ady. But Heritage was
not like him and would never be content with a romantic folly.... He
had been in love with her for two years--a long time. He spoke about
wanting to die for her, which was a flight beyond Dickson himself. "I
doubt it will be what they call a 'grand passion,'" he reflected with
reverence. But it was hopeless; he saw quite clearly that it was
hopeless.

Why, he could not have explained, for Dickson's instincts were subtler
than his intelligence. He recognized that the two belonged to
different circles of being, which nowhere intersected. That mysterious
lady, whose eyes had looked through life to the other side, was no mate
for the Poet. His faithful soul was agitated, for he had developed for
Heritage a sincere affection. It would break his heart, poor man.
There was he holding the fort alone and cheering himself with
delightful fancies about one remoter than the moon. Dickson wanted
happy endings, and here there was no hope of such. He hated to admit
that life could be crooked, but the optimist in him was now fairly
dashed.

Sir Archie might be the fortunate man, for of course he would soon be
in love with her, if he were not so already. Dickson like all his
class had a profound regard for the country gentry. The business Scot
does not usually revere wealth, though he may pursue it earnestly, nor
does he specially admire rank in the common sense. But for ancient
race he has respect in his bones, though it may happen that in public
he denies it, and the laird has for him a secular association with good
family.... Sir Archie might do. He was young, good-looking, obviously
gallant... But no! He was not quite right either. Just a trifle too
light in weight, too boyish and callow. The Princess must have youth,
but it should be mighty youth, the youth of a Napoleon or a Caesar. He
reflected that the Great Montrose, for whom he had a special
veneration, might have filled the bill. Or young Harry with his beaver
up? Or Claverhouse in the picture with the flush of temper on his
cheek?

The meditations of the match-making Dickson came to an abrupt end. He
had been riding negligently, his head bent against the wind, and his
eyes vaguely fixed on the wet hill-gravel of the road. Of his
immediate environs he was pretty well unconscious. Suddenly he was
aware of figures on each side of him who advanced menacingly. Stung to
activity he attempted to increase his pace, which was already good,