himsel' a'reedy. It was, maybe, to ponder over these words that I took the way up the steep bye-path that led up the beach, an' so zig-zag along the cliff's edge. There was a sort o' neuk beside a turn o' this path, where was a big stane, that one might sit upon, and so lose sight o' everything but the distant sea an' the beach below, to which the rocks shelved down, rugged an' bare in places, an' in others wi' a toss an' tangle o' weed and brushwood, where there was a hollow in the face of the cliff.

There I sat, an' sat, and felt all strange an' drowsy, dreamin' about Rab an' Maggie, but not rightly thinking o' anything; but holding in my hand the bauble that I had taken out o' my pocket to look at. Night was comin' down quick out at sea, and the mist was creepin' over the hills, when I heard a man's footstep on the path, and stood up to see who came.

No need to look twice; 'twas Rory Smith, the keeper, trampling quick and heavy, and with a heavy cudgel in his clenched hands--a murderous look in his eyes.

He turned upon me, clutching his stick.

"Whaur are ye goin'?" he said, "and who's that for?" pointin' to the necklace that hung on my fingers.

"I'm no here to answer questions," answered I; "but ye can know for a'

that, or ye can turn back, and see for yoursel'."

"Go, if ye daur!" he shrieked; "for it shall be but one o' us, if ye'll no turn about the way I'm walkin'. It's through you, is it, that Maggie flouts me, an' throws back my gifts, that are o' mair cost than ye can earn, ye loupin' beggar?"

"Hand off!" I shouted; "or I'll no answer for mysel'," for he was pressin' on, an' there was no room for a struggle between the rock an'

the road's edge. "Haud off, or not one, but baith, may make a turn too many."

"Gie me that trash," he said, making a s.n.a.t.c.h toward the necklace. "Gie it me, and go no more to Maggie's house--you nor your baby cousin Rab.

Gie it me, I say!"

He was upon me before I could answer him, mad wi' pa.s.sion and wi'

whisky, and dealt me a heavy blow upon the head; but I was quicker and stronger than he, and, before he could repeat it, had him by wrist and shoulder. As I've said, 'twas no place to wrestle in, and when we both came to grips, we had but one scuffle, and then our footing was gone, and I lost him and myself, too--lost sense, and hearing, and a' things.

The sun was high in the sky, when I came to myself--shining like a golden shield over the blue sea, and the wavin' gra.s.s and heather; and I could just see the ripple o' the waves and the fleece o' white clouds far away, but naething else.

It was a while before I could do that, for I seemed to be covered wi'

dried gra.s.s and leaves above my chin as I lay there in a deep cleft in the cliff side, mid a tangle of stalks an' roots, and dry driftsand, that had got into my claes, and tilled my ears and eyes. I was like a man paralysed, too; and had to move an inch at a time, till I could rub, first my arms, an' then, when I had got upon one elbow, give my legs a turn, and then my back. The first thing I did was to feel if the necklace was on my wrist still; but it had gone; dropped off and lost in the scuffle. Next I crawled to the edge of the hole, and peered down the cliff side, and all round, as far as I could see, to look for the body of Rory Smith, living or dead.

I could not tell how he had fallen; but unless he had clutched at the long weed, or reached a cliff lower down, he'd hardly be alive after a whole night; for, had he fallen on the beach, and been disabled, his body was now under the water, above which the sea-birds wheeled and piped in the bright morning air.

Perhaps he had cried out, and help had come, while I lay senseless.

However it was, I must get to the village and see what could be done.

The quickest way was to climb up to the path again, and so get toward the long street o' Slievochan, nearer than going back to find uncle an'

Rab, who'd most likely be at Donald Miller's to look for me.

It was strange to think that I should have been fightin' for Maggie, an'

all the time was the only one that made no claim to be her lover. I began to wonder whether, after all, the la.s.sie might have understood me different, and had been waitin' for me to speak out, preferrin' me to Rab even, and wonderin' why I had his name always foremost. The thought wasna' a good one, for I felt a kind of sudden fancy to win the girl, even though I couldna say I loved her; indeed, I'd thought of her only as a winsome child; and, lately, had never spoke of her to Rab, except wi' caution, for I could see that the puir laddie was sair in airnest.

Somehow, the thought o' my bein' Maggie's lover, though I put it frae me, caused me for a moment to wonder what she'd say to me if she saw me all dusty, and with torn clothes and grimy face. This made me look at my clothes, and, wi' a sort o' wonder, I found that my pilot coat had got all brown at the back, where I lay upon it, and broke as though it had been scorched. My shoes, too, were all dry and stiff; and as I began to climb the cliff, very slowly an' painfully, my shirt an'

trousers gave way at knees and elbows. I sat down on the bank of the path after I'd reached it, a'most dead with faintness an' hunger, so put my hand in my pocket to find my pipe. It was there, sure enough, along wi' my steel bacca-box, and there was bacca there too, an' a bit o'

flint to get a light. The bacca was dry as powder, but it eased the gnawin' of my limbs, and I tottered on.

On to the first cottages, leading to the main street, where I meant to go first to Mrs Gillespie's, and find some of the fishermen to search the cliff for the keeper. As I came nearer to those cottages, I could see that something was stirring in the village, for women an' bairns were all out in the street, an' in their best claes; and across the street farther away was a rope bearin' a great flag an' bunches of heather, an' the people all about Mrs Gillespie's door, an' the by-way leadin' toward Donald Miller's cottage, and so right up to the kirk. I could see a' this only when I got closer; but I could na' turn up the high street. A kind o' fear an' wonder kept me back, an' more than once I shut my e'en, and stretchit oot my arms all round, to feel whether I was na' dreamin' it all in the hole of the cliff side, or, maybe, in my bunk at hame, or on the deck of the _Robert Bruce_, wi' Rab at the tiller, an' uncle smoking forrard.

I turned up a by-way, and got near to the church itsel', where a man and woman--strangers to me--were leanin' against the wall, talkin'. I thought I knew everybody in the place; but these people had just come out o' a cottage that belonged to auld Nannie Dun, and had turned the key o' the door as though they lived there, at the sicht o' me coming along the path.

They eyed me over, too, as I came near, and answered wi' caution, when I asked what was goin' on the day.

"Weel, it's a weddin' in the kirk," says the wife, "an' sae lang waited for that it's little wonder a' the toon is oot to give joy to the bonnie bride an' groom. Ye're a stranger, and where may ye come frae?"

"Nae, nae," I said, between a laugh an' a fright. "Ae body kens me hereabout; but where's auld Nannie, that ye've come to see to-day; she'll know me."

The couple looked skeerit. "Auld Nannie Dun was deed an' buried six years ago come July," said the woman. "Ye've been long away frae this toon, I'm thinkin'."

"Frae this _village_," says I. "Slievochan's na' a toon."

"'Deed, but it is, though, since the auld laird's death, and the new street was built, two years' ago; when Donal' Miller an' Ivan Dhu bought the land that it stands on for a portion for son an' daughter--but there they come."

"Just one moment," I cried, clutching the man by the arm. "Will ye kindly tell me the day an' the year?"

"What day, mon?" says he, lookin' at me in doubt.

"This present day o' the month and the year. Is it auchteen hunnerd saxteen?"

"Hoot, mon!" cried the fellow, gettin' away frae me. "Nae; but the third June, auchteen hunnerd twenty-sax. Ha'e ye been asleep these ten years?"

I had!

It rushed upon me a' o' a sudden. My claes like tinder; the bed o' dry leaves; my shrivelled boots; the bacca in powder. There, in that cave o' the cliff I'd slept in a trance, with ne'er a dream to know o', an'

the world had gone round while I stoppit still. There was a soun' o'

talking an' laugh in' at the kirk door, an' then a shout, as a band o'

fishermen came out, all in their best rig; an' then a shoal of pretty la.s.sies, an' then my uncle Ivan, an' Mistress Miller--(Old Donald was deed, then, I thought); and then the bailie an' my Aunt Tibbie; and, after all, Rab an' Maggie--he looking a grand, n.o.ble man, for he was no longer a boy; but wi' his father's strength, and Aunt Tibbie's soft, tender smile; an' she--Maggie, I mean--older an' paler; but wi' a light in her een, an' a lovin' look upon her face, that made me forget mysel'

in joy to think how they had come together at last, whatever might have happened in the ten years.

But what would happen if I should be seen by the bailie, starin' there at the church porch, in my rags and unkempt hair an' beard--I, that had perhaps been sought for, and might be suspect.i.t?--Ah! that was dreadfu'!--suspect.i.t o' murder! for where was Rory Smith?--and who could tell the true tale but me?

I might be recognised in a minute; for how did I know whether I was altered?--and I could remember half the men who were there shouting, and half the women claverin' in the kirkyard. I crept away.

The best thing I could do was to make off down to the fisher village on the beach; for everybody had come up to the wedding, and I could gain my uncle's house without meeting any one that I knew. So crammin' what was left of my bacca into my pipe, I turned down a lane, and could see the man and woman that I'd spoken to stopping to look after me.

I was wrong in the thinking that I should reach my uncle's house unknown. At all events, I was known after I'd entered the house, though there was naebody there. The first thing I did was to stir up the embers o' the fire, for I was chilled, though it was a warm summer's day; then I cut a slice from the loaf, and took a mug o' milk from the pan; an' then went to the ben, to see after washing myself, and go on to my ain auld room, to look what had come o' my claes.

The room was altered, but the chest was there; and though my _men's_ claes had gone, some of my _boy's_ claes were there; an' even some of them that I wore as a child, when Aunt Tibbie made me a new suit. I was thocht to be dead, then, but wasna' forgotten.

If a mon can cry, it does him a world o' good at times--that is, if he doesna' cry much nor often. I cried, and it did me good. Then I went up to the little bit o' broken gla.s.s that was nailed to the wa' to speer what like I was. My hair had began to whiten--bleached, maybe, by the sea air. I had a strange, wild look, for hair and beard had grown all tangled, and my face was grey instead of red-brown, as it once was.

Would my uncle know me?

When I went down again to eat some more bread, and to look for a little whisky to put wi' the milk, there was a man's face peerin' through the window; and before I could stir, the door-latch clicked, and in walked my uncle Ivan. I had started to my feet, and my uncle strode in, with his hand uplifted, as if to strike me.

I never stirred, but looked at him full in the eyes.

His hand fell to his side.

"What brings ye here frae the dead, or from waur than the dead, Sandy Macpherson?" he exclaimed, hoa.r.s.ely.

"I've no been that far; if they that I'd have looked for had looked for me," I answered. "If Rory Smith is alive, he can tell ye about it; or if his dead body's been found, I'll tell my story over that afore all Slievochan."

"Then it was you, after all?" said my uncle, sinking into a seat, and leaning his head on his hands. "An' I've stood up for ye, and swore that if there was foul play 'twas he, and not you--or maybe Preece, as your aunt thocht at first, because he had the necklace. Can ye, an'