he day, limped somehow by. He walked to keep himself warm.
Back and forth and to and fro. December--December--December! How cold
was the Kelpie's Pool? Poisoned love--poisoned friendship--ambition in
ruin--bells ringing for executions! To and fro--to and fro. He had
always felt life as sensuous, rich, and warm, with garlands and
colors. It had been large and aglow, with a profusion of arabesques of
imagination and emotion. Thought had not lacked, but thought, too,
bore a personal, passional cast, and was much interested in a golden
world of sense. Just this December day the world seemed the ocean-bed
of life, where dull creatures moved slowly in cold, thick ooze, and
annihilation was much to be desired.... The day went by. The same man
brought him supper. There seemed to be triumph in his face. "They'll
be bringing in more prisoners--unless we don't make prisoners!"
Nothing more could be gained from that quarter. In the night it began
to rain. He listened to its dash against the window. Black Hill came
into mind, and the rain against his windows there. He was cold, and he
tried, with the regressive sense, to feel himself in that old, warm
nest. His Black Hill room rose about him, firelit. The fire lighted
that Italian painting of a city of refuge and a fleeing man, behind
whom ran the avenger of blood.... Then it was July, and he was in the
glen with Elspeth Barrow. He fought away from the recollection of
that, for it involved a sickness of the soul.... Italy! Think of
Italy. Venice, and a month that he had spent there alone--Old
Steadfast being elsewhere. It had been a warm season, warm and rich,
sun-kissed and languorous, like the fruit, like the Italian women....
Leave out the women, but try to feel again the sun of Venice!

He tried, but the cold of his prison fought with the sun. Then
suddenly sprang clamor without. The uproar increased. He rose, he
heard the bolts open, the door open. In came light and voices.
"Captain Rullock! We beat them at Clifton! We learned that you were
here! Lord George sent us back for you...."

Three days later Scotch earth was again beneath their feet. They
marched to Glasgow; they marched to Stirling; they fought the battle
of Falkirk and again there was Jacobite victory. And now there was an
army of eight thousand.... And then began a time of poor policy,
mistaken moves. And in April befell the battle of Culloden and
far-resounding ruin.

CHAPTER XXI

The green May rolled