m that great mountain. Thy home and Thy dwelling-place, and see me,
Thy servant, twisted and gnarled like the roots of a fallen tree. It
will be in Thy hands to raise up or cast down, and the wicked are
before Thee. Strike, God of Battle, and the raging sea, strike and
spare not the wicked, for Thy servant will have waited long."

* * * * * *

Gilchrist, who was now the head of the gangers and preventives, turned
on his pillow after Dol Beag had crept out.

"Ay, Mirren Stuart," said he, "Mirren Stuart that rade the Uist pony
and laughed at me in my young days--maybe, Mirren, ye will come to my
door yet--my _back_ door."

* * * * * *

And those two that took the road up through the Glen by the burnside
past the very trees where Bryde and Helen sat on yon June morning when
the spider-webs were floating--John and Kate that dawdled on the road,
for never was a road too long for young folk in love--these two would
be making but the one shadow on the road, for the lass had thrown her
shawl over them both, and for a long time they were in the heather, not
far from Birrican, at a place they will be calling Oliver's garden--the
wherefore I will not know, unless maybe some of Cromwell's men would be
killed there, for I have heard the old folk say that Cromwell's
garrison at the Castle would be put to the sword; but I have no sure
knowledge of the garrison, or of the place of the killing, although I
am hoping that the folk did bravely, for it is never in me to be
forgiving the Drove at Dunbar. But it was not Dunbar that these lovers
were heeding about--ye will have been in the heather with a lass maybe,
so you will be guessing that.

"Would you be telling the mother of you that we would be for marrying,
Kate?"

"Yes," said the lass in a whisper, and put her head against the curve
of his breast. "I could be sleeping here."

"Och, my lass, it is fine to be sleeping in the heather. My father and
his brother would be lying out like the kye in the summer, when they
would be at the smuggling, they will be often telling me. And, Kate,"
said he, "you would not be saying any word o' the ploy at the Cleiteadh
mor, for your father, Dol Beag, is not very chief with Dan McBride."

"It will not be spoken of," said she; but the lass held her man the
closer. "You will not be thinking of going to that place. I could not
be letting you go there now."

"It will be the