faced man. He rose.

"I think I am going now," said he, in a low voice. "You won't take it
unkindly, Ogilvie, that I don't stop to talk with you: it is a strange
story you have told me--I want time to think over it. Good-by!"

"The fact is, Macleod," Ogilvie stammered, as he regarded his friend's
face, "I don't like to leave you. Won't you stay and dine with our
fellows? or shall I see if I can run up to London with you?"

"No, thank you, Ogilvie," said he. "And have you any message for the
mother and Janet?"

"Oh, I hope you will remember me most kindly to them. At least, I will
go to the station with you, Macleod."

"Thank you, Ogilvie; but I would rather go alone. Good-by, now."

He shook hands with his friend, in an absent sort of way, and left. But
while yet his hand was on the door, he turned and said,--

"Oh, do you remember my gun that has the shot barrel and the rifle
barrel?"

"Yes, certainly."

"And would you like to have that, Ogilvie?--we sometimes had it when we
were out together."

"Do you think I would take your gun from you, Macleod?" said the other.
"And you will soon have plenty of use for it now."

"Good-by, then, Ogilvie," said he, and he left, and went out into the
world of rain, and lowering skies, and darkening moors.

And when he went back to Dare it was a wet day also; but he was very
cheerful; and he had a friendly word for all whom he met; and he told
the mother and Janet that he had got home at last, and meant to go no
more a-roving. But that evening, after dinner, when Donald began to play
the Lament for the memory of the five sons of Dare, Macleod gave a sort
of stifled cry, and there were tears running down his cheeks--which was
a strange thing for a man; and he rose and left the hall, just as a
woman would have done. And his mother sat there, cold, and pale, and
trembling; but the gentle cousin Janet called out, with a piteous
trouble in her eyes,--

"Oh, auntie, have you seen the look on our Keith's face, ever since he
came ashore to-day?"

"I know it, Janet," said she. "I have seen it. That woman has broken his
heart; and he is the last of my six brave lads!"

They could not speak any more now; for Donald had come up the hall; and
he was playing the wild, sad wail of the _Cumhadh-na-Cloinne_.

CHAPTER XLI.

A LAST HOPE.

Those sleepless nights of passionate yearning and despair--those days of
sullen gloom, broken only by wild cravings for revenge that wen