n mourning and hand-and-heart rings. See that you have the
skins' worth. Alick's an awfu' man to get the upper hand of."

"I'm thinking a MacLean should have small difficulty with a Ker," said the
storekeeper dryly. "What I'm wanting to know is why I am saddled with the
company of Monsieur Jean Hugon." He jerked his thumb toward the figure of
the trader standing within the doorway. "I do not like the gentleman, and
I'd rather trudge it to Williamsburgh alone."

"Ye ken not the value of the skins, nor how to show them off," answered
the other. "Wherefore, for the consideration of a measure of rum, he's
engaged to help you in the trading. As for his being half Indian, Gude
guide us! It's been told me that no so many centuries ago the Highlandmen
painted their bodies and went into battle without taking advantage even of
feathers and silk grass. One half of him is of the French nobeelity; he
told me as much himself. And the best of ye--sic as the Campbells--are no
better than that."

He looked at MacLean with a caustic smile. The latter shrugged his
shoulders. "So long as you tie him neck and heels with a Campbell I am
content," he answered. "Are you going? I'll just bar the windows and lock
the door, and then I'll be off with yonder copper cadet of a French house.
Good-day to you. I'll be back to-night."

"Ye'd better," said the overseer, with another widening of his thin lips.
"For myself, I bear ye no ill-will; for my grandmither--rest her
soul!--came frae the north, and I aye thought a Stewart better became the
throne than a foreign-speaking body frae Hanover. But if the store is not
open the morn I'll raise hue and cry, and that without wasting time. I've
been told ye're great huntsmen in the Highlands; if ye choose to turn red
deer yourself, I'll give ye a chase, _and trade ye down, man, and track ye
down_."

MacLean half turned from the window. "I have hunted the red deer," he
said, "in the land where I was born, and which I shall see no more, and I
have been myself hunted in the land where I shall die. I have run until I
have fallen, and I have felt the teeth of the dogs. Were God to send a
miracle--which he will not do--and I were to go back to the glen and the
crag and the deep birch woods, I suppose that I would hunt again, would
drive the stag to bay, holloing to my hounds, and thinking the sound of
the horns sweet music in my ears. It is the way of the earth. Hunter and
hunted, we make the world and the pit