icate and not overly well grown in my body, I do not
count myself a coward; even though my brother Sandy's courage be not
mine. "Blind-eye, hard-head" was ever his sort, but I love to take my
danger open-eyed and standing up--and as little of it as possible.

As I went back--which I did instantly, leaving the stable door swinging
open--I heard my mother's voice again. She was calling aloud and the
sound of her voice was yearning and full like that of a young woman.

"William!" she called, and again "William!"

Now though that is my name I knew full well that it was not to me, her
son, that she called. For that is the voice a woman only uses to him who
has been her man, and with her has drunk of the fountain of the joy of
youth. Once on a time I shot an eagle on the Millyea, and his mate came
and called him even thus, with a voice that was as soft as that of a
cushie dove crooning in the tall trees in the early summer, till I could
have wept for sorrow at my deed.

Then as I went in, I came upon my mother a step or two from the open
door, groping with her arms wide in the darkness.

"Oh," she cried, "William, my William, the Lord be thankit!" and she
clasped me to her heart.

But in a moment she flung me from her.

"Oh! it's you," she said bitterly, and went within without another word,
her harshness jangling on my heart.

Yet I understood, for my mother was always greatly set on my father. And
once when in jest we teased her to try her, telling her the story of the
pious AEneas, and asking her to prophesy to us which one of us she would
lift, if so it was that the house of Earlstoun were in a lowe.

"Faith," said my mother, "I wad tak' your faither on my back, gin a' the
lave o' ye had to bide and burn!"

So it was ever with my mother. She was my father's sweetheart to her
latest hour.

But when I went in I found her sitting, sheet-white and trembling on the
settle.

"What's ta'en ye, mither?" I said to her, putting a shawl about her.

"O my man, my bonny man," she said, "there's nane to steek your e'en the
nicht! An' Mary Gordon maun lie her leesome lane for evermair!"

"Hoot, mither," I said, "speak not so. My faither will come his ways
hame i' the mornin' nae doot, wi' a' the lads o' the Kenside clatterin'
ahint him. Sandy is wi' him, ye ken."

"Na," she said calmly enough, but as one who has other informations,
"Sandy is no wi' him. Sandy gaed through the battle wi' his heid doon
and his sword rinn