and calling,
even for the name of my chief. Will you credit me when I say I was blind
to my own act? Something in me rose uncontrollable, and had you been
Hector in armour, or my grandfather from the grave, I was at your neck."

"Say no more about it," answered Gordon. "I have seen the wolf so often
at the Highlander's heart that I need not be wondering to find him
snarling and clawing now. And still--from a gentleman--and a person of
travel----"

"Say away, sir," said M'Iver, bitterly; "you have the whole plea with
you this time, and I'm a rogue of the blackest I can say no more than
I'm sorry for a most dirty action."

Gordon looked at him, and seemed convinced that here was a genuine
remorse; at least his mien softened and he said quietly, "You'll hear no
more of it from me."

We were standing, M'Iver and I, in front of the hearth, warming to the
peat glow, and the cleric sat in an oak arm-chair. Out in the vacant
night the rain still pattered and the gale cried. And all at once, above
the sound of wind and water, there came a wild rapping at the main door
of the house, the alarum of a very crouse and angry traveller finding
a hostel barred against him at unseasonable hours. A whole childhood
of fairy tale rose to my mind in a second; but the plain truth followed
with more conviction, that likely here was no witch, warlock, nor fairy,
but some one with a better right to the tenancy of Dal-ness than seven
broken men with nor let nor tack. We were speedily together, the seven
of us, and gathered in the hall, and listening with mouths open and
hearts dunting, to the rapping that had no sign of ceasing.

"I'll have a vizzy from an upper window of who this may be," said John,
sticking a piece of pine in the fire till it flared at the end, and
hurrying with it thus lighted up the stair. I followed at his heels,
while the rest remained below ready to give whatever reception was most
desirable to the disturbers of our night's repose. The window we went
to looked out on the most utter blackness, a blackness that seemed to
stream in at the window as we swung it softly back on its hinge. M'Iver
put oat his head and his torch, giving a warder's keek at the door below
where the knocking continued. He drew in his head quickly and looked at
me with astonishment.

"It's a woman," said he. "I never saw a campaign where so many
petticoats of one kind or another were going. Who, in God's name, can
this one be, and what's her er