ye know, Jock, I often think I was born like the Marquis, under an
unlucky star, and that all my life things will go ill with me, and
with my cause. I dinna think that I'll ever see old age, and I doubt
whether I'll leave an heir to succeed me. I dreamed one nicht that the
wraith of our house stood beside my bed and said, 'Ye'll be cursed in
love and cursed in war, and die a bloody death at the hand of
traitors whom ye trusted.'"

"For God's sake, Maister John, dinna speak like that." And Grimond's
voice, hard man though he was, was nigh the breaking. "It's no chancy,
what ye say micht come to pass if ye believe it. Whatever the evil
spirit said in the veesions o' the nicht--oh! my laddie, for laddie ye
have been to me since I learned ye to ride your pony and fire your
first shot, ye mauna give heed or meddle wi' Providence. Ye have been
awfu' favored wi' the bonniest face ever I saw on a man, so that
there's no a lass looks on ye but she loves ye, and the hardiest body
ever I kenned. Ye have the best blood of Scotland in your veins, and I
never saw ye fearful o' onything; ye have covered yersel' wi' glory in
this war, and I prophesy there will be a great place waiting you in
the North country. There's no a noble lady in Scotland that wouldna be
willing to marry you, and I'm expectin' afore I die to see you famous
as the great Marquis himsel', wi' sons and daughters standin' round
ye. I ken aboot the wraith o' the house o' Graham, a maleecious and
lying jade. If she ever comes to ye again by nicht or day, bid her
begone to the evil place in the name o' the Lord wha redeemed us."

"You're a trusty friend, Grimond, for both my mother and myself count
you more friend than servant, and you've spoken good words; but I take
it this day's happenings are an omen of what is coming. Maybe I am
ower young to take black views o' hidden days, but ye'll mind
afterwards, Jock Grimond, when ye wrap me in a bloody coat for burial,
for there will be no shroud for me, that I said the shadow began to
fall at the siege of Grave. But there's no use complaining, man; our
cup is mixed, and we must drink it, bitter or sweet. Aye, the Grahams
are a doomed house, and we maun dree oor weird (suffer our destiny)."

"Weird," broke out Grimond, with a revulsion from pathos to anger. "Ye
speak as if it were the will o' the Almichty, but I am thinkin' the
thing was worked from another quarter. Providence had very little hand
in it, unless ye call Ca