food to live on."

"Upon my word, M'Iver," said Argile, "you beat me at my own trade of
debate, and--have you ever heard of a fellow Machiavelli?"

"I kent a man of that name in a corps we forgathered with at Mentz--a
'provient schriever,' as they called him. A rogue, with a hand in the
sporran of every soldier he helped pay wage to."

"This was a different person; but no matter. Let us back to the
beginning of our argument--why did you favour my leaving for Dunbarton
when Montrose came down the Glen?"

The blood swept to M'Iver's face, and his eye quailed.

"I favoured no such impolitic act," said he, slowly. "I saw you were
bent on going, and I but backed you up, to leave you some rags of
illusion to cover your naked sin."

"I thought no less," said Argile, sadly, "and yet, do you know, Iain,
you did me a bad turn yonder. You made mention of my family's safety,
and it was the last straw that broke the back of my resolution. One word
of honest duty from you at that time had kept me in Inner-aora though
Abijah's array and Jeroboam's horse and foot were coming down the
glens."

For a little M'Iver gave no answer, but sat in a chair of torture.

"I am sorry for it," he said at last, in a voice that was scarce his
own; "I'm in an agony for it now; and your horse was not round Strone
before I could have bit out the tongue that flattered your folly."

MacCailein smiled with a solemn pity that sat oddly on the sinister face
that was a mask to a complex and pliable soul.

"I have no doubt," said he, "and that's why I said you were a devil's
counsellor. Man, cousin! have we not played together as boys on the
shore, and looked at each other on many a night across a candid bowl? I
know you like the open book; you and your kind are the weak, strong men
of our Highland race. The soft tongue and the dour heart; the good man
at most things but at your word!"

CHAPTER XVI.--OUR MARCH FOR LOCHABER.

The essence of all human melancholy is in the sentiment of farewells.
There are people roving about the world, to-day here, to-morrow afar,
who cheat fate and avoid the most poignant wrench of this common
experience by letting no root of their affection strike into a home or
a heart Self-contained, aloof, unloved, and unloving, they make their
campaign through life in movable tents that they strike as gaily as they
pitch, and, beholding them thus evade the one touch of sorrow that is
most inevitable and bitter to every s