ngrily; the voice was Dorothy Varick's, and I wondered that
she had the heart to sing such foolishness for men whose grip was
already on her people's throats.

In the dining-hall somebody blew the view-halloo on a hunting-horn, and
I heard cheers and the dulled roar of a chorus:

"--Rally your men!
Campbell and Cameron,
Fox-hunting gentlemen,
Follow the Jacobite back to his den!
Run with the runaway rogue to his runway,
Stole-away!
Stole-away!
Gallop to Galway,
Back to Broadalbin and double to Perth;
Ride! for the rebel is running to earth!"

And the shrill, fierce Highland cry, "Gralloch him!" echoed the infamous
catch, till the night air rang faintly in the starlight.

"Cruachan!" shouted Captain Campbell; "the wild myrtle to clan Campbell,
the heather to the McDonalds! An't--Arm, chlanna!"

And a great shout answered him: "The army! Sons of the army!"

Sullen and troubled and restless, I paced the porch, and at length sat
down on the steps to cool my hot forehead in my hands.

And as I sat, there came my cousin Dorothy to the porch to look for me,
fanning her flushed face with a great, plumy fan, the warm odor of roses
still clinging to her silken skirts.

"Have they ended?" I asked, none too graciously.

"They are beginning," she said, with a laugh, then drew a deep breath
and waved her fan slowly. "Ah, the sweet May night!" she murmured, eyes
fixed on the north star. "Can you believe that men could dream of war
in this quiet paradise of silence?"

I made no answer, and she went on, fanning her hot cheeks: "They're off
to Oswego by dawn, the whole company, gallant and baggage." She laughed
wickedly. "I don't mean their ladies, cousin."

"How could you?" I protested, grimly.

"Their wagons," she said, "started to-day at sundown from Tribes Hill;
Sir John, the Butlers, and the Glencoe gentlemen follow at dawn. There
are post-chaises for the ladies out yonder, and an escort, too. But
nobody would stop them; they're as safe as Catrine Montour."

"Dorothy, who is this Catrine Montour?" I asked.

"A woman, cousin; a terrible hag who runs through the woods, and none
dare stop her."

"A real hag? You mean a ghost?"

"No, no; a real hag, with black locks hanging, and long arms that could
choke an ox."

"Why does she run through the woods?" I asked, amused.

"Why? Who knows? She is always seen running."

"Where does she run to?"

"I don't know. Once Henry Stoner, the hunter, follow