flare in the hall, and he heard a babble of voices. But he
heard something more, for away on his left was the sound which Thomas
Yownie was soon to hear--the trampling of horses. It was the police at
last, and his task was to guide them at once to the critical point of
action.... Three minutes later a figure like a scarecrow was
admonishing a bewildered sergeant, while his hands plucked feverishly
at a horse's bridle.

It is time to return to Dickson in his clump of rhododendrons.
Tragically aware of his impotence he listened to the tumult of the
Die-Hards, hopeful when it was loud, despairing when there came a
moment's lull, while Mrs. Morran like a Greek chorus drew loudly upon
her store of proverbial philosophy and her memory of Scripture texts.
Twice he tried to reconnoitre towards the scene of battle, but only
blundered into sunken plots and pits in the Dutch garden. Finally he
squatted beside Mrs. Morran, lit his pipe, and took a firm hold on his
patience.

It was not tested for long. Presently he was aware that a change had
come over the scene--that the Die-Hards' whistles and shouts were being
drowned in another sound, the cries of panicky men. Dobson's bellow was
wafted to him. "Auntie Phemie," he shouted, "the innkeeper's getting
rattled. Dod, I believe they're running." For at that moment twenty
paces on his left the van of the retreat crashed through the creepers
on the garden's edge and leaped the wall that separated it from the
cliffs of the Garplefoot.

The old woman was on her feet.

"God be thankit, is't the polis?"

"Maybe. Maybe no'. But they're running."

Another bunch of men raced past, and he heard Dobson's voice.

"I tell you, they're broke. Listen, it's horses. Ay, it's the police,
but it was the Die-Hards that did the job.... Here! They mustn't
escape. Have the police had the sense to send men to the Garplefoot?"

Mrs. Morran, a figure like an ancient prophetess, with her tartan shawl
lashing in the gale, clutched him by the shoulder.

"Doun to the waterside and stop them. Ye'll no' be beat by wee
laddies! On wi' ye and I'll follow! There's gaun to be a juidgment on
evil-doers this night."

Dickson needed no urging. His heart was hot within him, and the
weariness and stiffness had gone from his limbs. He, too, tumbled over
the wall, and made for what he thought was the route by which he had
originally ascended from the stream. As he ran he made ridiculous
efforts