m, Psalms his old nurse had insisted on his learning, or mayhap
crooned about his cradle. Such were the first words which came to him--

"That man hath perfect blessedness,
Who walketh not astray,
In counsel of ungodly men,
Nor stands in sinners' way."

The impressions, hitherto vivid, blurred themselves at this point. Rollo
Blair was kneeling at his mother's knee. He thought of his first
sweetheart who had nearly made him a minister, and, perchance, a better
man. The night that was waiting imminent outside, silently overleapt the
barriers of golden light. Rollo Blair's head fell forward against a
pillar--and, while the music thundered and wailed alternate, and the
great service swept on its gorgeous way, the wild unhaltered Scot,
soothed by a lullaby of sound, slept the sleep of the young, the tired,
and the heart-free.

How long he slumbered he could not tell, but he was awakened by a
violent thrust in the ribs from the elbow of John Mortimer.

"Great jimminy! what's that? Look, man, look!"

Rollo opened his eyes, bleared with insufficient sleep, and for a long
moment all things danced weirdly before them, as gnats dance in the
light of the moon. He saw dimly without understanding the swinging altar
lamps in a blur of purple haze, the richly-robed priests, the myriad
candles, the dark forms of the worshippers. But now, instead of all eyes
being turned towards the brilliance of the golden altar, it was towards
the door at the dark end of the chapel that they looked.

He could distinguish a tumult of hoarse voices without, multitudinous
angry cries of men, the clatter of feet, the sharp clash of arms. A shot
or two went off quite near at hand.

"Seize him--take the murderer! Hold him!"

The shoutings came clear now to Rollo's brain, and rising to his feet he
half drew his sword, as though he himself had been the hunted man. But
with a smile he let the blade slide back, which it did as easily as a
stone slips into water. For though Killiecrankie's hilt might be
battered, without ribbon or bow-knot, Rollo saw to it that Robin
Fleeming's blade played him no tricks. His life had depended too often
upon it for that, and might again.

Within the chapel of the monastery the service went on almost unheeded,
save by a few of the elders, faithful women whom piety and deafness kept
to their reverence. The men crowded unanimously towards the door outside
which the turmoil waxed wilder and wilder.

T