ybole, and, indeed, their doing so counted for much in the early
history of the compact little town at the head of the loch.

The lower part of the "Castle" had been fitted up as a guard-room, and
here, at all hours of the day, were to be found groups of soldiers,
making the time pass in various games of chance and skill, from plain
odd-and-even to _bouchon_ learned from certain captive Frenchmen who
were permitted to mingle with them under no very strict supervision. The
square tower of the original Cassillis house had been cut down and
roofed in, which gave it a very uneven and squat appearance, and all
about the walls little sheds had been erected, to shelter this
detachment and that on its way through to Ireland. Some of these were as
old as Claverhouse and his King's Life Guards in the bad days of the
covenant. But, one and all, they were insufficient, out of repair,
drippy, smelling of stale bad tobacco and wet wood ashes.

Tony MacJannet, chief keeper of the prison of Stranryan, installed Stair
Garland on the second story, immediately over the gate where the guard
was on duty. Stair had no view to the front, but two small windows
looked out on the courtyard, from which, through thick bars, he could
see the comings and goings of the French prisoners, and even watch the
ebb and flow of the games. Stair's chamber was spacious--the largest and
best in the gaol, but the roof had not been plastered, and he could see
the light through the slates, though some attempt had been made at
scantling, and even in one corner a quantity of plasterers' laths had
been piled. But there the matter had rested and was likely to rest.

As usual, the Town Council objected to spending money. The Government
sent down every year lists of "immediate requirements," which the
council as promptly filed owing to the lack of any accompanying draft.
To spend good siller "oot o' the Common Guid" and then look to a far-off
Government to reimburse them, was an affair in which the shrewd
burgesses of Stranryan very naturally declined to engage.

Julian Wemyss's case threatened to be a curious one. He had been
captured in Scotland at the request of the English Government for an
offence committed in France--in which country his crime was no offence
at all. Some loss of time and a great deal of employment for the lawyers
seemed the worst that could befall him.

It was quite otherwise with Eben McClure. He was a fugitive from
justice, and had been gui