msden's--soaked our plaids in the
running rivers of Low Germanie, and rolled them round us at night to
make our hides the warmer, our sleep the snugger? Oh, the old days! Oh,
the stout days! God's name, but I ken one man who wearies of these tame
and comfortable times!"

"Whether or not," said Sir Donald, anxious to be on, "I wish the top of
Dunchuach was under our brogues."

"_Allons, mes amis_, then," said John, and out we set.

Out we went, and we sped swiftly down to the bridge, feeling a sense of
safety in the dark and the sound of the water that mourned in a hollow
way under the wooden cabars. There was no sentinel, and we crossed dry
and safely. On the other side, the fields, broken here and there by
dry-stone dykes, a ditch or two, and one long thicket of shrubs, rose
in a gentle ascent to the lime-kiln. We knew every foot of the way as
'twere in our own pockets, and had small difficulty in pushing on in the
dark. The night, beyond the kiln and its foreign trees, was loud with
the call of white-horned owls, sounding so human sometimes that it sent
the heart vaulting and brought us to pause in a flurried cluster on the
path that we followed closely as it twisted up the hill.

However, we were in luck's way for once. Never a creature challenged our
progress until we landed at the north wall of the fort, and crouching in
the rotten brake, cried, "Gate, oh!" to the occupants.

A stir got up within; a torch flared on the wall, and a voice asked our
tartan and business.

"Is that you, Para Mor?" cried John Splendid. "It's a time for short
ceremony. Here are three or four of your closest friends terribly keen
to see the inside of a wall."

"Barbreck, is't?" cried Para Mor, holding the flambeau over his head
that he might look down on us.

"Who's that with the red tartan?" he asked, speaking of MacLachlan,
whose garments shone garish in the light beside our dull Campbell
country war-cloth.

"Condemn your parley, Para Mor," cried Sir Donald; "it's young
MacLachlan,--open your doors!"

And the gate in a little swung on its hinges to pass us in.

CHAPTER XI.--ON BENS OF WAR.

This mount of Dunchuach, on which we now found ourselves ensconced,
rises in a cone shape to a height of about eight hundred feet, its
bottom being but a matter of a quarter-mile from the castle door. It is
wooded to the very nose, almost, except for the precipitous _sgornach_
or scaur, that, seen from a distance, looks like a red