corners,
turrets, gussets, and corbie-stepped gables, the fury of the world rose
and wandered, the fury that never rests but is ever somewhere round the
ancient universe, jibing night and morning at man's most valiant effort.
It might spit and blow till our shell shook and creaked, and the staunch
walls wept, and the garden footways ran with bubbling waters, but we
were still to conquer. Our lanthorn gleamed defiance to that brag of
night eternal, that pattern-piece of the last triumph of the oldest
enemy of man--Blackness the Rider, who is older than the hoary star.

Fresh wood hissed on the fire, but the candles burned low in their
sockets. Sonachan and the baron-bailie slept with their heads on the
table, and the man with the want, still sodden at the eyes, turned his
wet hose upon his feet with a madman's notion of comfort.

"I hope," said M'Iver, "there's no ambuscade here, as in the house
of the cousin of his Grace of Pomerania. At least we can but bide
on, whatever comes, and take the night's rest that offers, keeping a
man-about watch against intrusion."

"There's a watch more pressing still," said Master Gordon, shaking the
slumber off him and jogging the sleeping men upon the shoulders. "My
soul watcheth for the Lord more than they that watch for the morning. We
have been wet with the showers of the mountain, like Job, and embracing
the rock for want of a shelter. We are lone-haunted men in a wild land
encompassed by enemies; let us thank God for our safety thus far, and
ask. His continued shield upon our flight."

And in the silence of that great house, dripping and rocking in the
tempest of the night, the minister poured out his heart in prayer. It
had humility and courage too; it was imbued with a spirit strong and
calm. For the first time my heart warmed to the man who in years after
was my friend and mentor--Alexander Gordon, Master of the Arts, the man
who wedded me and gave my children Christian baptism, and brought solace
in the train of those little ones lost for a space to me among the
grasses and flowers of Kilmalieu.

CHAPTER XXV.--THE ANGRY EAVESDROPPER.

It may seem, in my recounting of these cold wanderings, of days and
nights with nothing but snow and rain, and always the hounds of fear on
every hand, that I had forgotten to exercise my mind upon the blunder
and the shame of Argile's defeat at Inverlochy. So far is this from the
fact that M'Iver and I on many available occasions di