ands of vagrants from the heights of Glencroe and the high Rest where
Wade's road bent among the clouds would pass with little or no appeal to
the hospitality of Doom, whose poverty they knew; now and then rustics
in red hoods, their feet bare upon the gravel, made for the town market,
sometimes singing as they went till their womanly voices, even in airs
unfamiliar and a language strange and guttural, gave to Count Victor
an echo of old mirth in another and a warmer land. Men passed on rough
short ponies; once a chariot with a great caleche roof swung on the
rutless road, once a company of red-coat soldiery shot like a gleam of
glory across the afternoon, moving to the melody of a fife and drum.

For the latter Mungo had a sour explanation. They were come, it seemed,
to attend a trial for murder. A clansman of the Duke's and a far-out
cousin (in the Highland manner of speaking) had been shot dead in the
country of Appin; the suspected assassin, a Stewart of course, was on
trial; the blood of families and factions was hot over the business, and
the Government was sending its soldiery to convoy James Stewart of the
Glen, after his conviction, back to the place of execution.

"But, _mon Dieu!_ he is yet to try, is he not?" cried Count Victor.

"Oh ay!" Mungo acquiesced, "but that doesna' maitter; the puir cratur
is as guid as scragged. The tow's aboot his thrapple and kittlin' him
already, I'll warrant, for his name's Stewart, and in this place I would
sooner be ca'd Beelzebub; I'd hae a better chance o' my life if I found
mysel' in trouble wi' a Campbell jury to try me."

Montaiglon watched this little cavalcade of military march along the
road, with longing in his heart for the brave and busy outside world
they represented. He watched them wistfully till they had disappeared
round the horn of land he had stood on yesterday, and their fife and
drum had altogether died upon the air of the afternoon. And turning, he
found the Baron of Doom silent at his elbow, looking under his hat-brim
at the road.

"More trouble for the fesse checkey, Baron," said he, indicating the
point whereto the troops had gone.

"The unluckiest blazon on a coat," replied the castellan of Doom;
"trouble seems to be the part of every one who wears it. It's in a very
unwholesome quarter when it comes into the boar's den--"

"Boar's den?" repeated Montaiglon interrogatively.

"The head of the pig is his Grace's cognisance. Clan Diarmaid must hav