prisoner passed in on his way to
judgment. The man was Captain Roy Macdonald.

"I'm wae to see you here, lad, and me the cause of it by sending you," he
said, smiling sadly.

"How came they to take you?" I asked.

"I was surprised on the beach just after Murdoch left," he told me in the
Gaelic so that the English troopers might not understand. "All should be
well with the yellow haired laddie now that the warning has been given.
Are you for Carlisle, Kenneth?"

I shook my head. "No, my time is set for to-morrow. If they give you
longer you'll find a way to send word to Aileen how it went with me,
Donald?"

He nodded, and we gripped hands in silence, our eyes meeting steadily.
From his serene courage I gathered strength.

They took me to a bothy in the village which had been set apart as a
prison for me, and here, a picket of soldiers with loaded muskets
surrounding the hut, they left me to myself. I had asked for paper and
ink, but my request had been refused.

In books I have read how men under such circumstance came quietly to
philosophic and religious contemplation, looking at the issue with the
far-seeing eyes of those who count death but an incident. But for me, I am
neither philosopher nor saint. Connected thought I found impossible. My
mind was alive with fleeting and chaotic fragmentary impulses. Memories
connected with Cloe, Charles, Balmerino, and a hundred others occupied me.
Trivial forgotten happenings flashed through my brain. All the different
Aileens that I knew trooped past in procession. Gay and sad, wistful and
merry, eager and reflective, in passion and in tender guise, I saw my love
in all her moods; and melted always at the vision of her.

I descended to self-pity, conceiving myself a hero and a martyr, revelling
in an agony of mawkish sentiment concerning the post-mortem grief of my
friends. From this at length I snatched myself by calling to mind the many
simple Highlanders who had preceded me in the past months without any
morbid craving for applause. Back harked my mind to Aileen, imagination
spanning the future as well as the past. Tender pity and love suffused me.
Mingled with all my broken reflections was many a cry of the heart for
mercy to a sinner about to render his last account and for healing balm to
that dear friend who would be left to mourn the memory of me painted in
radiant colours.

Paradoxical though it may seem, the leaden hours flew on feathered foot.
Dusk fell, th