of Hamish. There was no chance, in these days, for a band of
Northern pirates to rush into a church and carry off a screaming bride.
There were other ways than that--gentler ways; and the victim of the
conspiracy, why, she would only laugh in the happy after-time, and be
glad that he had succeeded. And meanwhile he rejoiced that so much had
to be done. Oh yes, there was plenty to think about now, other than
these terrible visions of the night. There was work to do; and the cold
sea-air was cooling the fevered brain, so that it all seemed pleasant
and easy and glad. There was Colin Laing to be summoned from Greenock,
and questioned. The yacht had to be provisioned for a long voyage. He
had to prepare the mother and Janet for his going away. And might not
Norman Ogilvie find out somehow when the marriage was to be, so that he
would know how much time was left him?

But with all this eagerness and haste, he kept whispering to himself
counsels of caution and prudence. He dared not awaken her suspicion by
professing too much forgiveness or friendliness. He wrote to her--with
what a trembling hand he put down those words, _Dear Gertrude_, on
paper, and how wistfully he regarded them!--but the letter was a proud
and cold letter. He said that he had been informed she was about to be
married; he wished to ascertain from herself whether that was true. He
would not reproach her, either with treachery or deceit; if this was
true, passionate words would not be of much avail. But he would prefer
to be assured, one way or another, by her own hand. That was the
substance of the letter.

And then, the answer! He almost feared she would not write. But when
Hamish himself brought that pink envelope to him, how his heart beat!
And the old man stood there in silence, and with gloom on his face; was
there to be, after all, no act of vengeance on her who had betrayed
Macleod of Dare?

These few words seemed to have been written with unsteady fingers. He
read them again and again. Surely there was no dark mystery within them.

"DEAR KEITH,--I cannot bear to write to you. I do not know how it
has all happened. Forgive me, if you can and forget me. G."

"Oh, Hamish," said he, with a strange laugh, "it is an easy thing to
forget that you have been alive? That would be an easy thing, if one
were to ask you? But is not Colin Laing coming here to-day?"

"Oh yes, Sir Keith," Hamish said, with his eyes lighting up eagerly; "he
will