-foot
round the corner."

I made nothing of what I had done, but yet his Highland friendliness and
flatteries were balm to a sick heart and we parted at my door with a great
deal of good-will.

-----

[1] The author takes an early opportunity to express his obligations
to the letters of Horace Walpole who was himself so infinitely
indebted to the conversation of his cronies.

CHAPTER II

A CRY IN THE NIGHT

"Past ten o'clock, and a clear starry night!" the watch was bawling as I
set out from my rooms to keep my appointment with Lord Balmerino. I had
little doubt that a Stuart restoration was the cause for which he was
recruiting, and all day I had balanced in my mind the pros and cons of
such an attempt. I will never deny that the exiled race held for me a
strong fascination. The Stuarts may have been weak, headstrong Kings in
their prosperity, but they had the royal virtue of drawing men to them in
their misfortune. They were never so well loved, nor so worthy of it, as
when they lived in exile at St. Germains. Besides, though I had never
mixed with politics, I was a Jacobite by inheritance. My father had fought
for a restoration, and my uncle had died for it.

There were no fast bound ties to hold me back. Loyalty to the Hanoverians
had no weight with me. I was a broken man, and save for my head could lose
nothing by the venture. The danger of the enterprise was a merit in my
eyes, for I was in the mood when a man will risk his all on an impulse.

And yet I hung back. After all an Englishman, be he never so desperate,
does not fling away the scabbard without counting the cost. Young as I was
I grued at the thought of the many lives that would be cut off ere their
time, and in my heart I distrusted the Stuarts and doubted whether the
game were worth the candle.

I walked slowly, for I was not yet due at the lodgings of Balmerino for an
hour, and as I stood hesitating at a street corner a chaise sheered past
me at a gallop. Through the coach window by the shine of the moon I caught
one fleeting glimpse of a white frightened girl-face, and over the mouth
was clapped a rough hand to stifle any cry she might give. I am no Don
Quixote, but there never was a Montagu who waited for the cool second
thought to crowd out the strong impulse of the moment. I made a dash at
the step, missed my footing, and rolled over into the mud. When I got to
my feet again the coach had stopped at the far end of