, was not from this fusilade but from the
intercepting soldiers at the top of the Pass. Theirs had been a longer
and rougher way to travel; would they, by the time he reached the
summit, if reach it he did, be near enough to capture or shoot him?

Up, up, still panted the noble Mack, almost exhausted, until, with a
final effort, he gained the last ridge and, oh, what a relief! His
flanks heaved, his beautiful head dropped to the heather, and I could
see that his forequarters had turned from black to a lather of white
foam, testimony to the great strain of the climb. The Black Colonel
sprang from the saddle, walked to the edge of the crag, took his dirk
from his garter and put it to his lips. He was vowing the oath of a
"broken" Highlander, to be revenged, or thanking Providence for his
escape, perhaps both.

He did all this, as I could follow, in the grey morning light, coolly,
nay disdainfully, seeming to regard the bullets from the converging
sharp-shooters as just so many bees buzzing harmlessly about him.
Next, he tightened the girth, which Mack's panting had loosened,
bridled the horse again, vaulted lightly into the saddle, touched his
bonnet in mock salutation, and rode over the hills for home.

There were those who saw a white horse go up the strath that morning
with, as they swore, the Black Colonel for rider, though all knew the
actual colour of Mack to be black. There were others who said it was
Death on his White Horse, and because a man died in the same small
hours those mongers of destiny were believed.

_IV--The Opening Road_

If this were a story invented, and not a tale of true happenings, there
would be an end when the Black Colonel rode triumphantly from the Pass.

But, sitting alone and lonely a few days later in my room at Corgarff
Castle, and reflecting on the affair, I said to myself that it was only
the beginning. A drama of real life rarely closes with the hero in
heroics, the heroine a-swoon in her beauty, and the world a-clap with
admiration.

No doubt the Black Colonel had got away very well, almost as if he had
leapt through a lighted window, with a resounding crash of broken
glass. Well, there would be the fragments to gather up, for the
fragments have always to be remembered, or they may cause harm. Here I
was a fragment, and I asked myself into what basket I was to be
gathered, because, you should know, the hills give those of us who
dwell among them a sense of fate-