startled him as the possible
product of human agency. It might be the splash of an oar, or the creak
of a boat, or the rattle of a guy. But though he listened intently it
was not repeated. He must have been mistaken. By-and-by through the
darkness he groped his way to the other end. The gloom was oppressive;
and youth though he was, full of life and vigor, depression commenced to
enfold him in its iron grip.

With a strong effort he shook himself together again and wandered back
to the other end of the boat, less intent upon exploring the blackness
beyond, than in rousing his own drooping spirits.

What a fool he felt himself to be! A mile away from the Canadian
side--making an attack impossible in the perilous darkness of the
river--the _Caroline_ securely anchored, and manned by men within call.
What was there to dread? He had no cowardly fear. He was as brave a lad
as ever swung a MacAlpine claymore. It was only the unaccountable, the
poignant, the depressing gloom that bothered him.

He was glad that his sister was not with him, and yet he didn't know
why. And his father, too, how he would laugh on the morrow when he told
of the imps of fate that dogged his footsteps while he groped his way
from end to end in the dark.

By-and-by, physically tired of prowling, he dropped on a seat by the
wheel, determined to fight the unwonted depression that had well-nigh
unmanned him. Should he call Sandy? But why? There was nothing to do. He
must and would stand it alone.

Suddenly a light breeze commenced to blow. To his amazement the
_Caroline_ was moving. Jumping up, he peered over the boat's side again.
Yes, there was something gliding in the darkness, and something beyond
that. Boats they were, sure enough!

"Boat ahoy!" he shouted. "Who goes there?"

"Friends," was the answer.

"Your countersign?"

"I'll give it you in a minute."

With that Donald yelled down the gangway for his men; while the
assailants from seven boats, armed with pistols, cutlasses and grappling
hooks, boarded the _Caroline_.

Instantly Donald MacAlpine's gloom and depression vanished. The
Britishers were there sure enough, rushing in on every side; and come
what might, single-handed if need be, he would fight them to the death.

"Surrender! Put up your arms, you're our prisoners," cried Captain Drew,
as Donald with the first shot from his pistol bowled a man over in the
darkness.

"Prisoners--never," was his answer, as by the light of the flash he
struck at the captain with the butt end, while he drew another pistol
from his belt. Donald's men came rushing up the gangway. It was too dark
to see clearly, but the assailants were many and the crew rallied round
their leader. As Sandy rushed forward, Drew's sword was raised to strike
an avenging blow at Donald. But Sandy's bullet struck the arm that held
it and the blow fell fruitless; while a bullet at the same moment
entered Sandy's body and rolled him over on the deck.

The terrible affray was of short duration. Several of his men fell, as
well as more than one of the invaders, but Donald remained unscathed.
His pistols emptied, he seized a cutlass, and was defending himself
against a new assailant when a stampede was sounded for the boats. The
steamer was floating out far from shore, and a bright light was
commencing to rise from her stern gangway, illuminating both the vessel
and the water.

Donald began to realize the terrible truth. His few men were all gone
save Sandy, who lay there wounded. The _Caroline_ had been cut loose
from her anchorage, set on fire, and the reserve men in the boats were
towing her out into the stream to complete the terrible doom; while
their companions rushed down the sloop's sides to effect a final escape.

"You cowards!" yelled Donald, hurling his cutlass at the last receding
figure.

"You can escape if you like," shouted back the wounded Captain Drew, who
was the last to mount over the railing and drop into his boat. "Come as
my prisoner and I will see you get no harm. But you must come at once."

"What about Sandy here?"

"He's almost dead now. We can't take him."

"Then you don't take me."

"Nonsense, Donald--you must--I'm shot in the breast--and must die,"
gasped the man. "Go man, go--for God's sake go!"

In reply Donald stooped down and picked Sandy up in his arms as if he
were a child. Rushing to the side of the boat, already ruddy with light
from the flames, he yelled out:

"You must. He's not dead yet, you've got to take him."

"Too late for either of you," came from the fast receding boat, as the
ill-fated steamer, borne by the swift current, swept onward, leaving all
the boats behind.

A despairing wail rose from the lips of the dying man.

"Oh, Donald, Donald!" he cried, clasping him round the knees. "What do
you mean, giving your life for a lout like me? Now both of us are lost.
Oh, man! why did ye do it?"

"Sandy, it had to be," was Donald's grim answer, as, standing erect, he
released himself from the embrace, his whole being strung to the highest
tension. "But oh, my God, to think that it should come to this--a hell
of fire behind--a hell of an abyss in front--and all life summed up in a
moment between them! We'll have to get further forward, Sandy. Can you
stand, man?"

But Sandy's wound was flowing faster. His strength was ebbing away.

"I'm dying, Donald; never mind me."

"Nonsense, man, you'll live as long as I will; there's just the two of
us, we must stick to each other--aye, and go out on the one road. Oh!
but it's hot here--we can't bear it."

The stalwart figure bent down again to lift the limp body of Sandy, and
the broad shoulders straightened as they carried to the prow of the boat
their burden.

"This is the best we can do," said Donald, more calmly. "Let us sit
together. Lean on me, man, it will soon be over."

"Just like brithers."

"Yes, like brothers. That fire's closing in upon us. We're fifty yards
from the fall yet. God grant that we reach it first."

"It's getting warm; seems like going to bed," said the dying man. "I'll
say my mither's prayer--join in it, Donald. Our Father--which art in
Heaven--Hallowed be thy name--thy kingdom come---thy will be done--on
earth as in Heaven--Give us this day our--bread and--forgive our
debts--"

"Oh, that fiendish heat--God be praised, the abyss at last--who cares
for the falls--what does it--"

Clasped in each other's arms, the two men went out with the _Caroline_
into the caldron of the falling waters. The ill-fated vessel--in flame
from stem to stern--poised only for a moment. Then she plunged from the
light of day into the blackness of night.




PART III.

CHAPTER I.

THE EAGLE'S EYRIE AT FINGAL'S NOTCH.


The Eagle's Eyrie at Fingal's Notch was Commodore MacAlpine's fortress;
and in its "Gunnery," so dear to the lost Donald and himself, he often
brooded in bitterness over his death, and planned for revenge. Donald,
his first-born, had been the apple of his eye--a man after his own
heart, daring, determined, true to the instincts of his clan--ready,
when the time came, for the father's buckled tartan to fall upon his
shoulders.

Much as he loved Marie, he knew that, in heart, she was a Stuart more
than a MacAlpine; while, in bitterness of soul, he believed the same of
Charlie.

Deep as was Marie's grief, she devoted herself to her father and
tenderly soothed him, pouring on his troubled soul all the wealth of her
affection. But only outwardly was he calm. In his heart the old furnace
still raged at a white heat, calling irresistibly for vengeance upon the
power that had robbed him of his son.

Months passed away. Then the spring opened, and the rivers and lakes
being cleared of ice-floes, MacAlpine's barges, well manned and well
armed, rowed as of old among the islands, still maintaining their
supremacy. The ebb and flow of the revolt had produced many reverses
during the winter. MacKenzie at last had become a veritable exile. But
MacAlpine's thoughts were upon himself and his clan, and whatever the
future might be, the fiat of the present chieftain, hidden though it was
in his own bosom, must be carried out before the day of that future
dawned.

It was evening and he stood on the road watching the long sweep of the
oarsmen as they rowed their barge in. A tree hid him from view and he
could hear their talk without being seen.

"It'll be a tough nut to crack," said one of the men. The voice was low,
but could be heard distinctly over the still water, for the skilled
boatmen scarcely made a sound with their oars. "The 'hunters' are
whipped everywhere but in the islands, and they swear they'll cage 'em
here."

"But they won't."

"Nor they can't."

"Not while MacAlpine's king."

"Oh, if we only had Donald!"

"Donald's father's jist as guid," chimed in an old veteran.

"Aye, that he is, but the lad was a good yun."

A spasm crossed the father's face. He closed his teeth tightly and
stepped out into the open.

"Well, what news?" he asked.

"There are three of 'em, sir," replied Jack the boatswain; "the
_Transit_, the _Bulldog_, and the _George_. They are all bearing down
upon us."

"What makes you so sure?"

"We laid low and got what we wanted."

"You must tell me about it while the men put in the boat."

"It was this way. You know we've been away for two days. Well, last
night while up at Swansea Island, Aleck and me got hold of an old boat
and went fishing. We'd kep' our eyes open and knew that the _Bulldog's_
men were at it too. In our old smocks they took us for fishers sure
enough. Then we sailed right in amongst the bunch and showed the fellows
not only how to fish but where to catch 'em. It didn't take long to size
'em up, so we picked out a couple of fellows easy to pump, and being in
a fishing smack by themselves, we led 'em to where the fish lay in
shoals. It was out behind an island that the other fellows could not
see. Then we took out our big flask and drank their health. Of course
they wanted some, and we filled 'em full enough to make 'em jabber. So
they let out and told the 'hull story. Of course we were on their side
and ready to help--promised to scare up a 'hull barge of volunteers. An'
they tuk it all as if they were suckin' eggs."

"And what did you learn?"

"That the _Bulldog_, the biggest ship, is under orders to attack
Fingal's Notch to-night, after moon goes down; while the other two are
reserved until morning for the eastern camps."

"The attack to be made then after midnight?"

"Yes, sir."

"But they'll run on the rocks before they get here. The passage is too
narrow and winding for a big ship unless the pilot knows the road well."

"The deuce of it is, he's got your old pilot, Matheson, and he knows
every twist and sand-bank among the islands."

"What! that infernal scamp, who stole my little _Albatross_, and sailed
down to the sea with her?"

"Yes, he sold her in Maine afterwards, and the fellows were making game
at your expense over it."

"It's bad news you've brought," returned MacAlpine, grimly. "That fiend
Matheson knows the road well, but we'll match him. After the moon sets
it will be dark to-night, so we must lay our plans and be ready. Come to
me at once after supper; and notify all the men to have their barges
ready and fully armed by 10 o'clock."

"I will, sir."

"What is it, father? Are you troubled to-night?" said Marie, as with
gloomier face than usual he joined her.

"I was thinking of you, my girl. We are in for a fight, and your safety
concerns me just now as much as anything."

"Nobody could take this place, father."

"But they might. The _Bulldog_, the biggest gunboat on the lakes,
intends to bear down upon us before morning, if they get the chance, and
pound us to pieces with their cannon."

"The _Bulldog_!" exclaimed Marie, in amazement, a sudden pallor
spreading over her face. "Why that's----"

"The flagship of her Majesty's fleet on the lakes," he interrupted.

"Yes," said Marie blankly, "what will you do?"

"That's easily answered," returned her father. "I shall leave the
'Eyrie' in Charlie's care, well manned; and go out myself to deal with
the enemy. We will see that he never gets here."

"And how will you do it, father?" she asked, anxiously, with both hands
locked on his arm as they entered the house.

"That remains to be seen, child. Everything is fair in love and war."

"Is it?" she asked, in sudden earnestness.

"Yes," he replied passionately, "_everything_" his mind centered only
upon the second article of his faith.

"Does Charlie know?" was her next question.

"Not yet, but here he is."

And to him in plain and graphic words the plan of the defence of the
"Eyrie" was explained.

"Of course," continued MacAlpine, with meaning emphasis in every word,
"the _Bulldog_ will never get near enough to fire a shot at Fingal's
Notch; but if the heavens fall, which they never did and never will, you
will know how to defend our home. And even if that should be destroyed,
you both know the hidden spring and the secret passage by which both
Marie and you can effect a safe retreat and escape from their clutches."

"Don't talk of such a thing, father," said Marie, her eyes entreatingly
meeting his. "It looks like disaster to speak of it."

"Not at all, child, but it behooves us to be on our guard."

"Aye, father, you are right," echoed Charlie, stoutly, "and I warrant
you the MacAlpines will shed the last drop of their blood before they
will suffer an enemy to set foot upon this island."

"Well said, my son. But there need be no bloodshed here. The fate of the
_Bulldog_ is already sealed."

       *     *     *     *     *

A little later Marie went to her room, to be alone with her thoughts.
Her father had gone to complete arrangements with his men for the night
expedition; and to give Charlie final instructions upon the defence of
the "Eagle's Eyrie," should an attack during his absence be made upon
the island. The door of her little old cuckoo clock, which once belonged
to Prince Charlie, opened as she entered; and the bird sprang out as
blithely as ever and carolled forth the hour of nine; his note as true
and his plumage as gay as it ever was in the days of his youth. Above
the clock hung her mother's portrait. Involuntarily Marie glanced from
one to the other. Then long and earnestly she looked into her mother's
face. "We are all Stuarts here, mother," she whispered at last. "This
old clock and my plaidie and the Stuart arms upon my bed, and that bit
of tapestry with its motto, and even my gauntlets, which Queen Mary
owned and wore, and all the pictures, and you and I. But terrible to
think even this night a Stuart and my father may fight each other to the
death--as if Donald's blood was not enough."

For a moment she wrung her hands. Then she dashed away the tears and
went to the open window. The moon shed lambent rays through the trees,
flecking the casement; while beyond, its sheen upon the lake and the
deepening shadows which it threw upon the islands, gave an added beauty
to the night. All was still save for the croaking of the frogs in the
shallows, the occasional hoot of the nighthawk, and the twang of the
whip-poor-will, as it sped from tree to tree.

"And this is the night they have chosen for tumult and battle," she
moaned. "It must be the Admiral's fault. I'm sure it cannot be Mr.
Stuart's. But isn't it terrible? I haven't seen him since October, but
I'm sure Jessie told me in her letter, written in March, that she knew
he was to be promoted to the _Bulldog_, as captain, before the spring
opened. Where did I put that letter? Ah! here it is." She glanced over
the first part of its contents and then read in a low voice:

    _"And oh, Marie, I have a bit of news to tell you about
    Lieutenant S. Of course, I haven't seen him since you did, but I
    heard it from a gentleman who was present at a conference held
    by Sir Francis, in which the Captain of the 'Transit'
    stated positively that Lieut. Stuart's promotion had been
    ordered, and that on the opening of the river, he would be made
    captain of the gunboat 'Bulldog,' the admiral of the lake
    boats being in supreme command. This, my friend said, was
    positive. There could be no mistake about it. So you will see
    him no more on the 'Transit.'"_

"So it's true," she whispered to herself. "A whole month since the
change, and yet he has never sent me a word. I have only had one brief
message from him since Donald's death. Of course, we are on opposite
sides; but is it possible that he should be in command of a ship ordered
to raze the 'Eagle's Eyrie' to the ground and never give a word of
warning? I cannot believe it. Yet my father, to revenge Donald's death,
intends to do something terrible to-night,--what it is, I don't know.
Oh, if I only did! Mr. Stuart saved my life; I would gladly do something
to save him. The Stuarts' blood is thicker than water. He would not, I
am positive, willingly hurt any one of us--not even father--yet father
would slay every man on the ship if he could. What shall I do? How can I
know what to do? But perhaps Charlie can help me."

Half an hour later she went out to watch her father depart with his
convoy of men and boats. Then she joined Charlie in the "Gunnery." This
was, as its name implied, veritably a warrior's armory, lit up by a huge
oil lamp suspended from the ceiling, which reflected vividly the light
from the polished metal of many rifles. Swords were there, and pistols
and poniards and tomahawks. Unlike Marie's room, it contained no picture
of the Stuarts; but in their place were many of the clan, dating back
through long generations to the time when the King of Scotland knighted
the first great MacAlpine for bravery on the battlefield of Flodden.

There were no couches of comfort in this room, but rude oak chairs and a
square table, upon which were scattered sketches of the islands, dotted
over with obscure markings, the meanings of which none but the initiated
could decipher.

For a moment neither Charlie nor Marie spoke, while their eyes met in a
seriously comprehensive look. They seemed to read each other's thoughts.

"Did you know that Captain Stuart is on the _Bulldog_?" she asked at
last.

"I suspected it. I believe you told me," was his answer.

"What do you think of it?"

"I am amazed that he has given you no warning. Having saved your life,
as your friend it would be monstrous to lay siege to your home without
letting you know."

"He may have had neither time nor opportunity."

"Nonsense, Marie, when he is the captain."

"Nevertheless, I don't believe that a shot will be fired at the 'Eyrie'
without first sending us word."

The woman's wit grasped the situation better than the boy's cold
reasoning. Intuitively, she knew that it would be impossible for
Clarence Stuart to do the ignoble thing, and her mind refused to pass
judgment upon him.

"I don't believe a shot will, either," said Charlie, "not on account of
his clemency, but of father's well-laid plans. He's been preparing for
this. His men are well trained, and the _Bulldog_ will never see
Fingal's Notch, to say nothing of the 'Eagle's Eyrie'."

"What do you mean?" she asked, excitedly, clasping her hands.

"I mean that the ship will be destroyed in revenge for Donald's death,
before it can possibly reach our harbor. So, although I am following
father's directions, and the whole place will be in a state of defence
with men well placed, we are actually in no real danger."

"And what of Captain Stuart?"

"That is his own lookout. If he comes here to fight he must be prepared
for the result, whatever it is; and although a Stuart, he deserves no
sympathy, if he is willing to fire his guns at the home of his kinsfolk
without giving them timely warning."

Marie was at a loss. The reasoning seemed sound, and she had no means of
proving that the accusation was unjust. She intended to consult with
Charlie upon the possibility of sending in some way a word of warning to
Captain Stuart, that he might not be taken unawares in the terrible
battle that was pending. She sympathized with the thought of a man for a
man, a ship for a ship, a life for a life. Still Stuart had nothing to
do with the death of her brother, and as the saviour of her own
life--if for no other reason--she would help him to save his own if she
could. But how could she do it under the circumstances; and how could
she prevail upon her brother to aid her, when the man she would warn was
at this very moment proving himself to be a traitor to the principles of
chivalry and honor which he professed to uphold? If he had only sent
some word--the briefest despatch--the shortest definite warning--it
would have been a comfort and a guidance as well.

At this moment the old nurse Janet, with a knock at the door, popped in
her head.

"What is it?" Marie asked.

"A fisher lad rowed in with this," she answered. "He was in a hurry and
said I must gie it t' ye wi'out waitin' a meenit, an' here it is."

Marie glanced at the writing. Her face successively flushed and turned
pale.

"Where is the lad?" she asked.

"He wouldn't stay a second. Mister Thompson was standing with the men at
the wharf when he come--an' he said it was all right, an' there was no
need for waitin' when the lad didn't want to."

The woman closed the door and Marie opened the letter.

"It's from Captain Stuart," she said, her voice trembling with
excitement.

"Read quickly, time is precious," responded Charlie.

She read aloud:

    ..."_I am exceedingly distressed on your account--more than
    words can tell--for our Admiral has received orders from England
    to 'crush the MacAlpine jungle at once at any cost'; and the
    Admiral intends to obey the order to the letter. I have command
    under him of the 'Bulldog,' and have orders to take Fingal's
    Notch, making the 'Eagle's Eyrie' the centre of attack. Rest
    assured, though, whatever becomes of the outworks and the
    island, I shall do all I can to spare the Eyrie; and I promise
    you not a hair of your head shall be touched; and if they will
    keep within the bounds of your castle, your father and brother
    shall both be safe--or I'll willingly give my life as a forfeit.
    So help me God. To say more would make me a traitor. Ever
    devotedly,_

    _Clarence Stuart_."




CHAPTER II.

THE PIPING OF THE LOON.


"Does that make it any clearer?" Charlie asked, after she had finished
reading.

"Yes, it does," was her answer. "It tells nothing of the route or the
time of the attack, but it proves that Captain Stuart is an honorable
man."

"As for route, there is only one open for so large a vessel; the one
which father intends to block. The other point is in his favor, and for
Stuart's sake I'm glad of it. But I don't see how it will affect us,
except that he will fire his guns at our out-buildings instead of our
house, if he once gets within range, which, of course, he never will.
Father is not the man to fail in his undertakings. Whatever he aims at
he hits. And whatever he decides to do, he does."

"Is he aware that Captain Stuart is on the _Bulldog_?"

"He is not. Only yesterday I heard him say that he was still on the
_Transit_. But it wouldn't make any difference with father. It's the
principle of the thing he's fighting for, the cowardly cutting loose and
burning of the _Caroline_; and the sending of Donald over the falls in
the burning ship, without any chance of escape. The fiendish cowardice
of the thing must be revenged."

Marie shuddered.

"It was a dastardly thing," she said, "but Mr. Stuart had nothing to do
with it."

"Still in the ethics of war, father is right," said Charlie. "The
_Bulldog_ and the other boats are under orders to crush him, to destroy
or capture all he has and to take him prisoner, dead or alive--they
don't care which. And father, like a sensible man, intends to beat them
on their own ground, before they have a chance to carry their orders
into execution."

"Oh, I know it, I know it! But you don't help me a bit. Where is Harry
Thompson?"

"There's nothing to be done, Marie--nothing can be done. We must just
wait events. If I can't suggest anything, I'm sure Thompson can't."

"How long has father been gone?"

"Just ten minutes since the boats left the wharf."

"Well, I'm hot and restless. I must go into the fresh air. I cannot
stand this any longer."

"So must I, for I have yet to plant a cannon on the lower wharf. It will
take an hour to fix it."

Charlie rushed out, leaving Marie to her own thoughts. But her thoughts,
though active, were brief. She met Harry Thompson at the door. Always
devoted, he was ever ready to do her bidding. Although attached to the
family and often with them, owing to his devotion to Marie, he had his
own business to attend to, and followed his own independent life.

"Harry," she whispered, "I want to see you; come into the Gunnery,
please."

She had never given direct encouragement to his suit; and although he
suspected that her request had something to do with the departure of the
fleet of boats on the warpath, he was at a loss as to the real object
she had in view. Still it made his pulses beat faster to do anything for
Marie, and he gladly followed her.

"I have not a minute to lose," she commenced, turning quickly towards
him as she closed the door. "You remember when you helped to save my
life. Now you can help to save another life. Will you do it?"

"Really, Marie--you take my breath away--certainly--I would be glad to;
but surely you must tell me the circumstances."

"There is not time, only this: Captain Stuart's life is in danger from
my father. When we met last fall we mutually promised that at any time,
if the life of one of us was in serious risk and the other knew it, a
warning should at once be given. I am strong and know the islands and
lake well, and might do it alone, night though it is, but I could do it
better if you would aid me."

Harry's heart sank within him--it was to save the life of his supposed
rival.

"Would not Charlie help you?" he asked, hoarsely.

"He could not if he would. He must obey father's orders and remain in
command here. Will you come? There is not a minute to lose."

"Tell me exactly what you want."

"Well, with my long, narrow skiff, and in my sailor suit, with two pairs
of oars, we can take the straight road through the shallows for Hickory
Island. Father with his heavier boats has taken the longer route. He
will have a half-hour's start of us; still I think we can make it and
beat him. The rest of the plan I will tell you as we go."

"Really, Marie, this will be unsafe as well as unwise."

"I am willing to risk both. The point is, will you help me?"

"If I say, conscientiously, that I neither can nor will?"

"My reply will be that you are the only man that I have asked, and that
I shall ask no other; that you have wilfully thrown over your shoulder
the opportunity of being my cavalier; and that in five minutes I shall
launch the _Fairy Queen_ and row alone with all the strength I possess
for Hickory Island."

"What of the danger and the responsibility?"

"Let them be on my own head, whatever they are."

"You are a wilful minx, Marie; but you shall not go alone. In five
minutes I shall have your _Fairy Queen_ ready. Meet me at your own
boat-house."

Harry hastened away, while Marie slipped into her room to change her
attire. She turned down the lights to avoid notice and joined Harry
before anyone knew what had happened. Noiselessly the boat was slid into
the water, and without a word the two took their seats. Harry felt like
a criminal who deserved to be shot, while Marie was so excited over
getting away before her absence could be discovered, that she failed to
realize the ingenuous responsibility of the step she was taking.

For some minutes they rowed on in silence with a long and even pull.
Marie was maturing her plans, as they shot past island after island.
Harry was nonplussed. This was a new phase of Marie's character, utterly
distinct from any former experience he had had of her. Although he knew
that she frequently donned her jaunty sailor's suit while out canoeing,
yet she always went alone. To be deliberately asked to accompany her in
the same garb for a long and dangerous night trip, without even the
knowledge of any of her people, was an entirely different matter; and on
such an expedition, under existing conditions, was inexplicable.

Still he would risk anything and do anything for Marie. She was always a
conundrum. What her next move would be no one could ever tell. Yet she
was so true and winsome, and brave and daring, that he was filled with
perpetual infatuation, no matter what she did. The ultimate result he
never feared.

"We will take the north side of Hickory," said Marie, at length, never
for a moment slackening her long, steady stroke. "And wait at the west
end for the arrival of the _Bulldog_. Father, I think, will stop at the
east end and hide his boats behind it and Conway until the _Bulldog_
arrives, when his attack will commence."

"And you want to meet the _Bulldog_ first?" said Harry.

"Yes."

"What is your plan?"

"To row to the side of the _Bulldog_, call out the Captain, see him on
deck for a minute, and at once return to you in the boat."

"Call out the Captain? How can you? He knows nothing of your coming, and
even in daytime could scarcely recognize you in your present garb."

"I don't think it will be difficult, but we shall see. Let us take a
little quicker stroke. I am braced up to it now."

She had the steady athletic swing of a man. The regular rhythm had
quieted her nerves, her heart had ceased to palpitate. She knew every
foot of the journey, even better than Harry Thompson did; and during the
long pull without a break he marvelled at her endurance.

"Are you not tired?" he asked at last; "you will need reserve power when
the row is finished."

"Not in the least," was her answer; "I could keep it up as long again if
needful; I'll rally quickly when we reach our end of the island. In the
meantime we must not slacken for a moment, the rest will come later."

"What if your father meets the _Bulldog_ first?"

"Then my mission will be useless. But he won't. I know the comparative
distances and the speed of the boats too well to be deceived. The _Fairy
Queen_ is the fastest skiff on the lake. Father's barges can't touch it
and our route is nearly a mile the shorter."

There was silence for some minutes as they made out into the open. The
moon was sinking below the horizon, giving them the last clear vision
over the lake, as they reached the east end of Hickory. Almost
involuntarily they both glanced backwards over the course by which the
barges must come.

"Yonder they are," muttered Harry, "away beyond the jutting point of
Conway."

"Yes, I see, half a mile due east," she responded; "there is time enough
yet. We have the straight back of Hickory; they the curved front."

And without further words they bent all their energies again upon their
oars.

As they rounded the west end of the island the _Bulldog_ hove in sight,
not a quarter of a mile away, coming directly toward them on half steam.

"We must intercept his course and aim at the bowsprit," ejaculated
Marie.

"And get caught in the swirl and go to the bottom," concurred Harry.

"No, we won't. They'll stop for us."

"How can they, on a night like this, and without signal?"

As he was speaking the weird cry of a loon close at hand was heard.

Harry started. "That infernal bird," he muttered, "where is he? It's an
omen of evil when he sings in that way."

"You are superstitious," was Marie's response.

"Not at all," he returned, "but I don't see it."

Again the shrill cry filled the air with its ominous twang.

"It must be a wraith from the spirit land," said Marie. "I don't see any
loon either."

Once more the long note went aloft, concluding this time with an upward
inflection.

"Talk about goblins!" exclaimed Harry, "the devil himself couldn't beat
this."

"Yes, he could," was her response; "see, the ship is slowing."

In another minute they were alongside.

"Who goes there?" cried the mate.

"A lad with a message," came back in boyish tones from below. "Throw him
a line, please."

"Bring the ladder," was Captain Stuart's order as he peered down through
the darkness at the boat.

"The rope will do," responded Marie as, hand over hand, she mounted the
side of the ship.

"Captain Stuart," she exclaimed, on jumping over the railing to the
deck, "can I have a word with you? I have a message."

"Certainly, step this way," and the cabin door closed upon them.

"What, Marie Stuart!" he exclaimed in bewildered excitement. "You here.
What can it mean?"

"I scarcely know, myself." Her laugh was half hysterical.

"You got my letter? Did it lead to this?"

"Yes, and I answer it in person. It was the only way. The messenger
could not wait."

"But what answer could call for so terrible a risk?"

"Simply that your life is in danger. I do not care for your men. In ten
minutes my father will attack your ship and will capture it. You will
never reach Fingal's Notch with the _Bulldog_, for the MacAlpines are
never beaten in battle. He knew you were coming, and is prepared to meet
you. But I wanted to give you warning; you saved my life, let me help to
save yours."

"This is strange language, Marie. I don't know what it means. But come
what will, I shall be the last man to leave my ship. I thank you--and
the loon--for this warning; and if ten minutes is all that I have for
preparation, I must leave you for more urgent duty. You will stay here
on the ship, it will be safer."

"No, I must go at once; Harry Thompson awaits me on the boat."

"Harry Thompson!"

"Yes, Harry Thompson, the bravest of friends, came with me."

"And the bravest lass that ever lived has done me a service that I can
never repay. In the meantime what do you intend to do?"

"To drop in your rear until the battle is over. Charlie has command of
the 'Eyrie'."

"And if the worst comes to the worst?"

"The loon will pipe again."

"Good-bye--God bless you. Mate, have you the ladder ready? This young
man wants to return to his boat."

But the "young man" preferred the line, and slid down to the _Fairy
Queen_, where Harry sat patiently waiting.

"What direction now?" he asked.

"Back to Hickory again; there is a ledge yonder on which we can land. We
must await events."




CHAPTER III.

THE ATTACK UPON THE BULLDOG.


MacAlpine's men were strong, brave fellows, ready at any cost to follow
the mandate of their "King." He had always led them to victory, whether
as brigands, dodging in and out among the islands, capturing whatever
they wanted, and going where they listed; fighting single-handed with
venturesome opponents; or marshalled either on land or lake against
organized bodies of men. The result had always been the same, until on
both sides of the St. Lawrence, MacAlpine's clan had become a terror and
a menace to all living folk.

It was upon this unswerving allegiance of his followers that MacAlpine
counted. For weeks he had been preparing for this night, and for days he
had been eagerly waiting for its arrival. He knew that a climax was
inexorably coming. The rebels were being defeated on every hand, and the
schemes of their shrewdest men were successively foiled; while
Government reinforcements were continually arriving both by land and
lake. It was by his own independence of action that he had maintained
supremacy over the islands; but now when the forces of the ruling
faction were to be directed simultaneously against himself and his
cohorts, he realized that he too in time might have to yield. He was
determined, however, that this should not occur until after the fierce
blow, which he had so long cherished, had been struck.

Having given specific orders to his men, MacAlpine, with his boatswain,
led the way in his many oared barge.

"Are the coils all in order?" he asked.

"Yes," was the answer. "They are loaded and boxed, four in this boat and
four in Tim's."

"We'll use these first and keep Tim's in reserve. What of the
port-holes?"

"The _Bulldog_ has four in the stern. They are right above the powder
barrels. Don't know but they were intended for guns."

"Are you sure about the powder?"

"I pumped the fishermen, and they swore to it."

"And the port-holes, how high are they?"

"Fully ten feet."

"That's pretty high; but we can reach 'em. And the men?"

"Both gangs are drilled, Tim's as well as yours."

When they reached Hickory Island, the _Bulldog_ was not in sight, so the
order was given to divide, four of the barges holding themselves in
readiness, hidden by the lee of Conway on one side; other four by the
foot of Hickory on the other; while MacAlpine and Tim rushed their own
boats up the channel to a sheltered inlet higher up.

By this time the moon had set, and clouds covering the sky, it became
intensely dark. But the swash of the approaching _Bulldog_ was soon
heard as it steered down the channel between the islands.

"She's mighty slow in her movements," whispered MacAlpine to the
boatswain, "but it will give us a better chance."

Still not a blade moved, nor a sound issued from the men, until her
stern was opposite the commodore's inlet. Then the forward barges made a
dash for the _Bulldog_, and with pistols and cutlasses the men tore up
the sides to the deck. They had planned the attack well, for the front
half of the ship was surrounded almost before the men of the _Bulldog_
knew it.

Captain Stuart, taking advantage of his warning, had diminished the
speed and was preparing for the attack. Still the wild yell of the
MacAlpines came sooner than he expected. As the Highlanders rushed up
the sides of the ship like cats, and poured upon the deck to be met in
hand-to-hand combat with Stuart's men, the latter regarded it as
probably a bold manoeuvre to cover up a more deeply laid scheme; and
seeing the necessity of instant action, he called out to the second
officer:

"Go below and man every port-hole. They need to be watched."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"What's this?" demanded the Admiral, who stood at Stuart's elbow.

"MacAlpine himself is not here. Possibly he's trying to blow up the
ship," replied Stuart.

"In that case, I'll take command of the men. Better see to it
yourself."

Stuart disappeared down the gangway.

Meanwhile the men of the _Bulldog_ continued to rush on deck, completely
outnumbering the boarders. The MacAlpines fought for the honor of their
clan and the sovereignty of the islands; while the mariners, armed to
the teeth, were determined to redeem themselves from the disgrace of
their ship being boarded by a horde of rebels.

For a while cutlasses clashed, pistols fired, and men were run through,
while the wounded and the dying lay stretched upon a deck illuminated by
the flashings of light from the guns. Gradually, notwithstanding all
their bravery, the MacAlpines were driven back over the fallen bodies of
friends and foes to the sides of the ship. Some of them tumbled into
their boats again, others splashed into the water and swam for the
nearest island; while a few doggedly held their ground determined to die
where they stood rather than suffer defeat.

The assailants were disappointed. The unexpected was happening. They
were the defeated, not the conquerors. The _Bulldog_ was still floating,
not by any means a wreck. Only one explosion was heard, and that outside
as well as inside the stern of the ship. Truly they were being driven to
the wall. Even MacAlpine himself, who had always done valiant things,
and had brought them out in the dead of night to again conquer their
enemies, had not even been seen.

But MacAlpine had not been idle. The savage diversion that he had
planned had succeeded, so far as he knew. The yells of his men, the
flashing of powder, the discharge of guns, placed the centre of the
conflict where he wanted it; and under cover of the attack his own barge
glided noiselessly out of obscurity, beneath the stern of the ship.
Issuing his orders in whispers, two men grasped the iron girders looped
beneath the nearest port-hole to steady the boat; while two others stood
erect with a comrade on their shoulders.

"It's all right, sir," whispered the latter, "the hole's clear."

"Then slide it in. Do it gently." And he handed him a canvas bag
containing explosives, to which was attached a long cord.

"It's in four feet, it touches."

"That will do. Let the cord dangle. Quick now."

In another minute they were down again, apparently unobserved and at the
next hole. But this was locked. The little window would not open.

"Use your diamond. Nip it out," said MacAlpine.

The glass was cut, and though it fell the clash of battle drowned the
noise. And again a bag was dropped.

"We'll do one more."

But they had waited too long. The dim light through the port-holes was
seen to increase. Possibly the plot had been discovered.

"Light each fuse, quick!" ordered MacAlpine; and from a dark lantern a
torch was ignited and applied.

There was a fizz and a flash. One of the fuses ran inside the port-hole,
the other dropped back into the boat again with the bag. Then there came
a terrific explosion--possibly a double one. MacAlpine's boat was
capsized; he and his men thrown into the lake; while flames shot up from
the stern of the ship as the deck flew upwards.

"Quick, turn them on," cried Stuart, and a score of men, armed with
hose, poured streams of water either into the burning vessel within the
hold or else on barrels of powder, already rolled back from the centre
of danger. Masses of flame and smoke shot up through the broken deck;
and for some minutes it seemed as if the ship was doomed.

But the battle being practically over, other men joined the fire
fighters, and it was not long before the flames were extinguished and
the ship saved.

All danger from fire gone, Stuart hurried on deck and back to the stern
of the vessel. From the first he had surmised the cause of the disaster;
and was desirous to investigate the spot where damage was first done.
But the demolished deck, the charred timbers, the huge black hole in the
ship, were all that remained. MacAlpine and his barges were gone. Not a
man of his could be seen. Even the wreck had been dragged out of sight.

"So this was the scheme," he muttered to himself. "And to think that
Marie saved us! But for her warning I should never have moved the
powder, nor watched the port-holes; and with that big fight to the
front, scarcely a man of us could have been saved. But where is
MacAlpine? That explosion was outside the ship as well as in. Can he be
lost? And the brave girl, who risked so much to save a single life,
where is she?"




CHAPTER IV.

MARIE'S NIGHT ON THE WATER.


Marie did not have many minutes to wait. Even in the darkness the
_Bulldog_ had scarcely disappeared from view when she saw the flash from
the powder, accompanied by the report from the guns and the wild yell of
the men.

Again her heart throbbed wildly. The conflict which she dreaded, and
upon which so much depended, had already begun. The MacAlpines must have
accomplished their object, the invasion of the deck and a footing
actually obtained upon it, or they would never have sounded their yell.
The war-cry is for the attacking force, not for the defenders.

"That's a grand assault," muttered Harry. "The MacAlpines are getting
their innings from the start."

"I knew they would," said Marie, with curious emphasis. "Father never
fails. But where is he? Did he mount the deck with his men?"

"That would not be his plan. His object was the destruction of the ship
more than the defeat of his enemies. This attack is only a ruse to blind
their eyes to his real purpose."

"That is what I feared," said Marie, despondently. "It will be all the
harder for Captain Stuart."

Seated upon the rocky shelf, with her hands clasped round her knees, a
shiver ran through her frame.

For a while flash followed flash and peal followed peal, mingled with
the yells of many voices.

"This is terrible!" she exclaimed at last. "All the fiends seem to be
let loose on the _Bulldog_. Oh! when will it end?"

"Not until its doom is sealed," replied Harry. "Ah, it is coming now!
Hear that explosion."

"Oh, horrible, horrible!" cried Marie. Bounding to her feet, she pressed
her hands over her ears and turned her back upon the scene, her whole
body convulsed with emotion.

But the explosion was not repeated. For a time the heavens were ablaze
with light; then, instead of concussion after concussion and flash after
flash, the light grew dimmer, and by-and-by the flames died out.

Prepared as she was for the worst, Marie was astounded to see the
demolition come to an end. What could have happened? Was the battle
over? Could it be possible that her warning had changed the result of
the conflict, and given the victory to Stuart instead of her father?
This was not what she contemplated at all; although she wished to save
Stuart's life, she certainly expected her father to win the battle and
scuttle the ship.

But the _Bulldog_ was still floating. The fire had been put out, and the
ship was free. What could it mean? Gradually the whole tenor of her
anxiety changed. Instead of Stuart's life being in danger, might it not
be that of her father? And the more Marie thought it possible, the
keener became her anxiety. For the first time in her life she
experienced the primitive feeling of remorse. Was her father safe from
harm? Was he injured by the explosion? Could he possibly be a prisoner?
Some catastrophe must have befallen him, as well as his people.
Otherwise everything would not be still like death, and the ship,
although injured by the fire, serenely sailing away in the distance. How
much, yes, how much, of the unexpected could righteously be laid at her
door? Could anything have happened to her father--how terrible the
thought! Was she to blame for endeavoring to save Stuart's life? Not
even that--merely warning him to be on guard. Her father, always
victorious, how reasonable to expect him to be so again!

The impenetrable blackness of the night helped to deepen her gloom, and
unable to analyze her own thoughts, she felt as if her heart would
break.

Harry, too, was appalled at the situation. The depression of Marie's
spirits touched him keenly; and much as he had censured himself for
yielding to her request, he blamed himself ten-fold now. Why had he not
informed Charlie of her intention, and at once cancelled the pitiable
scheme?

Suddenly Marie roused herself. "We must do something," she cried. "It is
terrible to sit here and listen and not hear a sound."

"What can we do, without a light anywhere? Even the _Bulldog_ is out of
sight."

"We know the direction and must hunt for father."

"We might try; all the boats can't be gone."

They rowed cautiously down between Hickory and Conway, to the site of
the battle. By the dim light from the cloudy sky the islands were
faintly discernible, but no boats could be seen. Then Harry's oar caught
on something.

"What is that?" he muttered.

"A barge run aground," whispered Marie. "Row in closer."

So they slid their boat up the side of the wreck, one end of which was
lodged on the sloping bank of the island.

Marie stretched out and felt the near end with her hand. A startled cry
escaped her. "It is father's barge!" she exclaimed. "The one he always
uses. I know it by the brass rod at the stern. Cry out, Harry, there
must be some one near. This is terrible."

The call was answered very near to them.

"Is that you, Thompson--and Miss Marie with you? How in God's name did
you get here?"

It was the boatswain's voice.

"Heaven be praised! There is someone alive," whispered Marie, her voice
tense with the reaction. "Where is father?"

"He's gone, miss. He went back in Tim's barge with the rest of the
men--his own being stove in with the explosion."

"Was he hurt?" Marie asked in a transport of relief that he was still
alive.

"Just shook a bit and his whiskers burned. But Tom Sheldon must'a' been
killed outright--the bag exploded as it dropped in his lap, and after
the craft keeled, he was clean gone."

"And are you hurt?"

"Only a pickle--got my leg smashed in the pitch--another of the fellows
whizzed past--haven't seen him since. Guess he's whizzin' still."

Marie left the boat and crept up the bank to the boatswain's side. He
was lying in an open space among the bushes with his head on a folded
coat and a piece of sail-cloth thrown over his leg.

"Why did they leave you here?" she asked.

"'Cause they couldn't help themselves; they had to. I'm easier like than
I would 'a' been in a boat jammed with men. They'll come back, too,
after daylight. Then they can do it better. Not only that, but being as
they didn't smash the _Bulldog_ as they expected, the able-bodied
fellows, all that was left of 'em after the skirmish--they say it was a
terrible one--had got to go back to the Notch to defend it."

"I must make you more comfortable," said Marie, and she took a scarf
from her shoulders and gently wrapped it round the injured leg, "till
the men come back for you."

"Were there many wounded?" Harry asked.

"There were some I know of, and them they took; but there was more kilt,
I reckon. I bet there's some of the fellows in the woods yet."

The clouds were breaking and stars were shining through the rifts,
making the night clearer.

"It is lighter now," said Marie. "Hadn't we better go back?"

"Yes," said Harry, emphatically.

"Straight home," said Marie.

"Round by the back wharf?"

"It would be better."

She didn't say why, but he knew the reason. It was his own wish as well
as hers. As they rowed on, each silently thinking, he tried to analyze
the situation. Where did Marie stand? MacAlpine's men would have boarded
the _Bulldog_ under any circumstances, and the fight would have
followed. With that she had nothing to do, no matter which side secured
the advantage. But the explosion? Was it modified by her actions? He
believed it was. And over it hung a darker shadow, that of the coming
day. She had saved the ship of the enemy and its men; but MacAlpine
would have to answer for it with fewer followers and diminished
strength. Yes, she had accomplished her object. She came out to save a
life--but what would be the price? Might it not be the conquest of
Fingal's Notch; the scattering of the clan, the destruction of the
Eyrie? Yet could she be blamed for yielding to the impulse of intuition?
Should not the censure be on his own shoulders for allowing stern reason
to be over-ruled? And then, further still in the future, might not the
end be the same in either case--cold philosophy--without a modicum of
comfort?

Then he asked himself, what was the nature of her interest in Stuart?
She scarcely treated him like a lover. If she had the grand passion she
certainly held it in restraint. Yet simple gratitude for a saved life
could not call for a devotion like hers. She was an enigma to him,
distinct from all womenkind that he had ever known, yet an enigma that
he worshipped.

They reached the island as the first streak of dawn appeared, and coming
in by the back wharf at the opposite side to the Eyrie, the arrival of
the boat was unobserved.

"I shall never forget your kindness," said Marie in a low tone, as they
stopped for a moment under cover of the bushes. Her voice trembled. Her
thoughts had been too deep for words. "And this night no one could ever
forget. Wise or unwise, the result has been terrible."

"The result has yet to be faced," said Harry, gloomily.

"I know it, I know it."

"You must meet it bravely."

"God helping me, I shall do my best," and they parted.




CHAPTER V.

MADGE AGAIN.


"The witch knows more'n you think she does," said old Andrew to one of
his comrades at the wharf the next day. They were discussing the recent
battle and the condition of the wounded who had been placed in adjoining
cottages, when Madge appeared. "She's not so daft but what she can cross
the lake when she wants."

"And by an enemy's boat, too."

"Guess they're all alike to the puir body."

"Perhaps so, but I've heard Miss Marie say that Madge would give her
ears to do MacKenzie a service."

"People used to call her 'The daft rhymer'," put in another old man,
"forever chanting MacKenzie's praises; but she had good reason, for in
letting her out of that dungeon he saved her life."

"Funny for her to turn up the very day after the battle with the
_Bulldog_; MacKenzie had nothing to do with that."

"She might have a message from him, though."

"Here she comes, singing as usual, but what a cracked tin pan!"

"It's one better, it's a pewter pot."

"It's neither one nor t'other; but a chiney mug with a split in it. I
tell ye, lads, that woman had a fine voice once. Yes sir, it was a good
yun before she wilted at the top. Guess she's hunting Miss Marie."

"Miss Marie is in the shanties with the men," said old Andrew. "Our lady
couldn't be found anywhere last night; but she was down among the
fellows dressing their wounds by daylight."

      For a gallant handsome blade,
      And a winsome merry maid,
  Would make a happy couple, one would say;
      And when they are apart,
      Each with a loving heart
  Is waiting for the other all the day.

      Yet if they are together,
      The furies and the weather
  Will not let them even have a lark;
      So joy is turned to grief,
      From which there's no relief,
  Till Stuart meets his maiden in the dark.

"What the mischief does she mean?" said old Andrew, in a suppressed
tone. "They say she always means something, but there's no maid on the
island would fit that rhyme."

"Who said there was?" cried Madge, whose quick ear caught his words. "It
takes an imp to catch a shadow."

"What's your business, Madge?"

"I'll tell you in a riddle."

Then the men gathered round her.

"If two horses run two races, and each one wins and each one loses,
which is the best nag?"

"The one that can nag the longest."

"The one that's got the best wind for a third race."

"The one that has the most dust behind it."

"What kind of dust?"

"Gold dust, of course."

"You have it. But I want Miss Marie."

And swinging round she caught sight of the open door of the Eyrie, and
ambled off with the words of another refrain:

  Like a golden wren from a Highland glen
  To her island home came she;
  And the flowers where they stood,
  And the birds in the wood,
  In their homage made her free.

  Till a dark unrest swept over the west,
  Chilling the flowers in their birth;
  Then the birds ceased to sing,
  For the cypress did fling
  Its mantle to ravish the earth.

  But truth is the Lord's. His are the swords,
  And liberty's echo is stirred;
  And the day yet shall come
  When the wren shall fly home,
  For the prayer of her loved one is heard.

A lusty woman was sweeping the entrance of the MacAlpine castle when
Madge presented herself.

"Goodness sakes! where did ye cam frae?" she asked in a high pitched
tone, while she held her broom in a threatening attitude.

"From the de'il's own caldron at the bottom of the lake," replied Madge,
stoutly.

"I was thinkin' as much, and the quicker ye gang back again, the better
for yer shins."

And suiting the action to the word, she commenced to swing her broom in
dangerous proximity to Madge's legs.

"Stop your clatter!" returned Madge, indignantly. "It's your mistress,
Miss Marie Stuart, I want to see, not you. Be good enough to tell her
that Mad Madge wants to see her."

"An' ye think she's deein' to see a crazy woman, do ye?"

"Yes, she'll be willing when you tell her who I am."

"She's gone to the cabins, and mayn't be back for an 'oor--Ah! but I see
her comin'."

"Why, Madge! This is a surprise. How could you possibly get here?"
exclaimed Marie.

"You may well ask it. But it wasn't hard. Sailors are always good to
Madge. So they gave me room on the _Target_ all the way from Sackett's
Harbor to Blizzard Rock. Then they put me ashore and a man paddled me
over. I sing 'em songs, ye ken, and they just laugh at the daft body,
believing that she don't know anything.

  They think the auld wench has a split in her heed
  And that her brains have sprouted and gone to seed."

Marie shook her head deprecatingly.

"But you have some good reason for being here, Madge. Come to my room
and tell me."

As the door closed upon them Madge's face for the first time assumed a
serious expression.

"You guessed rightly, Miss," she said, in an unusually low tone; "I have
a letter from Mr. MacKenzie for the Commodore. When he gave it me, to
make sure, I crumpled it soft and stitched it in my petticoat. He said
if your father wasn't here you must read it."

Then she turned away, took a little pair of scissors out of her pocket,
and ripped it out.

There was fierce pain in Marie's face as she silently glanced over the
letter. She knew that her father was fighting desperately. Although
one-third of his men were either killed or wounded in his fight with the
_Bulldog_, yet he had that morning gone off again with three barges to
intercept any intended attack upon the islands, knowing that other armed
vessels were ready to follow in its wake. MacKenzie advised no
surrender, although he acknowledged that the Hunters' Lodges were
everywhere defeated, and that the battle of Prescott and the Windmill
had been lost. Her father would fight to the last ditch, she knew,
however hopeless the cause; and being backed by his old compatriot, he
might make a yet more determined effort.

Still the brigand "King of the Islands" had reason for the defiance that
he threw out to his enemies. Until now he was the only one of the
malcontent leaders who had not been defeated; and whether the partial
destruction of the _Bulldog_ could be considered a defeat or not, was
still a question. Every island, every channel, almost every cave, was
known to him; many of the latter being stored with arms and ammunition
as well as the detailed provisions of war.

Marie knew all this, but her heart ached for her father and her brother
and the cause, which she defended much more from a sense of duty than of
choice. MacKenzie's letter was full of the old theme, a detailed
statement of his views, a repetition of the many points for which the
people had been fighting; and the strong hope that MacAlpine, the
monarch of the islands, the terror of his enemies, would fight to the
bitter end and force the tyrannical government either to surrender its
power or grant to the people their rights.

The letter was full, too, of lofty ideals. There were great things to
fight for; noble aspirations to plant in the heart of every mother's son
in the land. But what cared MacAlpine for these?

Sadly Marie shook her head and her thoughts ran on at random.

"Things that never enter my father's head at all," she soliloquized.
"What does he care for the legislature, or the representatives of the
people, or the control of the funds, or the affairs of the church, or
the government of the country, or anything else? It is simply the
MacAlpine clan, the control of the islands, and himself as chief. He
revels in the new country, in the fairy land of lakes and islands, and
the tribute of all who enter within the confines of his domain. 'Tis not
for the good of the people that MacAlpine would fight, but that they
might be dependents upon his bounty. Then he would bestow his goods
with lavish hands. But it must be MacAlpine now--MacAlpine forever. Oh,
my dear father, good and staunch soul that you are, you were never
brought into the world to become a saviour to your people or a deliverer
from the wrongs of oppression!"




CHAPTER VI.

THE LONG WAIT.


MacAlpine with his son and men, after snatching a short sleep to atone
for the terrible experiences of the night, had gone out in barges in the
early day. Through the long hours that followed no word came from him.
That his movements were uncertain every man in his service knew. His
standing order, "Be ever on the alert," was usually sufficient. But the
battle with the _Bulldog_ gave a new note to their anxiety, and the
weakness of the guard at the island, together with the care of the
wounded, made the outlook more serious.

When night came and there was still no return, the faces of the few men
who were left as a home-guard became graver than usual. Eyes peered out
into the darkness. Every ear was alert. Every movement upon the waters
was scanned.

Throughout the day the old doctor had been busy among his new patients,
and he was very grateful to Marie for her proffered services. She was in
and out among them all day long, providing bandages, preparing washes,
and making suggestions to old Andrew and his wife, who had them in
charge. Little did Doctor Grantham, physician to the clan ever since its
settlement in the islands, imagine that Marie had been rowing on the
lake the whole of the previous night. Now she was alert and anxious,
willing to keep her fingers busy and her attention concentrated,
rendering aid wherever needed; lest her brain, too restive for sleep,
should run riot over forbidden ground.

At last, in the dusk of evening, worn out both in body and mind, she lay
down and tried to sleep. But the old reasoning came back again; the two
sides of the question: the right and the wrong of it; the good and the
evil of it. There was a gleam of satisfaction in the thought that fewer
lives had been lost, and possibly Stuart's life saved, by her own witful
deed; but there was none in the thought that her father's forces had
been weakened and his future imperilled from the same cause. The two
sides would not balance each other. Remorse was playing havoc again. An
hour passed away, but she could not sleep. By-and-by she rose, and
filled with a presentiment of coming evil, and breathing a prayer for
the safe return of her father, she went out into the freer air. The moon
was casting flickering shadows among the trees, and by its light she
distinguished the figure of a man seated on the terrace with his face
buried in his hands. Her light footsteps failed to rouse him. For a
moment she stood still, undecided whether to advance or retreat, for she
recognized that it was Harry Thompson. Distressing though they were, she
would rather have been alone with her thoughts then, than to converse
even with Harry. But the hesitation was only for the moment.

"Harry, you startled me," was her greeting, as she stepped forward. "Is
there anything new? I did not expect you to-night."

"Neither did I expect myself," was his answer, as he rose to his feet.
"But I had to come; my conscience would not let me stay away."

"It was a long row," said Marie, lowering her voice, "five miles to your
island and five back again--after last night."

"Yes, I know, but I had a rest; I lay down for three hours."

"I hope you slept."

"I tried."

"So did I."

"Did you fail, too?"

"Of course I did."

"But why should you? We did what you thought best."

"Don't speak of it, please. It is horrid to have to do impossible
things."

For a moment she clenched her hands as she looked out over the still
waters of the lake. No one was in sight except here and there a boatman
standing by the water's edge straining his eyes for a vision of the
long-looked-for barges.

"I do wish they'd come," she went on; "Charlie wanted to stay by the
Eyrie, but father thought it better to give him charge of a barge. He
said everything would be safe until their return."

"You must give them reasonable time, Marie," was Harry's comment. "They
have gone a long distance, no doubt, and the night is young yet."

"He told me he would send a message before dark, and possibly might be
back with his men by sun-down. But neither have come, and now it is
after ten."

"I think the Commodore's object was to help the eastern camp," said
Harry, "and if attacked to-day he might stay over to help to defend it."

"And what vessel would attack it?" Marie asked quickly. "Not the
_Bulldog_?"

"Oh, no, I heard to-day that the _Bulldog_ was disabled; that she had
gone over to Sackett's Harbor for repairs, and wouldn't be out again for
some days. It will be the _Transit_ that will attack the camp."

"And Captain Stuart?"

"He'll remain with the _Bulldog_," said Harry.

"Do you think he would have attacked Fingal's Notch, but for last
night?" she asked in a low, tense tone.

"He would have had to; it was the Admiral's orders; and as I understood,
the Admiral was on Stuart's boat."

"Are you sure the Admiral was?"

"Yes, if there's any truth in a dozen different reports. Why do you ask,
Marie?"

"It's a horrible thought, if the _Bulldog_ had been blown up--there
might have been no Admiral--"

"And no Captain Stuart and no marines," interrupted Harry; "and what is
more, no MacAlpine clan, except the Commodore, who was not on the boat,
and Charlie and Miss Marie, and the few men who were left at Fingal's
Notch."

Marie shuddered.

"But my father--his enemies destroyed--with the few remaining followers,
would still be King of the islands."

"Would he," said Harry, "with other ships on the lake and the country
conquered, and indignant enemies over the sea?"

"Oh, you don't think the cause hopeless, do you?"

"It is just as good now as it was before, Marie, whatever comes of it.
It looked black as hell last night, when from that shelf of rock we
watched it. But if the loon had not summoned the Captain of the
_Bulldog_ to a conference, his ship would have been a burning wreck and
his men, as well as the MacAlpines, would have been doomed to a horrible
death. I do not think that your father, in his mad rush for revenge,
realized, as he might have done, that his victory would have sealed the
fate of the men of his own clan. One more point, Marie; I have thought
of this almost every moment since last night--Stuart saved your life,
but he risked no other, scarcely even his own. You have saved not only
his, but scores of others likewise, both his friends and his foes."

"Oh, Harry! don't, please don't," and she, too, buried her face in her
hands.




CHAPTER VII.

THE BRINGING HOME OF CHARLIE.


"I'll bet you the 'top of the morning' against 'the ghost of a chance,'
that the Commodore won't be back till daylight," muttered Pat White to
Andrew.

"By the beard of Bruce, I'll take your offer, and Alick shall hold the
stakes," was the grim response.

"Ye may well say that. Hand 'em over straight, and I'll hold 'em for
ye."

"The 'Ghost' has it," said Andrew, a minute later. "Yonder they come."

"Begorrah, ye're right. In two hours more I'll hand you the 'Top' sure
enough. But them's not three boats--man! them's only wan."

Intently they peered through the darkness at the incoming barge. Sure
enough it was alone. The suspense was ominous. The men instinctively
gathered themselves into a silent little group and waited. As the boat
neared the shore a man threw out a rope to Alick. Still not a word came
from the barge.

"Ecod," whispered Andrew, in an awed tone. "The Commodore's bowed down
in the middle of the boat, and there's a man lying beside him. Sure, it
can't be Charlie?"

Every hand was stretched out from the wharf; and they held the barge so
gently that its grating was like that of a feather. Then MacAlpine led
the way and four strong men stepped off with locked arms, carrying the
limp body.

It was too true. Charlie was dead.

At the house Marie met them at the door. Premonitions of evil had
possession of her for the entire night. She had not slept at all. Now
with one arm thrown round a pillar of the porch for support--her limbs
shaking beneath her--she waited the coming of the sad procession.
Usually strong and collected, even in depressing moments, to walk down
the pathway now seemed impossible. With a feeling of despair, she could
only wait while every moment seemed to be an age.

The stern agony on her father's face, as the light of the candle fell
upon it, suddenly loosed both her tongue and her limbs, and with a cry
she threw her arms around his neck.

"Not now, girl, not now," he replied in rough tenderness, pushing her
away; "I can't stand it. Is Charlie's bed ready?"

"It is always ready," was her answer, and with choking sobs she led the
way.

"It's the last time he'll need it," muttered her father, his own frame
shaking with irrepressible emotion.

       *     *     *     *     *

The next day they buried Charlie's body in the grove at the back of the
Eagle's Eyrie. It was dangerous to wait longer. The fleet was closing in
around them; and as this was reinforced by the arrival of fresh troops,
every delay would add to the danger of the few followers still left to
MacAlpine. The battle on the _Bulldog_ was only a prelude to further
disaster, for two of the barges had been captured after a brief but
severe contest. And it was at the risk of his own life that MacAlpine
had recovered the dead body of his son.

Maddened by grief and rage, the Chief could scarcely control himself.
The loss of his remaining son, so quickly following that of his beloved
Donald, was more than he could bear, and he tramped unceasingly in and
out of the Eyrie and over the island, through the long hours until the
Dominie had consigned Charlie's remains to the tomb.

Distracted though she was by her own grief, Marie did her best to soothe
her father. But dire vengeance was all he asked for. Foiled in his
efforts, defeated as never before, robbed of the lives of his sons, it
was for another sight of his foes that he raved; and upon them he wildly
declared he would show no mercy.

To divert his mind, even though it might strengthen his resolve, Marie
at last showed him MacKenzie's letter.

"There's no use reading that!" he exclaimed, savagely. "They have slain
my sons. They have driven us at bay, till the curse of all the devils is
upon the MacAlpines. They are hedging us in, crowding us closer on every
side to crush out our life. But I will fight to the last gasp--by
heaven, I will--and, Marie, you'll be the only one left."

"Don't talk that way, father. Do read the letter. Mr. MacKenzie was
always your friend. I read part of it, but not all. And the messenger is
still waiting to take back your answer."

If she could only divert his mind, even by anything. The wild look in
his eyes frightened her.

"Well, I will try." Gradually his eye cleared and his look grew
steadier. Sometimes he read to himself, sometimes aloud, for the letter
was a long one.

"Here's a worthy note," he muttered, after a long pause, "but of little
use now:

    _"'Strike on, MacAlpine! Remember that before ours there have
    been nineteen strokes for freedom on this continent; and all
    were successful. Why should we not add one more, the proudest of
    them all, to the number? But much now depends upon you, my
    friend'."_

"Ah, indeed, does it? Fine enough for him to say so when he is over the
border."

Then followed a repetition of the old story--the bill of rights--in
support of which MacKenzie and his followers had rebelled, but for which
MacAlpine personally did not care a farthing. These he skipped and then
read on:

    _"'Unfortunately we are living in trying times, and the
    opportunities of communicating with each other are very limited.
    But the fates have favored me in the person of a dingy,
    half-crazy wench. She is thoroughly reliable, too canny to be
    caught, but you can trust her absolutely, as I do with my
    message. And as I may not have another chance before the fates
    decide our destiny, I pray you to attend carefully to my
    words'."_

Then followed a long preamble about the possibilities of defeat, due to
the financial resources and overwhelming strength of their oppressors;
which, in the end, would still be a victory to themselves:

    _"'Even then, and I say it, before High Heaven, our cause will
    not have been fought in vain. These old coaches over the sea are
    desperately slow. They may not intend to be dishonest or mean or
    unjust to the settlers in distant lands; but they send out old
    fogies to govern us who know nothing of the principles of
    justice--men devoid of all generous and noble impulses--who look
    upon themselves as the salt of the earth, and ourselves as the
    scum; that it is our duty and privilege to grovel and cringe and
    slave our lives away, that they may have the proceeds to lavish
    upon their follies._

    _"'Granting all this, even at the worst, we are opening the eyes
    of our far-away rulers to the true situation, and redress sooner
    or later will inevitably come'."_

Then came a record of his doings over the border, of his successes and
failures throughout the land, of the friends who were false and the
friends who were true; and though he wrote from within the confines of
prison walls, he concluded the epistle in a transport of ecstasy:

    _"'Still, come what will, I see as in a vision that all in the
    end will be well. Though a prisoner to-day, to-morrow I shall be
    free; the time will come when my own loved land will call me
    home again; and though the rabble, the veritable scum, may spit
    on me, and burn in effigy my body, yet the people, having won
    for themselves light and liberty, will welcome home, and place
    in the rostrum of the nation, the despised refugee. Farewell,
    MacAlpine! May God bless you._

    "'_MacKenzie_.'"

"An impossible man chasing an impossible ideal," muttered MacAlpine
between set teeth, "urging to fight on, and yet declaring that only a
mythical success can ultimately be reached."

"Why fight on at all?" pleaded Marie, "with scarcely fifty men left and
a thousand against you."

"I shall fight to the death, and die with the battle-cry of the
MacAlpines on my lips."

"But, father, though the cause is hopeless, we could still escape from
these islands before it is too late. There's always a refuge beyond the
border," urged Marie, still more earnestly.

"Never, child; I came here to be free, and shall stay until the end, if
I fight to the last breath. But for you, Marie--the only one left--it is
different. Something must be done. What did you say about Madge? Is she
still here? I could send you both away in the dead of night in my best
barge. It would be quite safe. What say you, child?"

"And leave you to fight it out alone? Never!"

"But you must. It's the only reasonable plan. After I am gone--but mark
you, I shall slay every man I can first--things will be quiet again. In
the end you may find a home over there, or even back in Scotland--but
you won't be a MacAlpine any longer."

"But I am a MacAlpine. They cannot take that from me, whatever they do;
and I shall not leave you. I wouldn't be a MacAlpine if I did," and with
deep emotion she clasped her hands around his neck.

Sadly MacAlpine shook his head.

"I'm proud of you, Marie," he muttered at last, "but this will be no
place for you. It will be nothing but a desperate fight for life."

"All the more reason why I should stay."

"But you are a woman, Marie."

"Why should I not be a man? Charlie's clothes will fit me. If they shoot
you they can shoot me, too."

"Don't be silly, child."

"Silly! Am I not a good shot? Can I not paddle a canoe as true and swift
as any man you've got? And do I not know every cave in the islands? And
cave-dwellers we'll have to be, father, if there is any hope left."

"Bravely spoken, Marie. Would to God I could save you, and still keep
you to myself."

"You can do both, father."

"The odds are against us--and the risk terrible--but maybe we'd better
try it." He clasped her in his arms and her tears fell upon his breast.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE PROPHETIC VISION.


An hour later Marie was alone among the trees, cooling her fevered
temples with the breeze from the lake and endeavoring to control her
thoughts. For many nights she had slept little, for the deepest emotions
of her soul had been stirred. The death of her brother Charlie produced
in her the most poignant grief. Possessed like herself with Stuart
affinities, the bond of affection that bound them together was of the
tenderest character. It was like tearing a limb from her body or
dividing her heart asunder to have him suddenly snatched away by the
grim hand of death.

Though in heart a Stuart, she was now more than ever a MacAlpine, filled
with the love of her clan and veneration for her father. He might be
wrong in his opinion, and false to his own interests, fighting
hopelessly for a cause the end of which was doomed; yet, as her father,
and the chieftain of his clan, she, the last of the race, must obey his
mandate, fight beneath his banner, and in some measure take the place of
the brothers that were gone.

Suddenly she heard a crooning beneath the bushes at the edge of the
lake. It was the monotone of the almost forgotten Madge. Seated alone
with her hands clasped round her knees, she was looking out over the
water.

Marie stood riveted to the spot as her ear caught the words:

  Sad was the day in the glen,
    Over the lea and the moor,
  When the chief led his clan
  Out over the sea
    To open liberty's door.

  Then good news came from afar,
    Wafted back from the west,
  That aloft as a star
  O'er island and lake
    Floated his standard and crest.

Then came the last stanza in lower tone and quivering voice. It was deep
in the gloaming, and the weird witchery of the scene seemed to have
seized the woman. Marie leaned forward with beating heart to catch the
words. In a dim occult way she realized that a prophetic vision was
coming:

  But joy was doomed to be brief,
    For the clan was shivered and shorn;
  Both the sons and the chief
  In battle were slain,
    The princess alone left to mourn.

"Oh, Madge, how dare you sing such a thing like that?" Marie sobbed out
in low, excited tones as she rushed down to the woman's side.

"What was it, dearie? Did I say anything?" Madge returned, half
stupefied, passing her hand over her brow. "I must have been dreaming.
I'm so tired, you know--always so tired--and I just say things as they
come--then I forget. What was it, Miss Marie?"

Her tone evinced keen distress.

"Never mind. But how could you sing such a terrible song?--true and yet
not true. It can't be possible, Madge."

"Oh, I'm so sorry! I didn't know you were near or I would never have
sung it; no, never."

"It can't be helped now," said Marie, endeavoring to control her
emotion. "But you must go back to Mr. MacKenzie to-morrow--and take this
letter to him."

"I will start at daylight. Alick has promised to row me back to Blizzard
Rock, and the _Target_ will take me over to Sackett's Harbor."

"Be sure and let no one see the letter."

"I'll quilt it in like the other one, and I'll warrant you no one ever
shall but Mr. MacKenzie. But can you ever forgive me?"

"You didn't mean it, Madge; and it isn't true."

       *     *     *     *     *

The next morning Alick rowed Madge over and, secreting himself near the
wharf, he watched the _Target_ approach.

"Here comes Madge," cried one of the men. "She hasn't turned a hair
since we dumped her here three days ago."

"Nor combed one either," added the mate. "Her entire rigging hasn't
changed an atom in a year."

"Nor it won't if she wears it for ten. She's like one of Macbeth's
witches."

"Yes, sinews and wire and whip-cord all beaten into a mesh."

"Say, wench!"

But the wench had swung herself on deck and her cracked voice so filled
the air that even Alick heard it:

  The Buffalo boys and the Rochester girls
  Are always in for a lark,
  While all that a Briton expects to do
  Is to be able to make his mark--
  ----mark----mark----
  To be able to make his mark.

As she finished the stanza she ambled off to the saloon, followed by the
laughter of the men.




CHAPTER IX.

THE BURNING OF THE EAGLE'S EYRIE.


MacAlpine's fury remained unabated. To have been foiled in the burning
of the _Bulldog_ galled him; but to meet with a second defeat, and the
death of his son Charlie from an enemy's bullet, was heart-breaking and
exasperating beyond measure. Bitterly he cursed his fate; like a lion at
bay, he lashed himself to increase his fury; and while he offered up
prayers for the safety of his daughter, he poured maledictions
indiscriminately upon his enemies.

With the MacAlpine days numbered, his sons dead, a price on his own
head, dead or alive, what was there to live for but revenge? He, the
"King of the Islands"; his sons, heirs in fief, chieftains of his clan;
and his daughter, the fair Princess of Fingal; to have his hopes dashed
to the ground, his plans dragged in the mud, and his domain spattered
with the life-blood of his children, was more than heart could stand.

His mood varied. Sometimes he was taciturn and gloomy, and but for
Marie's dependence upon him, he might have taken his own life. Then,
again, his spirits would rise, buoyed up by any trifling advantage, and
new plans would be formed for regaining control of the islands, and
defying to the death all who might oppose him.

But while he was strengthening the fortifications at Fingal's Notch and
preparing for a siege, his enemies were gradually and fatally hemming
him in. The insurrection everywhere else had been subdued, and the
Government troops, being relieved from other duties, directed their
attention to the final subjection of the "Brigand of the Isles." Hence
gunboats were plied, lake steamers pressed into service, frigates armed
and manned, all with the object of crushing, once and for all, MacAlpine
and his cause.

All the while Marie, the Stuart princess, nattily dressed in Charlie's
clothes, was her father's right-hand man. The Eagle's Eyrie soon
bristled with guns and cannon, and whenever a troop-ship appeared, or a
boat in the offing that could not reasonably be accounted for, muskets
were fired or cannon-balls whistled through the air, to dare them at
their peril to approach the little fortress. It was well known, too,
that MacAlpine had arms and ammunition stored in the caves of many of
the islands; and it was reported far and near, that some of them were
replete with all the munitions of war. It was even believed, as an open
secret, that he had special unseen means of transferring them from place
to place and could, in an hour's notice, transfer all the ammunition and
stores that he wanted to Fingal's Notch, if he so desired.

The fact that MacAlpine was almost continually firing his guns, gave
color to the thought; and the enemy's ships for a time kept discreetly
at a distance.

But in truth each side had its own object for delay. The Government
forces were gathering data for action, and preparing for a single
overwhelming night attack; while MacAlpine, with a seer's eye to the
inevitable, was busily storing the inner caves of his castle with
everything that a prolonged retreat into it as a hermitage might
require, not for his own sake but his daughter's.

Marie, too, during all the long preamble, had her own thoughts and her
own inner life. She had Stuart's inviolable promise, that, come what
might, he and the men under him would never fire upon the Eagle's Eyrie;
hence, Stuart and his ship might be counted out of the attacking force.
Under this belief, zeal for her father's cause, coupled with memory of
her brother's death, made her both willing and glad to help to fight the
battles of the clan. Many a rifle she cocked and fired, and many a
cannon's fuse did she touch with a match, for they were corporate
actions, the clan's battles.

But when evening came, the day's work done, Marie's time was her own;
and the fair-haired youth in Charlie's suit of grey would glide in her
long canoe out in the gloaming, and, paddling swiftly and surely, would
soon be out of sight among the islands.

No one asked whither she went. No one questioned her object. Among her
people she was queen. Her will was law, their's fealty. And her father
in his gloom had other things to think about. Besides, she had always
been the free, fair maid of the islands, coming and going when she
listed. If safe, then, through years of childhood, though danger might
be present now, why question her?

Harry, too, for many days had been away; and old Janet thought that his
continued absence might have much to do with Marie's lonely paddles. How
little she knew!

One evening Marie was later than usual in her return. As she came
swiftly toward her own little wharf, she was startled by the fire of
musketry.

"Ah!" she murmured, as she quickly drew her canoe upon the bank, "it is
here at last. Yes, there's another volley and another--and cannon, too.
I wonder where father is?"

As she ran toward the house, the whole island seemed to be suddenly
aroused. Men were everywhere preparing for the conflict which everyone
had been expecting to come. Islands had been captured almost daily, and
word had been brought in from the east and the west, that the combined
attack upon Fingal's Notch, widely known as the best fortified of all
the islands, as well as the home of the brigand chief, would be the next
and final move. And now it had come.

"Glad you are in your greys, Marie," was her father's greeting, as she
rushed up to him. "We'll have to fight desperately to hold our own
to-night. So take charge of that cannon; Alick will load it for you.
Yonder lies the _Transit_, take aim and hit her if you can."

And he left her to give orders to his men. In another minute Marie's
fuse was lighted and boom went her gun.

"It's the first we've given 'em," cried Alick; "let us try another."

Marie's blood was stirred. She waited impatiently for the charge. Then
she fired again. As there was no moon, the flashes from the powder gave
the only light.

For half an hour or more the battle raged. Then a change came. The
_Transit_, taking aim at the Eyrie, riddled it with shell, and the
flames darting from its roof, proclaimed that the castle was doomed.
Then MacAlpine forsook it and fell back to the woods, fighting every
inch of his way. As the flames shot heavenward, every object became
visible and every man a target.

"Nothing like shooting a man decently," cried Harry, as he brought down
a fellow who was lunging at Marie while she was applying her fuse. "If I
hadn't he would have killed you, Marie. It isn't safe for you here; run
for Janet's cottage--back in the woods there's less danger."

"Not so fast, Harry. I'm a man now, and shall fight till it's over. Here
goes again."

"What's the use? To die in your tracks! arrant foolishness!"

"By the Lord, the Commodore's hurt," cried old Andrew; "see, he's
falling."

With a bound Marie was beside him.

"It's only my leg!" he exclaimed; "smashed by a bullet. But never mind
me--fight on! They shall never make MacAlpine a prisoner--before they
touch my body I'll be a dead man."

"If MacAlpine can do it, so can we. We'll die where we stand," cried
one.

"But what of Miss Marie and the women?" yelled another.

"The women they'll not touch, and Marie's a man," was her answer, as she
bent over her father. "Here will I stay."

"God knows that shall not be," cried MacAlpine, rousing himself from the
shock that was plunging him into lethargy. "Down to your wharf--take
your canoe--paddle out quickly--go, child, go."

"Not a step, father, unless you go too."

"And forsake my men--play the coward and traitor--"

"It is neither," cried old Andrew. "If you stay you'll die. If you go
with Marie, you'll get well, and live to knock the stuffing out of every
man John of 'em."

"Aye, aye, that's true," muttered another, deliberately taking aim at a
soldier not ten yards away. "Stay here, and in an hour you'll be as dead
as that fellow is."

"They are crowding in. Come, lads, two of us can carry him before they
can reach us, if Marie leads the way."

"Bind his leg first; he's bleeding terribly," cried Alick. MacAlpine was
almost unconscious. "Where's the doctor?"

"Knocked out already," replied Andrew. "A stray bullet felled him five
minutes ago. But leave the leg alone. If he faints, bleeding will
stop--a sleeping man never kicks. Pick him up, lads. Now, Miss, run."

"Send some blankets and a bottle of brandy," she whispered to Harry.
Then she ran down the pathway to the water's edge and shoved out her
canoe.

Swiftly they bore the limp body of the Commodore after her, and
stretching the blankets at the bottom of the canoe, they laid him upon
them.

"Have you any plans, Marie?" Harry asked, realizing the difficulties and
dangers the girl was undertaking.

"Yes," she answered, in a voice trembling with many emotions. "You know
island X, which lies just below the southern end of Q?"

"Yes."

"You remember the bluff at the end and the shelving rock?"

"Yes."

"Well, come to-morrow if you can, and be sure to bring Andrew. But must
we not bind his leg again?"

"No," cried old Andrew. "If we do he'll revive, and there'll be the
devil to pay. There is no danger, child; it's not bleeding as much as it
was. Bind it up when you get to the island. But can you manage it
alone?"

"I must; one canoe may escape, but two would be seen. I know the road
and will keep in the shadow of the islands."

"Still I might come in the distance," said Harry.

"No, you must not," was her answer.

"Good-bye, then, until to-morrow."

"Good-bye; good-bye, men." There was a choke in her voice. "You are
brave fellows, but it would be madness to fight to the death; save
yourselves if you can. Tell all the men that Marie says so."

"You are God's angel, child."

"Begorrah, she is," muttered Pat, "but an angel in breeks, and grey ones
at that."

But Marie was away out on the water, noiselessly and deftly paddling her
canoe under the deep shelter of the trees of the islands.




CHAPTER X.

THE ESCAPE TO THE CAVE.


As Marie paddled swiftly out she could count her rapid heartbeats, in
mute terror lest her father should bleed to death; while to rouse him
would be doubly dangerous. For him to speak or cry out might lead to
discovery; while a sudden movement on his part, not knowing where he
was, could scarcely fail to upset the canoe. She could save herself,
were such a catastrophe to occur, but whether she could save her father
in his helpless condition was a different question.

She could hear him breathe, though he did not move. Evidently he was not
dead yet, and she paddled on. As the distance between the canoe and
Fingal's Notch increased, she became more hopeful, and paddled less
cautiously. There was little danger of any sound from the canoe being
carried back, but a full quarter of an hour elapsed before she dared to
slacken her speed. By this time other islands intervened; and, pausing
for a moment, she listened. There was still the occasional crack of a
rifle, and looking backwards the whole sky in the far distance was
illuminated. She shuddered as she fixed her eyes upon it.

"Oh, the fiends!" she ejaculated, involuntarily. "The fiends, they are
burning the entire island."

"What's that?" ejaculated MacAlpine, suddenly aroused by her voice.

"Keep still, father, or we'll upset; we are in a canoe," she returned,
pressing him down again. "Just for a little while; we are almost there."

"Almost where?" he asked, obeying her while he pressed his hand upon his
head. "What's happened?"

"You got hurt, and we're going to the island as fast as we can. Just lie
still."

"Queer business!"

But he lay quietly and Marie paddled all the harder. In ten minutes she
slowed up to glide safely past the shallows. Fortunately the sky was
clear and the stars bright. Marie had become accustomed to the dim light
and could see her way. "Q" island was left behind, and she paused at the
shelving rock which jutted out at the side of "X," directly opposite the
bluff. The perpendicular rock which rose from the lake for many feet on
the east side of the island at one spot was lifted to the height of a
foot or so above the water, leaving its surface free. That such an
opening could indicate a cave no one would imagine. It might be a runway
for mink or water rats; but as a possible habitat for human beings, with
an entrance only on the water level, would never be thought of.

But Marie had been there many times. It was the very spot she had been
looking for ever since the probability of defeat had stared the
islanders in the face; and on first discovery her ardor induced her to
dive from her canoe and swim under the ledge after the mink that led the
way.

As she neared the spot she pointed her canoe for the centre of the
elevated ledge, and bending forward to a prone position, it glided
slowly in.

"Keep still, father. We are safe now," she whispered. "Wait till I close
the opening and strike a light."

Stepping lightly onto a shelf of rock Marie picked up a door that she
had brought over piece-meal, and placing it on its edge upon stones
beneath the surface of the water, she leaned it against the entrance
way, making an effectual screen. Then she struck a match and lit a
candle. The cave thus closed in was both capacious and high. On one side
was the flat surface of rock, as large as an ordinary sized room, which
Marie had already covered with rugs and mats. Her nocturnal visits to
"X" island were evidently productive of good. She had been preparing for
an emergency. The emergency had arrived.

MacAlpine in amazement stared at everything. His bewildered mind was
clearing.

"What does it all mean?" he asked at last. "We were fighting the enemy,
but they were too strong for us. What has happened? Where are we?"

"They were too strong," Marie answered, "and you got your leg hurt, so I
brought you here."

"Child, how did you do it?"

"That doesn't matter, father. What we have to do now is to get you onto
these rugs. See, I've got a pillow, too. Then I'll fix your leg."

Suddenly he sprang to the sitting posture; but instantly fell back with
a groan.

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "I remember now--my leg's smashed. It must
have been a rifle shot. See, it's bleeding again--the pain is terrible."

"Drink a little of this and just bear it," said Marie, holding the
brandy to his lips. "You must help me and I will lift the leg."

And with infinite pains and gentleness on her part, and groans and
maledictions on his, she helped him onto the ledge. In her journeyings
she had brought blankets and quilts, so that when she stretched him out
he lay fairly comfortable with his head on the pillow. But the blood was
streaming again; some large vessel must have been cut; so with scissors
she removed the trouser leg. Then she washed off the ragged wound,
straightened out the limb, and bound it with strips of cotton she had
brought.

All the while he watched her. Now and then when a chance came he patted
her hand. "You are a princess," he exclaimed at last, "if ever there was
one! But what a boy you would have made!"

"Would have made!" was her quick response, suddenly kissing him on the
brow. "Don't you know that I _am_ a boy. See my clothes. The only boy
you've got. But I'm getting hungry, aren't you? Last night I brought a
tin of new biscuits that Kitty made, and some butter; and I've got
lemons and sugar--lemons are good for a sick man, even better than
brandy."

"That'll be fine, Marie; you do the eating after your hard paddle. Mix
the lemons for me; that's all I want." And he took the drink eagerly.

For a while each avoided every subject but the actual present. The light
of the candle only faintly illuminated the cave. Gradually, however,
their eyes got accustomed to the dimness, and could pierce even into the
gloom. The cave ran far in, the shelving rock sloping down in the rear
to the level of the water-line, while in the interval there were regular
projections of the limestone at varying heights. A black object, the
size of a large plate, occupied one of these. After a time MacAlpine's
roving eye rested upon it.

"What is that?" he suddenly exclaimed.

Marie rose and lifted her candle for a better look. Where they were the
vault was high enough for her to stand erect.

"Only a turtle," was her cheery answer. "He's got his nose turned this
way watching the interlopers."

Next came a splash into the water.

"That's a water-snake," she added.

"Yes," said he, "and there goes a water-rat scampering along the
ledges."

"It was by swimming in after two mink that I discovered the cave,"
added Marie.

For the first time he smiled.

"So we are part of the menagerie. The MacAlpines are the last addition."

By-and-by he dozed again, then Marie made her preparations for the
night. She drew the canoe so far in that the turtle in dull alarm began
to move. But she crooned softly and he was still again. After placing
what few things she had in such a position that she could lay her hand
upon them at any moment, she put out the light, lifted back the door so
that nothing could be seen from the lake, and finally lay down by her
father's side, fatigued and distressed but comforted, and ready to drop
off to sleep.

Suddenly her father opened his eyes.

"Marie!" he cried out in alarm.

"I am here, father, sleeping beside you."

"Oh, thank God! thank God!"

And in a little while they were both in the land of troubled dreams.




CHAPTER XI.

THE BRINGING OF ANDREW.


Long before dawn MacAlpine awoke, roused by the pain in his leg; but his
mind was clear, and he comprehended the situation more accurately. Marie
was still sleeping beside him. He realized how fatigued she must have
been, and wouldn't rouse her. Even if awakened, she could do nothing for
him without a light, and with the open entrance uncovered by the screen,
to strike one would be unsafe. Still he felt his limb swelling--possibly
the bandages were too tight--and impatiently he awaited the approach of
day.

At last the opening above the water became lighter and the objects
within the cave indistinctly visible. Marie stirred and he spoke to her.

"Yes, father," she replied, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. "It was
horrid of me to sleep so long and you suffering. Poor, patient old
father."

"My leg hurts too much to be patient over it," was his answer. "It is
swelling, and the foot turns over too far. Can you prop it better?"

"I will try. There, will that do?"

"Yes, but the bandages are tight; when it gets light enough you'll have
to loosen them a little."

Half an hour later, when she removed some of the dressings, the sight
frightened her.

"Oh, father!" she exclaimed pitifully, "your leg is blue."

"You've done it too well, child; better open it up."

And so she did, putting on a looser roller.

"You must have a doctor, father," she exclaimed, seriously. "Surely we
can get one somewhere."

"If we give ourselves away, we might; but our own doctor, as you know,
was shot last night by the villainous invaders."

"But our own men, is there not one among them who is skilful in setting
bones and things?"

"Yes, in a way, old Andrew is good for legs and Janet for burns."

"Andrew is coming to-day," she said; "Harry Thompson will bring him."

Then she got breakfast, but a cold one, as the ascent of smoke from the
cave might indicate their whereabouts to their enemies. Again she ate it
alone. Liquids to satisfy his thirst were all that her father desired.

Marie watched him anxiously. His skin was hot and his mouth dry; and to
keep the heated leg comfortable, she repeatedly drenched it with water.

So the hours passed with slow monotony. Sometimes they talked of the
fight at Fingal's Notch and the probable result; but as the fever made
her father excitable, Marie did not speak again of the burning of the
"Eyrie."

What she hoped and prayed for most was help. When would it come?
Possibly not till night. Often she lay down flat on the rock to look
beneath the ledge if any boat was in sight, but all in vain. The whole
day passed without a single craft of either friend or enemy coming into
view.

Long before nightfall her heart sank within her. For herself she did not
care. But her father was not improving, and she realized that his leg
should be set and his wound attended to by a competent surgeon--a matter
of vital importance--but something which she feared would never be
accomplished.

What she regretted now was that she had not arranged with Harry and
Andrew for a special time for their visit. If any one should come, it
was necessary that she should be there to meet them; otherwise they
might not even discover the cave. While sorely perplexed, the
exclamations: "Andrew must come! Find some way of getting Andrew!" were
continually ringing in her ear.

Still she felt that she must control the situation, and to accomplish
anything must be guided by her own judgment.

So she bathed her father's leg and head, fed him with lemonade and
brandy, and talked as brightly as she could of the possibilities of the
future. More than once she brought a smile to his face, and he would
call her his little Princess, his sweetheart, and his own brave girl.

"I've thought it all out, father," she said at last. "We'll wait until
the darkening, and if they don't come by that time, I'll go and bring
Andrew myself."

"By that time God only knows where he may be; you may not find him at
all, child."

"If I cannot find Andrew, I'll be sure to find Janet; she'll be better
than no one."

"Ah, well, perhaps it is best! If you go in daylight, they might never
let you come back again, and where would MacAlpine be? Man! but I must
be getting daft to blather like an old woman. You are right, girl; the
lads'll come by the dark'ning, I'm sure."

As the sun was setting Marie took another look. There was a boat plain
enough not twenty yards away, with two men in it, fishing. Then she
heard voices.

"Begorrah," cried one, "I've been fishing for a great long sturgeon and
a beautiful white perch for these two hours, and nary a bite 'ave I got
of either of 'em yet."

"We munna hurry, Pat, just keep at it. I've been feeshin' for Alpine
bass just as long as you have, wi' no better results. But we'll catch
every one of 'em--only it winna do to get too close to the shore--it'ud
be dangerous for feeshin'."

"Yes," came in clear, crystal tones from a voice close to the water
under the ledge, "You'll catch every one of them; but go on fishing just
where you are, while I talk to you. We're both here, the sturgeon and
the perch, and the bass, too, if you like, in a cave under the rock. But
father is terribly ill. We must have Andrew. Can you bring him at once,
with splints and dressings and medicine for father's leg?"

"Saints in heaven, is that where you are, down in the lake, swimmin' for
a livin'?" cried Pat in a low voice. "But by the holy Virgin, I'm glad
to hear your voice again. In course we can bring Andrew."

"Yes, Miss Marie, we'll do our best to be back in an hour," echoed
Alick. "Anything else we should bring?"

"Yes, but ask Janet; she'll know what to send. Be back as soon as you
can."

"Do you know that Harry Thompson's been shot, but not kilt," said Alick.

"He's not bad," said Pat, "but he told us to tell ye that he couldn't
come."

"Tell him I'm exceedingly sorry," said Marie.

"We'll do that, but don't be fearsome, he'll get well."

They paddled a little further on.

"Yonder boat is watching us," said Alick. "We must continue fishing here
and there for a little while yet. Those fellows have their eyes
skinned."

"It was lucky she warned us not to come any closer," said Pat. "Gorry,
but Miss Marie's a brick. If ever there was an angel in heaven, she's
one."

"But she's not in heaven yet, thank God," said Alick.

"I'll be d--d if she isn't. It's heaven wherever that girl plants her
foot, bedad, so there to you."

"Right you are, Pat, after all. Reckon we'll start for home now."

"For home, say you, and every place on Fingal's Notch, except Janet's
cottage, burned to the ground."

"I'm glad we didn't tell her. Time enough when we get back."

"Aye, aye, true you are; but what will become of the old Commodore?"

"That's the question. One of the bravest and truest men that ever lived.
He has his faults--who hasn't? He took his toll from every brig coming
into the islands. Why shouldn't he--he was king. But if they acted
decent he gave them a clean bill and no trouble. They were always safe.
And when in distress or wrecked on the islands, who came to their
rescue? It was MacAlpine and his men every time."

"And did you ever know him turn down a man who was stranded?" said Pat,
"or a beggar who wanted a meal, or a wench who needed a home?"

"No," said Alick, "nor even a dog that wanted a bone."

"It's a' true," said Pat, "every word of it; but he had some quare
notions, that same Commodore MacAlpine, King of the Islands, as he was.
His word was law. He was always chief, and nary a single spalpeen ever
dast go agin him. No parlyment for him, except the parlyment of one man,
and that man hisself; neither republic nor ould country gover'ment would
ever suit him. He was just:

  The holy divil on top of it all;
  And yet, be jabers, no divil at all."

"By St. Andrew, you're right," muttered Alick, "and when the MacAlpine
candle burns out, there'll never be another candle in God's world that
can take its place."

"Mebbe not," echoed Pat, contemplatively. "I wasn't thinkin' of it in
that way--but hadn't we better be movin'? Miss Marie'll be impatient for
Andrew's coming."

And without more words they rowed rapidly in the direction of Fingal's
Notch.




CHAPTER XII.

MEETING OF STUART AND MARIE.


"It's a compoonded break," said old Andrew, two hours later, as he
kneeled by his old master's side and through his spectacles examined the
injured limb. "An' a muckle bad yun at that. The bone's splintry and the
flesh is comin' through. It'll be a bad yun to fix, but 'a think I can
manage it. It'll gie some pain, Commodore MacAlpine, afore I'm through;
but I'll dae the best I can, not being skilly."

"All right, Andrew, I can stand it," said MacAlpine, grimly.

"Nae doot ye can, sir, nae doot at all. There never was a MacAlpine yet
who cudna stan' mair than ither folk."

"But, my boys, Andrew, my boys."

"That was different, sir; an angel on airth cudna ha' stood what they
had to gang through. But I'm losing time, I must make my splints. I
brought the stuff wi' me. Man, sir, but you're feverish. It's gey ill
when it comes so quick, an' I'll hurry all I can."

In another hour, with the help of Alick and Pat, Andrew had made the
patient comfortable. His leg was neatly boxed and bound, with a hole in
the dressing left open to treat the wound. And this he plastered over
with his favorite prescription.

"It may smart a bit, sir, but it al'us does guid in these compoonded
cases," said Andrew; "leastways, it does in auld ulcers--and what's the
difference between a compoonded case and an' auld ulcer? In baith the
skin's broken and there's a hole in the flesh. In baith there's a
discharge. In baith the root's in the bone. And in baith you want to get
'em healed as fast as you can. I am sure, sir, you must acknowledge that
my logic and my reason are also baith soond."

"But it smarts terribly, Andrew. Still I will try it for a while."

"Pray do, sir."

"And now," continued Andrew, turning to Marie, "if Alick and Pat will
stay with the Commodore for half an 'oor, I wad like to gie ye a paddle
on the lake. It's nae guid for a chiel like you tae be coopit up in a
cave all day lang wi'out any fresh air at a'. I'm sure the Commodore
will let ye gang all right."

"Certainly she may," was the quick response, "and thank you, Andrew, for
suggesting it. What say you, Marie?"

"It's just what I want," said Marie. "I'll be ready in a minute. But
Alick, you must put out the light before we move the door and then put
it back before you light it again."

"Yes, Miss Marie, I noticed your wise precaution. Shall we tell him?" he
finished in a whisper.

"Perhaps it would be better, but do it gently."

But her heart was beating more rapidly than usual, for a peculiar look
was on Andrew's face when he made the suggestion. It was intended for no
one but herself, and she alone saw it.

For several minutes the old man rowed in silence. Then he stopped. The
air was still, there was scarcely a sound on the lake, and no life
visible anywhere. Even the cave was so effectually closed by the door
that the relighted candle did not throw out a spark of light upon the
water.

"You have something to tell me," said Marie, "but we must speak very
low, almost in a whisper."

"You are right, there are men on some of these islands who are oor
enemies. But they don't count Janet and me. We are auld folk, ye ken,
each with a foot in the hole, an' they think it sic an uncanny poseetion
that they dinna care hoo lang we gang that way. So they just leave us to
ourselves in oor auld cabin. But that wasna their fault. In the rush of
the slaughter last night they didna find it--that was a'."

"And are all the other buildings burned as well as the Eyrie?"

"Yes, every man John of 'em."

"And what of our cave? Did the fire get in there as well?"

"No, I think not. I tuk a look this morn, after all had gaed awa' in
their boats, and my impression is that the inside stone slab saved it. I
dinna believe that even the smoke got intil't."

"That is well, and of our people?"

"Some are deed. They came back to bury 'em to-day. Some they tuk
prisoners; and some, as yerself advised, Miss, went awa' for guid and
all."

"I'm glad they did. But you've something else to tell me, Andrew?"

"Yes, and I don't know whether it's guid news or bad," he said
reflectively. "But it's somethin' that happened this afternoon."

"Go on, please. We have so little time."

"I'm gettin' on as fast as I can, ye ken. I think it was aboot four
o'clock, it might ha' been four fifteen, but I'm sure it wasna four
twenty--"

"What does the exact time matter?" said Marie, impatiently.

"It matters enough, lass. There's nothin' like being pertickler in
little things--then the big yuns'll take care of themselves."

"A very true saying, Andrew. Go on."

"That's what I'm doin'. If ye didna interrupt the auld man he'd gang
along brawly. Mind, I'm not complainin', Miss."

"I know you are not. I won't interrupt you again, Andrew."

"Well, as I was saying, a big barge with eight sojers in it rowed up to
the little back wharf this afternoon. They all did nothin' but stay
right wi' the boat except one; an' he came straight up to the
cottage--an' who do ye think it was?"

He could not see the expression on Marie's face; but her answer was in
an even tone.

"How could I tell, Andrew? Who was it?"

"Naebody else but Captain Stuart."

"And what did he want?" said Marie.

"He wanted to know all aboot you and yer faither. He was awfu' anxious
to know where ye'd gone tae. And he was clean beside himself when I
tel't him that we didna ken."

"He had nothing to do with the battle," said Marie.

"Not a single bit. He's still on the _Bulldog_; and I tell you one
thing, Miss, he was in terrible distress about ye."

"What else?"

"He just ganged up and doon the floor. I never seed a man so cut up in
a' my life wi'out shedding tears."

"Is he quite well?"

"Yes, he limps a little wi' one foot, that is a'. Only for the wild
excitement on his face he looked gey weel."

"And then he went away?"

"Yes, but he left a message for you. He wrote it with pencil on Janet's
table, and here it is."

As Marie took it her hand trembled. Of course she could not read it in
the dark.

"He said something else tae," said Andrew. "The battle being over and
the people scattered, he said he was under orders to control the
islands. But instead of trying to control either the Commodore or you,
he would consider it the greatest favor you could grant him to let him
help ye. Them was his words."

"And will he come back again?"

"Yes. To-morrow's morn."

"Do Alick and Pat know of this?"

"Of course I tel't them as they rowed me over, but they'll not say a
word."

After they returned to the cave, Pat rowed Old Andrew back to Fingal's
Notch; while Alick remained with the Commodore to give Marie a better
chance for rest. So she hung up a curtain in the rear part of the cave,
and, arranging her couch as comfortably as possible, she read her
letter. Then she lay down hoping to sleep; but it was useless. The
previous night, with the sole care of her father upon her hands, coupled
with the unusual fatigue and anxiety, she slept soundly. This time she
could not sleep at all, but tossed restlessly for hours. At last,
fancying that she heard the sea-gulls, and impressed by an irresistible
desire to paddle upon the lake, Marie rose, and noiselessly pushed her
canoe out into the open. She could hear the quick breathing of her
father, who fortunately was asleep, as well as the slow and stertorous
respiration of Alick, stretched out beside him; but so silent was she in
her movements that neither of them awoke. Stepping into the dainty
little craft, which was as obedient to her dexterous hand as the
well-trained pony is to the rein of its mistress, Marie was soon far out
on the still water. Now she wondered why she had come? There was no
reason that she knew of, except that she was sleepless, and impressed
with a desire to exchange the confined atmosphere of the cave for the
purer air of the lake. Above all, she wanted to stop thinking. She
needed the exercise, too. Perhaps if she made a quick spin for half an
hour and returned fatigued, sleep would come. At any rate she would try.
So taking her bearings, to familiarize herself with the position of the
cave, she struck out in the direction of the main shore, realizing that
by this course the possibility of losing herself would be reduced to a
minimum. Seeing by the star-light a knot of tall pines in the far
distance, she made them her steering point; and was soon disporting
every muscle in her body in the game she loved. The exertion equalized
her circulation and soothed the tumult of her thoughts. By-and-by she
began to feel tired. The home-spin would be enough, and once in the cave
again she would be sure to sleep. Varying the stroke of her paddle, she
swept round with a graceful curve, and, noting that the white cliff of
"X" island was visible, she rested a moment before commencing the
return.

As was wont with her, she listened while she rested. It was almost with
a feeling of expectancy that she strained her ear to catch any sound
that might occur. Yes, there was the note. She was startled. It was the
plaintive piping of the loon. But it was not the note that startled her.
It was the aftermath, coming, too, in a direct line between her canoe
and the cave.

Her heart gave a great bound. What must she do? No loon ever piped its
mournful cadence in that way. It was the signal given long ago between
Stuart and herself--the one by which she had saved him. Whatever its
meaning now might be, it was a human message. Was it possible that any
one else knew it? Or was he, as she believed, the only one? If it were
Stuart, he must at that moment be between herself and her island; and
either knew of her presence on the water, or was pleading for a reply
from any fastness in which she might have found refuge. There was no
prescience of anything like this in his letter or in her own thoughts;
and Marie, controlling her feelings as best she could, was wildly
bewildered at the situation.

Alone on the lake, surrounded by enemies at three o'clock in the
morning, her father almost dying, her brothers dead, out for a spin when
she ought to be sleeping, just to help her to fight the terrible battle
of life, what did she want with Stuart? or any man? She was a MacAlpine,
every inch of her, and for the present no Stuart at all.

Again the loon piped his note. But it was nearer; Marie almost thought
she could see a boat in the distance. Whatever it was she must face it.
No help was near. Involuntarily her right hand slipped beneath her
bosom. Yes, her pistol was there, a dainty little gun that had shot off
the head of many a grouse, and had often struck the bull's eye of a
target. She knew how to protect herself: and if the worst came to the
worst, before any scoundrel could touch her body, a bullet would enter
her heart.

But this was no scoundrel. It was Stuart himself, she felt sure. Still
what should she do? If she were only past him, how quickly her paddle
would swing the canoe back to its moorings and leave him just where he
was. Would it be possible to make a long detour out into the lake and
slip by unnoticed? Again the loon lifted up its voice and the math was
stronger than ever; and oh! so much nearer. There was no possible chance
of escape.

It was best to answer and face the inevitable bravely. Quickly she
raised her voice and, in shrill notes, piped out the answering call.
Then she swung her paddle, took a firm grip with her knees, and struck
for home in the direct line of the loon.




CHAPTER XIII.

REVEALING THE SECRET.


"I knew I could not mistake your answering call. It is what I've been
asking for all night."

His tone was one of passionate appeal, as he sat in his boat parallel
with her canoe, a dozen feet away. He was alone, but made no effort to
come nearer.

"I didn't answer until your third call. Then I had to, you were so
insistent," was her cold reply.

"My third call? It was my twentieth. For three hours up and down the
islands and along the shore the loon has been piping, and I was almost
in despair when your answer came."

"How could you expect an answer at such an hour?"

"I don't think I did expect one; but I knew you were somewhere among
these islands, and with your father ill, you might be awake, and if you
heard it, you would know that help was near."

"And you were up all night calling for an answer," she said,
reflectively; "perhaps that was the reason I couldn't sleep. But why
didn't you call in daytime instead of night?"

"Because I could help you better if no one knew but myself," was his
reply.

"And a pitiful help it would be," said Marie, with a hardness that she
did her best to control; "our people killed, our buildings destroyed,
our home burned, and my father dying from wounds."

"Dying from wounds, surely it is not so bad."

"But it is. With his leg smashed and torn, he lies in a cave without
either surgeon or apothecary to attend him."

"This must not be. Where is he?"

"That is our secret. Think you, even when dying, that he would consent
to be a prisoner?"

"But he would be no prisoner. 'Pon my honor, I declare that living or
dying, if you will take me to him, he shall be a free man, and
everything that a surgeon can do for him shall be done."

"Think you, Captain Stuart, that a MacAlpine would ever accept
generosity from an enemy? My father wouldn't if he knew it; and, thank
heaven, though delirious at times, he still has his reason."

"He must indeed be ill, if delirious already. Can I not persuade you? He
need not know the man; but there is a surgeon, and a good one, whom I
could send. Your father might even take him for a private civilian from
the mainland. Do let me send him, I beg of you. And then, wherever you
may be, there are things you need. Do let me provide them. It's the
least I can do. I owe you personally ten times as much, and you know
it."

"It was only a life for a life, and the debt has been cancelled," said
Marie, coldly.

"Not even a life for a life," he persisted. "Harry shared with me the
glory of saving you; while to you I owe everything."

"Still wrong. I could have done you no service but for Harry's help. So
between my father's foe and myself there is no obligation."

"Even so, shall we not be friends?"

"What can friendship do? It is like a mockery to offer it."

"Please don't say that."

Her only reply was a low, hard laugh. She felt like weeping till her
heart would break, but she would not.

"It is terribly hard, and what you say is true," he continued. "Still I
won't give up. Something must be done. If there is a place anywhere that
will suit your father's condition better than where he is now, I will
see that you and he are taken to it as soon as daylight comes; and if
you say so, I shall not appear at all, nor any of my men. It can all be
done by your own followers."

Marie softened a little.

"It is good of you," she said at last. "I really don't want to be
ungrateful; perhaps there is a way you could help us, but if I tell you
I shall have to give away a secret."

"A secret will be as sacred in my heart as it is in yours."

"Will you swear to keep it?"

"By all that is holy, I swear."

For more than a minute Marie pondered. It was hard to come to a decision
upon so important a subject in so brief a time. And the decision made
must be final.

"Fingal's Notch is devastated?" she said at last.

"Too true," was his assent.

"And the Eagle's Eyrie is burned down?"

"Also true."

"But there is a deep cave behind it uninjured."

"Ah!" was his comment. "I did not know it."

"That is the secret."

"It shall be kept."

"That is the treasure-house of the MacAlpines, the Aladdin's Palace you
once talked of."

"By heaven, you honor me."

"I trust I have not honored you in vain."

The queenly dignity thrilled his nerves and lifted him to a higher
plane. "On this lonely lake, in the dead of night, God is the witness of
our compact," he said.

"Amen," said Marie.

And with uncovered head he looked starward.

"The cave is furnished and armed, and provisioned for a prolonged
hermitage," continued Marie, "and as we have two or three faithful
followers left, I would like these men to take us to it to-morrow
night--if God spares my father that long. After that I desire him to
remain there until the end comes, master of his own inner castle."

"Your desire shall be carried out to the letter. But you will need
fires, will not the smoke reveal the secret?"

"That contingency my father provided for. There is an outer room at the
far end of the cave provided with a chimney, into which the smoke from
all the hidden ones enters, and old Andrew and Janet will move from
their cottage into it, and thus help us to maintain the secret."

"It shall be maintained. Again I swear it."

"Thank you, I must go; it is almost dawn."

"May I not escort you at least part of the way?"

"No, not even an oar's length. There are times when a woman needs to be
alone."

"Well, then, farewell, but God knows it shall not be forever."

For a few moments Marie watched his boat as it gradually disappeared in
the distance. Then she turned and paddled back to the cave.





CHAPTER XIV.

BACK TO THE EYRIE CAVE.


Three days had gone by. It was the fifth one after the battle, and
MacAlpine, after a long struggle, followed by a potion given him by
Marie, had dropped off to sleep. His room was a section of a grotto
whose lofty, irregular roof was ornamented by the shields of his
forebears, placed in position by the sons whose race was already run.
Marie had truly said that the cave contained the heirlooms of the race;
for on the walls hung poniards and daggers and pistols and broadswords,
as well as bows and arrows of ancient days. A score of helmets decorated
the walls, and gauntlets of the falconer hung side by side with
claymores of the days of King James. Here and there bits of historic
tapestry covered the rock and pictures of Stuart maidens and MacAlpine
cavaliers, all debonair, were there.

The couch was a rich one of inlaid wood, decorated with the silver
coat-of-arms of the clan, and the coverlet bore the motto translated
from the Gaelic: "He who follows does it to the death."

Marie fanned her father gently, for even in the grotto the air was warm
and his fever had not abated. Still careworn, her sombre dress only
intensified the sad expression of her face. Although MacAlpine knew that
in some way he had been translated to his own Eyrie cave, he still
sternly resisted seeing a surgeon; and fearing that anger at one's
arrival might undo all the good that he could accomplish, Marie had so
far yielded.

Noiselessly old Andrew entered, and raising the tartan plaid which
closed off that part of the cave, he peered in. Taking out his ponderous
old watch he stood still and looked steadily at the patient.

"Forty breaths to the meenit," he whispered. "I dinna like it; he gets
hot and then cold, and sweats so. Is he still crazy, Miss?"

"Always worse at night time," was Marie's answer.

"There's a skilly man at the hoose the noo," Andrew again whispered; "he
came o'er fishin', no regimentals at all, and wanted Janet to gie him
some dinner. So in the course of talk he said: 'Do ye ken I'm a doctor
taking a holiday; but I'm so durned tired of it that I'd gie onything to
see onybody sick. For,' says he, 'I'd tak it as a favor if I cud see a
sick body; I don't care who it is, or what's the matter.' So I said,
'Janet's sick o' skeeters, can ye cure her?' and the crazy loon only
laughed. But what think ye, Miss Marie? Would it be any use? He looks
like a guid, sensible man."

"Perhaps it would," returned Marie eagerly. "When father awakes I will
try again. Do not let him go."

"He brought some fish he had caught, and we asked him to stay for tea,
so there is no danger. Fact, he is not far awa' this meenit."

A few moments later MacAlpine opened his eyes and looked round the room.

"Something like--my turret castle windows in the roof!" he exclaimed,
jauntily. "See the foes we've conquered--MacAlpine shields to the
right--our enemies to the left--slain in battle every one o'
them--McKinnon, McDermot, McGeorge, McQueen, McClintock, McLeod, Morris
and Lennox, and Dalgleish, too. Hurrah for the claymore, the battle-axe
of our people! What is it? Is that you, Marie? What's the matter with
this leg o' mine? It's like a log with a fire at both ends and a red-hot
hole in the middle. Give me some drink--give it quick--I'm getting
weak--need something stronger than lemon-wash and beer."

"Yes," said Marie over her shoulder, "have him come now."

And in another minute the stranger, with grave but kindly face, entered
the room.

MacAlpine was wandering again, heedless of anyone. As the doctor touched
his pulse he paused for a moment and then rattled on:

"'Tis not true--red men are all right--'tis the whites that are
blackguards--rob them of their lands--cheat them of the pittance they
give them--but MacAlpine gives 'em a home in the islands--where they
fish for mackerel and sturgeon--and the little squaws stay at home--and
never say die. What the deuce are you doing with my leg?--Oh! you are
the doctor--eh?--a privileged person--pray excuse me--I don't know what
I'm talking about--my head's on fire--but--do you know--Andrew's better
than the whole batch of you--if it wasn't for that fiendish plaster of
his--may he die some day with one on his--mouth."

The doctor's face was very grave. He took Marie aside to question her.

"Can anything be done?" she asked.

"Not much I fear," was his answer. He was too kind-hearted to say that
something might have been done, but it was too late.

"Would it give him any chance," she tried to overcome the choking
sensation in her throat, "were you to remove the leg?"

"No," was his answer; "he is suffering from pus in the blood, and the
pain and shock of the operation would kill him."

"And can we not make him easier?"

"Oh, yes, we will do what we can to relieve his sufferings."

"I am sure you will."

At Janet's cottage the doctor met Captain Stuart. "You have seen him,"
said the latter.

"Yes, just a moment ago."

"How is he?"

"Bad, bad; won't survive another twenty-four hours. Dying of pymia of
the most virulent type. I cannot understand it. Of course he has a
compound fracture of the leg, with a badly splintered bone and large
external wound. And then there is the hot weather, and the jolting
without splints to the cave, and the bungling of that good-natured old
chiel, Andrew, and I know not what else. But a strong, true man--I don't
care what he is in politics--he is a true man--should never be brushed
out of life so easily as that. God pity us. We need just such men."

"I am glad to hear you say it. Give me your hand."

And for a moment they held each other with a silent grip.




CHAPTER XV.

THE PASSING OF THE "KING."


The doctor sadly neglected his fishing during the next twenty-four
hours. He was with his patient morning, noon and night. Now and then he
would take a run to Janet's cottage, and then hurry back again; and when
evening came he flatly declared to Andrew that he did not intend to
leave the cave again that night.

For a while MacAlpine was easier. Refreshing lotions soothed the fevered
limb, and cooling medication checked the progress of the fever and
quieted his nerves. More than once an hour's sleep followed the
administration of a sedative; and Marie's hope revived. But when he
awoke, delirious again, and refused to take nourishment, her depression
returned. Sometimes his language was sharp and clear and, while panting
for breath, he would ring out in clarion tones his commands to his
followers. At others he would sing snatches of song leading his men to
battle, or hurl maledictions upon his enemies or anyone who dared to
oppose his will.

All day long, however, there were little intervals of consciousness,
when Marie, with her hand clasped in his, could get close to her
father's heart. These were precious moments to her and every one was
treasured.

"Marie!" he once exclaimed, drawing her towards him and looking
intently into her eyes. "Your mother's image--but stronger--as much
MacAlpine as Stuart. You remember her, child--one of the purest lilies
God ever made--too tender--too true to live. I'm afraid--yes--I'm afraid
I was hard on her. The Highland chief was too much for the Stuart
lassie--the lily should never wed the oak--nor the skylark the eagle.
But I was young and it seemed to be best--and--I tried to be kind."

"I know you did, father. I'm sure you did," sobbed Marie.

"Ah! well, she didn't stand it long--three years only among the
islands--far away from home and friends and people that she loved--then
she wilted away--we didn't have either cave or castle then--and the
iron-bound chests from our old fortress in Scotland--were stored like
ourselves in shanties. It froze hard in winter--each one harder than the
last. We could stand it, but our lily couldn't; and she left us--left
us--what did I say?--

  We left the hills behind us
    In order to be free;
  No tyranny could bind us,
    And so we crossed the sea.

"No, it's not the sea--it's the islands--islands--so many you can't
count 'em. It makes me so tired--they are always singing it:

  Mid the wrangle and jangle and tangle of men
  MacAlpines are coming right out of the glen,

and, and--"

But his eyes closed and in muttering delirium he once more dropped off
to sleep.

An hour later it was dark. The turret windows of the cave had long
ceased to give sufficient light; and old-fashioned lamps with silver
cords, suspended high in the air above MacAlpine's bed, threw a weird
light into the deep recesses, and flashed it back from many a dark
corner as it fell upon plated armor, scrolled scabbard, or glittering
steel.

Consciousness by this time seemed to be gone. Marie had caught his last
rational words, and wearily now she glanced around the room. The doctor
stood by the bed while Andrew and Janet were peering beneath the tartan
plaid. There was no one to help her; she must bear the cross alone.

But a light step approached. A hand touched her shoulder. It was
Stuart's. "I couldn't stay away any longer," he murmured; "I had to
come."

"Thank you, I am glad. It is terrible to be alone."

"And he's let all the men come back, every man John of 'em, to see the
Commodore before he dees," whispered Andrew in a low staccato. "May they
come in, Miss Marie?"

"It will do no harm," said the doctor, "if they can pass right through.
And it's a tribute that I know a man like our friend would not refuse if
he were conscious."

"Oh, yes, let them come," whispered Marie, with a sob of joy, as well as
of grief; and drawing a silken cord, she threw open a passage to the
cave beyond.

Then they filed through, two score of them, old and young, men and
boys, with moistened eyes and haggard faces. Where they came from no one
knew. How they had got the knowledge was equally a mystery. But somehow,
seemingly without a messenger, from island to island, from shore to
shore, had gone out the word that their King was dying and had been
brought back to draw his last breath and to lay his bones by the old,
old cave of the Eyrie, and that they were to see him. One word from
Stuart, given three hours before, had done the deed. As the last one
with bowed head passed through and the curtain was dropped again, Harry
and Jessie, from different directions, came in also, and remained.
Presently MacAlpine threw up his hand and with eyes still closed, sang
out in broken voice:

  'Tis the tramp of our men
  Over mountain and glen,
  The tramp of our men
  For aye--

"They're a braw lot," and again he wandered.

Towards midnight the change came. They thought he had spoken his last
word, for a deeper drowsiness had fallen upon him, his breath coming and
going in short, hard gasps. But he opened his eyes once more and tried
to look around.

"I must be getting blind," he said. "Can't see anybody--light the lamps,
Marie. Where are you, child?"

"I am here, father, right beside you."

"Oh, yes, yes, I know your hand. Not soft as your mother's--but it's
kind--God bless you, child, I'm going--yes, going. But what'll become of
my darling when I'm gone? The race all dead--not one MacAlpine left to
care for my little Princess--Oh, God! Oh, God! Why should it be so?
Perhaps I've been selfish--wanted you all to myself--no one good enough
for my Marie! And now the punishment is come."

"Oh, it's not that! It's not that."

"But it is. I say it is. There's a man I hated--not because he was bad,
for he wasn't--not because he fought for the Queen, what matter? But I
hated him for the feud's sake--and because he loved my child. I know in
my fever I've been mad--my brain on fire--but Marie, I've been thinking
hard--and a MacAlpine living or dying should be just. I don't know where
he is--and I'm so blind that I couldn't see him--nor even you--but if
you love him--take him. It will not be a skylark marrying an eagle--I
acknowledge it all now--but a Princess--wedding a Stuart. Give me your
hand, child--your hand--Bless, oh, Christ--" And on her knees she held
his hand in both of hers, bathing it passionately in tears. When she
arose he was dead.

But Marie was not alone. Stuart's arm supported her, and she sobbed out
her grief upon his shoulder.


  =Transcriber's Notes:=
  original hyphenation, spelling and grammar have been preserved as in
    the original
  Page 6, 'Lady Head."' changed to 'Lady Head.'
  Page 137, "And its all well" change to "And it's all well"
  Page 155, "sideline" changed to "side-line" [Ed. for consistency]
  Page 181, 'This must be' changed to '"This must be'
  Page 212, "while we can" changed to "while we can."
  Page 252, "portholes" changed to "port-holes" [Ed. for consistency]
  Page 266, "each one one wins" changed to "each one wins"
  Page 297, 'What's happened?"' changed to '"What's happened?"'
  Page 306, she's one.' changed to she's one."




[End of The Mac's of '37, by Price-Brown]
