ir. He had, as it seemed, been entirely
blotted out. Had he fallen into the hands of the cavalry which after a
fruitless search had sacked Cairn Ferris at their pleasure upon the
first news of the killing of the king's son? They had departed to scour
the easterly roads and had been seen no more in the valleys or on the
heights of Raincy.

There was no news except that Kennedy McClure had been seen galloping
eastward in frantic search of his carriage and horses. The former had
been reported blown to flinders, and his two carefully matched horses
killed by the bandits. So he was now riding in his shirt-sleeves, the
cowrie shells at his watch fob clanging against the little bundle of
keys he wore there. In his mind he was doing sums of which the main
issues were, "What is the difference between the fifty pounds I have in
hand and the value of the carriage and horses, and will my loss give me
a claim on the royal family and the Government?" Kennedy McClure saw
before him endless Court of Session pleas, with expenses mounting
steadily up, and the verdict given in his favour upon appeal to the
House of Lords.

The Laird of Supsorrow, who loved a good-going plea, felt vaguely
consoled, but he spurred his beast all the same to find out what he had
to go upon. That the whole countryside spoke of the young prince as dead
was nothing to him. His horses and the precious chariot with the yellow
wheels, the pale blue body and linings, were more to him than the whole
royal house. There were a plenty of princes--and no great gain to the
country either by all accounts! But he, Kennedy of Supsorrow, had only
one chariot and one well-matched pair of carriage horses, for which he
had paid out good golden guineas.

As he rode he heard the sound of horses galloping behind him. They
turned out to be a patrol of dragoons from Cairnryan headed by Captain
Laurence. That officer was in great fear for his commission, being in
military command of the district; and though he had received the
Prince's own orders to confine himself to his barracks that the ways
might be clear, he could not hide from himself that if anything happened
to the King's favourite son, he might as well send in his papers.

So whenever he crossed a coast-guardsman, or even the most ignorant and
harmless farm-lad, he shouted to him, "The Duke--the Duke! What of the
Duke? Have they killed the Duke?"

To which Kennedy McClure of Supsorrow responded like an echo, "The
horses