THE LAST ASSAULT.
Never before, perhaps, in all the annals of Indian warfare had a more
determined attack been made upon a settler's _estancia_. The _cacique_ or
_caciques_ who led the enemy seemed determined to purchase victory at any
cost or hazard. Nor did the principal _cacique_ hesitate to expose himself
to danger. During the whole of the first onset he moved about on horseback
close in the rear of his men, and appeared to bear a charmed life. The
bullets must have been whizzing past him as thick as flies. Moncrieff
himself tried more than once to bring him down, but all in vain.
During the final assault he was equally conspicuous; he was here, there,
and everywhere, and his voice and appearance, even for a moment, among
them never failed to cause his men to redouble their efforts.
It was not, however, until far on into the night that this last and awful
charge was made.
The savage foe advanced with a wild shout all along the line of rampart
that connected the Moncrieff main _estancia_ with our villa. This was
really our weakest part.
[Illustration: The Indians advanced with a Wild Shout]
The assault was made on horseback. We heard them coming thundering on some
time before we saw them and could fire. They seemed mad, furious; their
tall feather-bedecked spears were waved high in air; they sat like huge
baboons on their high saddles, and their very horses had been imbued with
the recklessness of their riders, and came on bounding and flying over our
frail field of spikes. It was to be all spear work till they came to close
quarters; then they would use their deadly knives.
Hardly had the first sound of the horses' hoofs reached our ears ere one,
two, three rockets left Coila Villa; and scarcely had they exploded in the
air and cast their golden showers of sparks abroad, before the roar of an
explosion was heard high up on the braeland that shook the houses to their
very foundations--and then--there is the awful rush of foaming, seething
water.
Nothing could withstand that unexpected flood; men and horses were floated
and washed away, struggling and helpless, before it.
Just at the time when the last assault was nearly at its grim close I felt
my arm pulled, and looking quickly round found Yambo at my side. He still
clutched me by the arm, but he was waving his blood-stained sword in the
direction of Moncrieff's house, and I could see by the motions of his
mouth and face he wished me to come with him.
Something had occurred, something dreadful surely, and despite the
excitement of battle a momentary cold wave of fear seemed to rush over my
frame.
Sandie Donaldson was near me. This bold big fellow had been everywhere
conspicuous to-night for his bravery. He had fought all through with
extraordinary intrepidity.
Wherever I had glanced that night I had seen Sandie, the moon shining down
on the white shirt and trousers he wore, and which made him altogether so
conspicuous a figure, as he took aim with rifle or revolver, or dashed
into a crowd of spear-armed Indians, his claymore hardly visible, so
swiftly was it moved to and fro. I grasped his shoulder, pointed in the
direction indicated by Yambo, and on we flew.
As soon as we had rounded the wing of an outbuilding and reached
Moncrieff's terraced lawn, the din of the fight we had just left became
more indistinct, but we now heard sounds that, while they thrilled us with
terror and anger, made us rush on across the grass with the speed of the
panther.
They were the voices of shrieking women, the crashing of glass and
furniture, and the savage and exultant yell of the Indians.
Looking back now to this episode of the night, I can hardly realize that
so many terrible events could have occurred in so brief a time, for, from
the moment we charged up across the lawn not six minutes could have
elapsed ere all was over. It is like a dream, but a dream every turn of
which has been burned into my memory, to remain while life shall last.
Yonder is a tall _cacique_ hurrying out into the bright moonlight from
under the verandah. He bears in his arms the inanimate form of my dear
sister Flora. Is it really _I_ myself who rush up to meet him? Have _I_
fired that shot that causes the savage to reel and fall? Is it I who lift
poor Flora and lay her in the shade of a mimosa-tree? It must be I, yet
every action seems governed by instinct; I am for the time being a strange
psychological study. It is as if my soul had left the body, but still
commanded it, standing aside, ruling every motion, directing every blow
from first to last, and being implicitly obeyed by the other _ego_, the
_ego_-incorporate. There is a crowd, nay, a cloud even it seems, around
me; but see, I have cut my way through them at last: they have fallen
before me, fallen at my side--fallen or fled. I step over bodies, I enter
the room, I stumble over other bodies. Now a light is struck and a lamp is
lit, and standing beside the table, calm, but very pale, I see my aunt
dimly through the smoke. My mother is near her--my own brave mother. Both
have revolvers in their hands; and I know now why bodies are stretched on
the floor. One glance shows me Aileen, lying like a dead thing in a
chair, and beside her, smoothing her brow, chafing her hands, Moncrieff's
marvellous mother.
But in this life the humorous is ever mixed up with the tragic or sad, for
lo! as I hurry away to join the fight that is still going on near the
verandah I almost stumble across something else. Not a body this time--not
quite--only Bombazo's ankles sticking out from under the sofa. I could
swear to those striped silk socks anywhere, and the boots are the boots of
Bombazo. I administer a kick to those shins, and they speedily disappear.
I am out on the moonlit lawn now, and what do I see? First, good brave
Yambo, down on one knee, being borne backwards, fierce hands at his
throat, a short knife at his chest. The would-be assassin falls; Yambo
rises intact, and together we rush on further down to where, on a terrace,
Donaldson has just been overpowered. But see, a new combatant has come
upon the scene; several revolver shots are fired in quick succession. A
tall dark figure in semi-clerical garb is cutting right and left with a
good broadsword. And now--why, now it is all over, and Townley stands
beside us panting.
Well might he pant--he had done brave work. But he had come all too late
to save Sandie. He lies there quietly enough on the grass. His shirt is
stained with blood, and it is his own blood this time.
Townley bends over and quietly feels his arm. No pulse there. Then he
breathes a half audible prayer and reverently closes the eyes.
I am hurrying back now to the room with Flora.
'All is safe, mother, now. Flora is safe. See, she is smiling: she knows
us all. Oh, Heaven be praised, she is safe!'
We leave Townley there, and hurry back to the ramparts.
The stillness alone would have told us that the fight was finished and the
victory won.
A few minutes after this, standing high up on the rampart there,
Moncrieff is mustering his people. One name after another is called. Alas!
there are many who do not answer, many who will never answer more, for our
victory has been dearly bought.
Four of our Scottish settlers were found dead in the trench; over a dozen
Gauchos had been killed. Moncrieff and his partner were both wounded,
though neither severely. Archie and Dugald were also badly cut, and
answered but faintly and feebly to the roll-call. Sandie we know is dead,
and Bombazo is--under the sofa. So I thought; but listen.
'Captain Rodrigo de Bombazo!'
'Here, general, here,' says a bold voice close behind me, and Bombazo
himself presses further to the front.
I can hardly believe my eyes and ears. Could those have been Bombazo's
boots? Had I really kicked the shins of Bombazo? Surely the events of the
night had turned my brain. Bombazo's boots indeed! Bombazo skulk and hide
beneath a sofa! Impossible. Look at him now. His hair is dishevelled;
there is blood on his brow. He is dressed only in shirt and trousers, and
these are marked with blood; so is his right arm, which is bared over the
elbow, and the sword he carries in his hand. Bold Bombazo! How I have
wronged him! But the silk striped socks? No; I cannot get over that.
* * * * *
Barely a month before the events just narrated took place at the
_estancias_ of Moncrieff there landed from a sailing ship at the port of
Buenos Ayres a man whose age might have been represented by any number of
years 'twixt thirty and forty. There were grey hairs on his temples, but
these count for nothing in a man whose life has been a struggle with
Fortune and Fate. The individual in question, whom his shipmates called
Dalston, was tall and tough and wiry. He had shown what he was and what he
could do in less than a week from the time of his joining. At first he
had been a passenger, and had lived away aft somewhere, no one could tell
exactly where, for he did not dine in the saloon with the other
passengers, and he looked above messing with the stewards. As the mate and
he were much together it was supposed that Dalston made use of the first
officer's cabin. The ship had encountered dirty weather from the very
outset; head winds and choppy seas all the way down Channel, so that she
was still 'kicking about off the coast'--this is how the seamen phrased
it--when she ought to have been crossing the Bay or stretching away out
into the broad Atlantic. She fared worse by far when she reached the Bay,
having met with a gale of wind that blew most of her cloth to ribbons,
carried away her bowsprit, and made hurdles of her bulwarks both forward
and amidships. Worse than all, two men were blown from aloft while trying
to reef a sail during a squall of more than hurricane violence. I say
blown from aloft, and I say so advisedly, for the squall came on after
they had gone up, a squall that even the men on deck could not stand
against, a squall that levelled the very waves, and made the sea away to
leeward--no one could see to windward--look like boiling milk.
The storm began to go down immediately after the squall, and next day the
weather was fine enough to make sail, and mend sail. But the ship was
short-handed, for the skipper had made no provision against loss by
accident. He was glad then when the mate informed him that the 'gentleman'
Dalston was as good as any two men on board.
'Send him to me,' said the skipper.
'Good morning. Ahem, I hear, sir, you would be willing to assist in the
working of the ship. May I ask on what terms?'
'Certainly,' said Dalston. 'I'm going out to the Argentine, to buy a bit
of land; well, naturally, money is some object to me. You see?'
'I understand.'
'Well, my terms are the return of my passage money and civility.'
'Agreed; but why do you mention civility?'
'Because I've heard you using rather rough language to your men. Now, if
you forgot yourself so far as to call me a bad name I'd----'
He paused, and there was a look in his eyes the captain hardly relished.
'Well! What would you do?'
'Why, I'd--retire to my cabin.'
'All right then, I think we understand each other.'
So Dalston was installed, and now dined forward. He became a favourite
with his messmates. No one could tell a more thrilling and adventuresome
yarn than Dalston, no one could sing a better song than himself or join
more heartily in the chorus when another sang, and no one could work more
cheerily on deck, or fly more quickly to tack a sheet.
Smyth had been the big man in the forecastle before Dalston's day. But
Smyth was eclipsed now, and I dare say did not like his rival. One day,
near the quarter-deck, Smyth called Dalston an ugly name. Dalston's answer
was a blow which sent the fellow reeling to leeward, where he lay
stunned.
'Have you killed him, Dalston?' said the captain.
'Not quite, sir; but I could have.'
'Well, Dalston, you are working for two men now; don't let us lose another
hand, else you'll have to work for three.'
Dalston laughed.
Smyth gathered himself up and slunk away, but his look was one Dalston
would have cause to remember.
This good ship--Sevenoaks she was called, after the captain's wife's
birthplace--had a long and a rough passage all along. The owners were
Dutchmen, so it did not matter a very great deal. There was plenty of
time, and the ship was worked on the cheap. Perhaps the wonder is she
kept afloat at all, for at one period of the voyage she leaked so badly
that the crew had to pump three hours out of every watch. Then she crossed
a bank on the South American coast, and the men said she had sucked in a
bit of seaweed, for she did not leak much after this.
The longest voyage has an end, however, and when the Sevenoaks arrived at
Buenos Ayres, Dalston bade his messmates adieu, had his passage money duly
returned, and went on shore, happy because he had many more golden
sovereigns to rattle than he had expected.
Dalston went to a good hotel, found out all about the trains, and next day
set out, in company with a waiter who had volunteered to be his escort, to
purchase a proper outfit--only light clothes, a rifle, a good revolver,
and a knife or two to wear in his belt, for he was going west to a rough
country.
In the evening, after the waiter and he had dined well at another hotel:
'You go home now,' said Dalston; 'I'm going round to have a look at the
town,'
'Take care of yourself,' the waiter said.
'No fear of me,' was the laughing reply.
But that very night he was borne back to his inn, cut, bruised, and
faint.
And robbed of all his gold.
'Who has done this?' said the waiter, aghast at his friend's appearance.
'Smyth!' That was all the reply.
Dalston lay for weeks between life and death. Then he came round almost at
once, and soon started away on his journey. The waiter--good-natured
fellow--had lent him money to carry him to Mendoza.
But Dalston's adventures were not over yet.
He arrived at Villa Mercedes well and hopeful, and was lucky enough to
secure a passage in the diligence about to start under mounted escort to
Mendoza. After a jolting ride of days, the like of which he had never been
used to in the old country, the ancient-looking coach had completed
three-quarters of the journey, and the rest of the road being considered
safe the escort was allowed to go on its way to the frontier.
They had not departed two hours, however, before the travellers were
attacked, the driver speared, and the horses captured. The only passenger
who made the slightest resistance was Dalston. He was speedily
overpowered, and would have been killed on the spot had not the _cacique_
of the party whom Dalston had wounded interfered and spared his life.
Spared his life! But for what? He did not know. Some of the passengers
were permitted to go free, the rest were killed. He alone was mounted on
horseback, his legs tied with thongs and his horse led by an Indian.
All that night and all next day his captors journeyed on, taking, as far
as Dalston could judge, a south-west course. His sufferings were extreme.
His legs were swollen, cut, and bleeding; his naked shoulders--for they
had stripped him almost naked--burned and blistered with the sun; and
although his tongue was parched and his head drooping wearily on his
breast, no one offered him a mouthful of water.
He begged them to kill him. Perhaps the _cacique_, who was almost a white
man, understood his meaning, for he grinned in derision and pointed to his
own bullet-wounded arm. The _cacique_ knew well there were sufferings
possible compared to which death itself would be as pleasure.
When the Indians at last went into camp--which they did but for a
night--he was released, but guarded; a hunk of raw guanaco meat was thrown
to him, which he tried to suck for the juices it contained.
Next day they went on and on again, over a wild pampa land now, with here
and there a bush or tussock of grass or thistles, and here and there a
giant ombu-tree. His ankles were more painful than ever, his shoulders
were raw, the horse he rode was often prodded with a spear, and he too
was wounded at the same time. Once or twice the _cacique_, maddened by the
pain of his wound, rushed at Dalston with uplifted knife, and the wretched
prisoner begged that the blow might fall.
Towards evening they reached a kind of hill and forest land, where the
flowering cacti rose high above the tallest spear. Then they came to a
ruin. Indians here were in full force, horses dashed to and fro, and it
was evident from the bustle and stir that they were on the war-path, and
soon either to attack or be attacked.
The prisoner was now roughly unhorsed and cruelly lashed to a tree, and
left unheeded by all. For a moment or two he felt grateful for the shade,
but his position after a time became painful in the extreme. At night-fall
all the Indians left, and soon after the sufferings of the poor wretch
grew more dreadful than pen can describe. He was being slowly eaten alive
by myriads of insects that crept and crawled or flew; horrid spiders with
hairy legs and of enormous size ran over his neck and naked chest,
loathsome centipedes wriggled over his shoulders and face and bit him, and
ants covered him black from head to feet. Towards dusk a great jaguar went
prowling past, looked at him with green fierce eyes, snarled low, and went
on. Vultures alighted near him, but they too passed by; they could wait.
Then it was night, and many of the insect pests grew luminous. They
flitted and danced before his eyes till tortured nature could bear no
more, and insensibility ended his sufferings for a time.
* * * * *
The Indians must have thought that, although their attack on our
_estancia_ had failed, we were too weak or too frightened to pursue them.
They did not know Moncrieff. Wounded though he was, he had issued forth
from behind the ramparts with thirty well-armed and splendidly-mounted
men. They followed the enemy up for seven long hours, and succeeded in
teaching them such a lesson that they have never been seen in that
district since.
Towards noon we were riding homewards, tired and weary enough now, when
Donald suggested our visiting the old Jesuit ruin, and so we turned our
horses' heads in that direction.
Donald had ridden on before, and as I drew near I heard him cry, 'Oh,
Moncrieff, come quickly! Here is some poor fellow lashed to the
ombu-tree!'
CHAPTER XXV
FAREWELL TO THE SILVER WEST.
We cut the man's cords of thongs, we spread rugs on the grass and laid him
gently down, then bathed his poor body with wine, and poured a little down
his throat.
In about half an hour the wretched being we had thought dead slowly raised
himself on his elbow and gazed at _me_ as well as his swollen eyes would
permit him. His lips moved as if to speak, but no intelligible sound
escaped them. The recollection dawned on my mind all at once, and in that
sadly-distorted face I discovered traces of the man who had wrought us so
much sorrow and evil.
I took his hand in mine.
'Am I right?' I said. 'Are you Duncan M'Rae?'
He nodded drowsily, closed his eyes again, and lay back.
We cut branches from the ombu-tree, tied them together with the thongs
that had bound the victim's limbs, and so made a litter. On this we placed
rugs and laid the man; and between two mules he was borne by the Gauchos
slowly homewards to the _estancias_. Poor wretch! he had expected to come
here all but a conqueror, and in a position to dictate his own terms--he
arrived a dying man.
Our _estancia_ for many weeks was now turned almost into a hospital, for
even those Indians who had crept wounded into the bush, preferring to die
at the sides of hedges to falling into our hands, we had brought in and
treated with kindness, and many recovered.
All the dead we could find we buried in the humble little graveyard on the
braeside. We buried them without respect of nationality, only a few feet
of clay separating the white man's grave from that of his Indian foe.
'It matters little,' said Moncrieff. 'where one rests,
"For still and peaceful is the grave,
Where, life's vain tumults past,
The appointed house, by Heaven's decree,
Receives us all at last."'
Both Dugald and Archie made excellent patients, and Flora and Aileen the
best of nurses. But _the_ nurse over even these was old Jenny. She was
hospital superintendent, and saw to all the arrangements, even making the
poultices and spreading the salves and plasters with her own hands.
'My mither's a ma_rr_vel at he_rr_bs!' said Moncrieff over and over again,
when he saw the old lady busy at work.
There was one patient, and only one, whom old Jenny did not nurse. This
was Duncan himself. For him Townley did all his skill could suggest, and
was seldom two consecutive hours away from the room where he lay.
In spite of all this it was evident that the ex-poacher was sinking fast.
Then came a day when Moncrieff, Archie, and myself were called into the
dying man's apartment, and heard him make the fullest confession of all
his villainy, and beg for our forgiveness with the tears roiling down his
wan, worn face.
Yes, we forgave him willingly.
May Heaven forgive him too!
At the time of his confession he was strong enough to read over and sign
the document that Townley placed before him. He told Townley too the
addresses of the men who had assisted him in the old vault at the ruined
kirk in Coila.
And Duncan had seemed brighter and calmer for several days after this. But
he told us he had no desire to live now.
Then, one morning the change came, and so he sank and died.
* * * * *
It was several months before we could make up our minds to leave 'Our Home
in the Silver West.' Indeed, there was considerable preparation to be made
for the long homeward voyage that was before us; besides, Townley had no
inclination to hurry matters now that he felt sure of victory.
Victory was not even yet a certainty, however. The estate of Coila was
well worth fighting for. Was there not the possibility, the bare
possibility, that the solicitors or advocates of Le Roi, or the M'Rae, who
now held the castle and glen, might find some fatal flaw in the evidence
which Townley had spent so much time and care in working out and
collecting?
It was not at all probable. In fact, despite the blood-feud, that ancient
family folly, I believed that M'Rae would act the part of a gentleman.
'If,' said Townley to me one day, as we walked for almost the last time in
the beautiful gardens around Moncrieff's mansion-house, 'we have anything
to fear, I believe it is from the legal advisers of the present
"occupier"'--Townley would not say 'owner'--'of the estate. These men, you
know, Murdoch, can hardly expect to be _our_ advocates. They are well
aware that if they lose hold of Coila now the title-deeds thereof will
never again rest in the fireproof safes of their offices.'
'I am afraid,' I said, 'you have but a poor opinion of Edinburgh
advocates.'
'Not so, Murdoch, not so. But,' he added, meaningly 'I have lived longer
in life than you, and I have but a poor opinion of human nature.'
'I suppose,' I said, 'that the M'Rae will know nothing of what is coming
till our arrival on Scottish shores!'
'On the contrary,' answered Townley; 'although it may really seem like
playing into our opponent's hands, I have written a friendly letter to the
M'Rae, and have told him to be prepared; that I have irrefragable
evidence--mind, I do not particularize--that you, Murdoch M'Crimman, are
the true and only proprietor of the estates of Coila. I want him to see
and feel that I am treating him as the man of honour I believe him to be,
and that the only thing we really desire is justice to all concerned.'
I smiled, and could not help saying, 'Townley, my best of friends, what an
excellent advocate you would have made!'
Townley smiled in turn.
'Say, rather,' he replied, 'what an excellent detective I should have
made! But, after all, Murdoch, it may turn out that there is a spice of
selfishness in all I am doing.'
'I do not believe a word of it, Townley.'
Townley only laughed, and looked mysterious.
'Hold on a little,' he said; 'don't be too quick to express your
judgment.'
'I will wait, then,' I answered; 'but really I cannot altogether
understand you.'
* * * * *
Perhaps nothing shows true physical courage better than the power to say
'Farewell' apparently unmoved. It is a kind of courage, however, that is
very rare indeed, and all sorts of stratagems have been adopted to soften
the grief of parting. I am not sure that I myself was not guilty of
adopting one of these on the morning we left that pleasant home by the
lake.
'I'm not going to say "farewell" at all,' I insisted, as I shook hands
with Irish Aileen and poor old Jenny, Moncrieff's 'marvellous mither.'
'I'm coming out again to see you all as soon as ever I can get settled. Do
you think I could leave this beautiful country entirely, without spending
at least a few more years in it? Not I! And even if I do succeed in
getting old Coila back once more--even that, mind, is uncertain--I sha'n't
quite give up Coila New. So _au revoir_, Moncrieff; _au revoir_!'
Then, turning to Jenny, '_Au revoir_, Jenny,' I said.
'Guid-bye, laddie, and God be wi' ye. I canna speak French. I've tried a
word or twa mair than once, and nearly knocked my jaws out o' the joint;
so I'll just say "Guid-bye." Lang, lang ere you can come back to Coila New
puir old Jenny's bones will be in the mools.'
I felt a big lump in my throat just then, and was positively grateful when
Bombazo strutted up dressed in full uniform.
'_A dios_', he said; 'my friend, _a dios_. And now you have but to say the
word, and if you have the least fear of being molested by Indians, my
trusty sword is at your service, and I will gladly escort you as far as
Villa Mercedes.'
It is needless to say that I declined this truly heroic offer.
Our party--the departing one--consisted of mother, aunt, Townley, Archie,
and myself. My sister and my brothers came many miles on the road with us;
then we bade them good-bye, and I felt glad when that was over.
But Moncrieff's convoy was a truly Scottish one. He and his good men never
thought of turning back till they had seen us safely on board the train,
and rapidly being whirled away southwards.
As long as I could see this honest settler he was waving his broad bonnet
in the air, and--I felt sure of this--commending us all to a kind
Providence.
The vessel in which we took passage was a steamer that bore us straight to
the Clyde. Our voyage was a splendid one; in fact, I believe we were all
just a little sorry when it was finished.
Landing there in the Broomielaw on a cold forenoon in early spring would
have possessed but little of interest for any of us--so full were our
minds with the meeting that was before us, the meeting of M'Crimman and
M'Rae--only we received a welcome that, being all so unexpected, caused
tears of joy to spring to my eyes. For hardly was the gangway thrust on
board from the quay ere more than twenty sturdy Highlanders, who somehow
had got possession of it, came rushing and shouting on board. I knew every
face at once, though some were changed--with illness, years, or sorrow.
Perhaps few such scenes had ever before been witnessed on the Broomielaw,
for those men were arrayed in the full Scottish costume and wore the
M'Crimman tartan, and their shouts of joy might have been heard a good
half-mile off, despite the noises of the great city.
How they had heard of our coming it never occurred to me to inquire.
Suffice it to say that here they were, and I leave the reader to guess the
kind of welcome they gave us.
No, nothing would satisfy them short of escorting us to our hotel.
Our carriages, therefore, to please these kindly souls from Coila, were
obliged to proceed but slowly, for five pipers marched in front, playing
the bold old air of 'The March of the Cameron Men,' while the rest, with
drawn claymores, brought up the rear.
On the very next day Townley, Archie, and I received a message from M'Rae
himself, announcing that he would gladly meet us at the Royal Hotel in
Edinburgh. We were to bring no advocate with us, the letter advised; if
any dispute arose, then, and not till then, would be the time to call in
the aid of the law.
I confess that I entered M'Rae's room with a beating heart. How would he
receive us?
We found him quietly smoking a cigar and gazing out of the window.
But he turned with a kindly smile towards us as soon as we entered, and
the next minute we were all seated round the table, and business--_the_
business--was entered into.
M'Rae listened without a word. He never even moved a muscle while Townley
told all his long story, or rather read it from paper after paper, which
he took from his bag. The last of these papers was Duncan's own
confession, with Archie's signature and mine as witnesses alongside
Moncrieff's.
He opened his lips at last.
'This is your signature, and you duly attest all this?'
He put the question first to Archie and then to me.
Receiving a reply in the affirmative, it was but natural that I should
look for some show of emotion in M'Rae's face. I looked in vain. I have
never seen more consummate coolness before nor since. Indeed, it was a
coolness that alarmed me.
And when he rose from the table after a few minutes of apparently
engrossing thought, and walked directly towards a casket that stood on the
writing-table, I thought that after all our cause was lost.
In that casket, I felt sure, lay some strange document that should utterly
undo all Townley's work of years.
M'Rae is now at the table. He opens the casket, and for a moment looks
critically at its contents.
I can hear my heart beating. I'm sure I look pale with anxiety.
Now M'Rae puts his hand inside and quietly takes out--a fresh cigar.
Then, humming a tune the while, he brings the casket towards Townley, and
bids him help himself.
Townley does as he is told, but at the same time bursts into a hearty
laugh.
'Mr. M'Rae,' he says, 'you are the coolest man that ever I met. I do
believe that if you were taken out to be shot--'
'Stay,' said M'Rae, 'I _was_ once. I was tried for a traitor--tried for a
crime in France called "Treason," that I was as guiltless of as an unborn
babe--and condemned.'
'And what did you do?'
'Some one on the ground handed me a cigar, and--I lit it.
'Nay, my dear friends, I have lost my case here. Indeed, I never, it would
seem, had one.
'M'Crimman,' he continued, shaking me by the hand, 'Coila is yours.'
'Strathtoul,' I answered, 'is our blood feud at an end?'
'It is,' was the answer; and once again hand met hand across the table.
* * * * *
Need I tell of the home-coming of the M'Crimmans of Coila? Of the clansmen
who met us in the glen and marched along with us? Of the cheering strains
of music that re-echoed from every rock? Of the flags that fluttered over
and around our Castle Coila? Of the bonfires that blazed that night on
every hill, and cast their lurid light across the darkling lake? Or of the
tears my mother shed when, looking round the tartan drawing-room, the
cosiest in all the castle, she thought of father, dead and gone? No, for
some things are better left to the reader's imagination.
* * * * *
I throw down my pen with a sigh of relief.
I think I have finished my story; my noble deerhound thinks so too. He
gets slowly up from the hearthrug, conies towards me, and places his
honest head on my arm, but his eyes are fixed on mine.
It is not patting that he wants, nor petting either.
'Come out now, master,' he seems to say, speaking with soft brown eyes and
wagging tail; 'come out, master; mount your fleetest horse, and let us
have a glorious gallop across the hills. See how the sun shines and
glitters on grass, on leaves and lake! While you have been writing there
day after day, I, your faithful dog, have been languishing. Come, master,
come!'
And we go together.
When I return, refreshed, and run up stairs to the room in the tower, I
find dear auntie there. She has been reading my manuscript.
'There is,' she says, 'only one addition to make.'
'Name it, auntie,' I say; 'it is not yet too late.'
But she hesitates.
'It is almost a secret,' she says at last, bending down and smoothing the
deerhound.
'A secret, auntie? Ha, ha!' I laugh. 'I have it, auntie! I have it!'
And I kiss her there and then.
'It is Townley's secret and yours. He has proposed, and you are to--'
But auntie has run out of the room.
And now, come to think of it, there is something to add to all this.
Can you guess _my_ secret, reader mine?
Irene, my darling Irene and I, Murdoch M'Crimman, are also to be--
But, there, you have guessed my secret, as I guessed auntie's.
And just let me ask this: Could any better plan have been devised of
burying the hatchet betwixt two rival Highland clans, and putting an end
for ever to a blood feud?
THE END.
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End of Project Gutenberg's Our Home in the Silver West, by Gordon Stables