er of the Bands to override
authority and save him, were only little dove-tailings in the scheme
which Patsy had designed for her own liberation.

Well, he had nothing to complain of. He had been asked a question, and
if he had wished he might have answered "No." Was he a free man or
bound? But having said "Yes" of his own good will, what remained to him
but to take up the role which Patsy had reserved for him. It was not
remarkably dignified, but--if any fault there were, the fault was his
own.

Besides, he would have given the same answer then or any other moment.
He had not been taken by surprise. So long as he was Patsy's husband,
nobody else could be so also! Why, of course, he would stand by his
bargain! What else was he for--he, Diarmid Garland's second son--the
head of the Bands, the famous defier of the press and the Preventives?
Pshaw! What did all that mean to him now--apples of Sodom in the mouth,
an exceeding bitter fruit! What a fool he was with his airs! Would he
ever have such a chance again, and he to dream of complaining!

Gradually he became conscious of Whitefoot moving, silent as a shadow,
beside his master. Once, when Stair stood a long time on the craggy top
of the Fell of Rathan, gazing out at the ranged lights on the English
side of the firth, he was conscious of a cool, damp nose thrusting its
way into his palm, causing him to open his hand by little calculated
snout-pushes and burrowings. Whitefoot was sympathetic. Whitefoot felt
for the trouble of his master, though he could not understand it, and
Whitefoot would not be satisfied till his friend's hand was resting on
his head. Even then little heavings and sidelong pushes expressed a
desire to be caressed, and when at last Stair's hand ran over his head,
across the thick ruff of hair about his neck and passed down his spine,
Whitefoot shook with delight and leaped so high that his forepaws were
on Stair's shoulders.

"Down, dog, down!" said his master, and at the word Whitefoot dropped
back on all fours, obedient but content.

It now was past the hour of twelve. The central night stood still. The
little chill breeze which ruffles the waves an hour or so in early
morning had not yet begun to blow. Stair had been about the House of
Rathan half-a-dozen of times. At last he went into the barn and, only
removing his coat, he threw himself at length among the straw of which
he had made a couch earlier in the evening. Whitefoot nuzzled
comfort