ecome of them, whereupon Elspeth cried, in horror:

"Cards! Oh, Tommy, you promised--"

But Stroke rode her down with, "Cards! Wha has been playing cards? You,
Muckle Kenny, and you, Sir Joseph, after I forbade it! Hie, there,
Inverquharity, all of you, seize those men."

Then Corp blinked, came to his senses and marched himself off to the
prison on the lonely promontory called the Queen's Bower, saying
ferociously, "Jouk, Sir Joseph, and I'll blaw you into posterity."

It is sable night when Stroke and Sir Joseph reach a point in the Den
whence the glimmering lights of the town are distinctly visible. Neither
speaks. Presently the distant eight-o'clock bell rings, and then Sir
Joseph looks anxiously at his warts, for this is the signal to begin,
and as usual he has forgotten the words.

"Go on," says someone in a whisper. It cannot be Stroke, for his head
is brooding on his breast. This mysterious voice haunted all the doings
in the Den, and had better be confined in brackets.

("Go on.")

"Methinks," says Sir Joseph, "methinks the borers--"

("Burghers.")

"Methinks the burghers now cease from their labors."

"Ay," replied Stroke, "'tis so, would that they ceased from them
forever!"

"Methinks the time is at hand."

"Ha!" exclaims Stroke, looking at his lieutenant curiously, "what makest
thou say so? For three weeks these fortifications have defied my cannon,
there is scarce a breach yet in the walls of yonder town."

"Methinks thou wilt find a way."

"It may be so, my good Sir Joseph, it may be so, and yet, even when I am
most hopeful of success, my schemes go a gley."

"Methinks thy dark--"

("Dinna say Methinks so often.")

("Tommy, I maun. If I dinna get that to start me off, I go through
other.")

("Go on.")

"Methinks thy dark spirit lies on thee to-night."

"Ay, 'tis too true. But canst thou blame me if I grow sad? The town
still in the enemy's hands, and so much brave blood already spilt in
vain. Knowest thou that the brave Kinnordy fell last night? My noble
Kinnordy!"

Here Stroke covers his face with his hands, weeping silently, and--and
there is an awkward pause.

("Go on--'Still have me.'")

("So it is.") "Weep not, my royal scone--"

("Scion.")

"Weep not, my royal scion, havest thou not still me?"

"Well said, Sir Joseph," cries Stroke, dashing the sign of weakness from
his face. "I still have many brave fellows, and with their help I shall
be master of this proud to