he gathering gloom. Corp of that
Ilk sank on his knees at the water's edge, and kissing his royal
master's hand said, fervently, "Welcome, my prince, once more to bonny
Scotland!" Then he rose and whispered, but with scarcely less emotion,
"There's an egg to your tea."

CHAPTER XXII

THE SIEGE OF THRUMS

The man in the moon is a native of Thrums, who was put up there for
hacking sticks on the Sabbath, and as he sails over the Den his interest
in the bit placey is still sufficient to make him bend forward and cry
"Boo!" at the lovers. When they jump apart you can see the aged
reprobate grinning. Once out of sight of the den, he cares not a boddle
how the moon travels, but the masterful crittur enrages him if she is in
a hurry here, just as he is cleverly making out whose children's
children are courting now. "Slow, there!" he cries to the moon, but she
answers placidly that they have the rest of the world to view to-night.
"The rest of the world be danged!" roars the man, and he cranes his neck
for a last glimpse of the Cuttle Well, until he nearly falls out of the
moon.

Never had the man such a trying time as during the year now before him.
It was the year when so many scientific magnates sat up half the night
in their shirts, spying at him through telescopes. But every effort to
discover why he was in such a fidget failed, because the spy-glasses
were never levelled at the Thrums den. Through the whole of the
incidents now to tell, you may conceive the man (on whom sympathy would
be wasted) dagoning horribly, because he was always carried past the den
before he could make head or tail of the change that had come over it.

The spot chosen by the ill-fated Stuart and his gallant remnant for
their last desperate enterprise was eminently fitted for their purpose.
Being round the corner from Thrums, it was commanded by no fortified
place save the farm of Nether Drumgley, and on a recent goustie night
nearly all the trees had been blown down, making a hundred hiding-places
for bold climbers, and transforming the Den into a scene of wild and
mournful grandeur. In no bay more suitable than the flooded field called
the Silent Pool could the hunted prince have cast anchor, for the Pool
is not only sheltered from observation, but so little troubled by gales
that it had only one drawback: at some seasons of the year it was not
there. This, however, did not vex Stroke, as it is cannier to call him,
for he burned his