you, Stair Garland, must be my
chaperon--no princesses or Miss Alines any more. You can protect me from
grand dukes with no more courage and determination than you did before,
but now you will have an open indubitable right in that you are my
husband! But here we are at the island. And there down on the rocks, do
you see, Stair, who are there to welcome us? Your sister Jean, and
Whitefoot. And Kennedy--Kennedy McClure--!"

She hung about the neck of a stout red-faced man, who murmured all the
time of the embrace, "Tut, lassie. Think shame, lassie!" and dabbed at
his eyes and blew his nose with a bandanna handkerchief with the noise
of many trumpets.

"Guid-day to ye, lass, and to you, Stair Garland! Ye hae a wild filly to
gentle. Be not downcast if the job be a long one. She will be worth it."

"What, Jean, you are never going?" cried Stair, when he saw his sister
preparing to accompany the Laird of Supsorrow into the lugger. Somehow
it seemed that he could have seen his way plainer before him if Jean had
stayed. But as Godfrey McCulloch hoisted the sail, he shouted, "Go she
must. There are a pair of fathers away yonder in the Cairn Ferris
Valleys to be contented. And I am not sure that they will be easy to
satisfy. But your sister Jean and Kennedy McClure there, and this
extract from the parish register signed by parish minister and session
clerk will show them that you and your wife are beyond all pursuit. As
for the prison-breaking and the law, there will doubtless be great
riding and running, but I do not believe that here on Isle Rathan you
will be in any way disquieted."

It was nine of the clock when Patsy and Stair stood on the shore of the
Isle Rathan of many famous exploits, and watched the lugger with its
cargo of three go dancing out on the full current of the Solway ebb.

The two were left alone and the island seemed incredibly small and
strange about them--at least to Stair. But Patsy was not in the least
put about. She did the honours of the old tower of the Herons. She led
the way to where Jean had spread their first meal, and motioned Stair to
his place. He sat down like an automaton and looked about him as if he
were seeing through a haze. It was a large and pleasant kitchen,
stone-floored, with oak furniture as old as the time of Patrick Heron
and May Mischief his wife. A bright fire was burning on the
old-fashioned hearth, and the room looked cosy enough in spite of the
old small-paned windows.