Catriona

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Presently I came forth behind her in the front of the sandhills and
above the beach. It was here long and solitary; with a man-o'-war's
boat drawn up about the middle of the prospect, and an officer in
charge and pacing the sands like one who waited. I sat down where the
rough grass a good deal covered me, and looked for what should follow.
Catriona went straight to the boat; the officer met her with
civilities; they had ten words together; I saw a letter changing hands;
and there was Catriona returning. At the same time, as if this were
all her business on the Continent, the boat shoved off and was headed
for the SEAHORSE. But I observed the officer to remain behind and
disappear among the bents.

I liked the business little; and the more I considered of it, liked it
less. Was it Alan the officer was seeking? or Catriona? She drew near
with her head down, looking constantly on the sand, and made so tender
a picture that I could not bear to doubt her innocence. The next, she
raised her face and recognised me; seemed to hesitate, and then came on
again, but more slowly, and I thought with a changed colour. And at
that thought, all else that was upon my bosom - fears, suspicions, the
care of my friend's life - was clean swallowed up; and I rose to my
feet and stood waiting her in a drunkenness of hope.

I gave her "good morning" as she came up, which she returned with a
good deal of composure.

"Will you forgive my having followed you?" said I.

"I know you are always meaning kindly," she replied; and then, with a
little outburst, "but why will you be sending money to that man! It
must not be."

"I never sent it for him," said I, "but for you, as you know well."

"And you have no right to be sending it to either one of us," she said.
"David, it is not right."

"It is not, it is all wrong," said I, "and I pray God he will help this
dull fellow (if it be at all possible) to make it better. Catriona,
this is no kind of life for you to lead; and I ask your pardon for the
word, but yon man is no fit father to take care of you."

"Do not be speaking of him, even!" was her cry.

"And I need speak of him no more; it is not of him that I am thinking,
O, be sure of that!" says I. "I think of the one thing. I have been
alone now this long time in Leyden; and when I was by way of at my
studies, still I was thinking of that. Next Alan came, and I went
among soldier-men to their big dinners; and still I had the same
thought. And it was the same before, when I had her there beside me.
Catriona, do you see this napkin at my throat! You cut a corner from
it once and then cast it from you. They're YOUR colours now; I wear
them in my heart. My dear, I cannot be wanting you. O, try to put up
with me!"

I stepped before her so as to intercept her walking on.

"Try to put up with me," I was saying, "try and bear me with a little."

Still she had never the word, and a fear began to rise in me like a
fear of death.

"Catriona," I cried, gazing on her hard, "is it a mistake again? Am I
quite lost?"

She raised her face to me, breathless.

"Do you want me, Davie, truly?" said she, and I scarce could hear her
say it.

"I do that," said I. "O, sure you know it - I do that."

"I have nothing left to give or to keep back," said she. "I was all
yours from the first day, if you would have had a gift of me!" she
said,

This was on the summit of a brae; the place was windy and conspicuous,
we were to be seen there even from the English ship; but I kneeled down
before her in the sand, and embraced her knees, and burst into that
storm of weeping that I thought it must have broken me. All thought
was wholly beaten from my mind by the vehemency of my discomposure. I
knew not where I was. I had forgot why I was happy; only I knew she
stooped, and I felt her cherish me to her face and bosom, and heard her
words out of a whirl.

"Davie," she was saying, "O, Davie, is this what you think of me! Is
it so that you were caring for poor me! O, Davie, Davie!"

With that she wept also, and our tears were commingled in a perfect
gladness.

It might have been ten in the day before I came to a clear sense of
what a mercy had befallen me; and sitting over against her, with her
hands in mine, gazed in her face, and laughed out loud for pleasure
like a child, and called her foolish and kind names. I have never seen
the place that looked so pretty as those bents by Dunkirk; and the
windmill sails, as they bobbed over the knowe, were like a tune of
music.

I know not how much longer we might have continued to forget all else
besides ourselves, had I not chanced upon a reference to her father,
which brought us to reality.

"My little friend," I was calling her again and again, rejoicing to
summon up the past by the sound of it, and to gaze across on her, and
to be a little distant - "My little friend, now you are mine
altogether; mine for good, my little friend and that man's no longer at
all."

There came a sudden whiteness in her face, she plucked her hands from
mine.

"Davie, take me away from him!" she cried. "There's something wrong;
he's not true. There will be something wrong; I have a dreadful terror
here at my heart. What will he be wanting at all events with that
King's ship? What will this word be saying?" And she held the letter
forth. "My mind misgives me, it will be some ill to Alan. Open it,
Davie - open it and see."

I took it, and looked at it, and shook my head.

"No," said I, "it goes against me, I cannot open a man's letter."

"Not to save your friend?" she cried.

"I cannae tell," said I. "I think not. If I was only sure!"

"And you have but to break the seal!" said she.

"I know it," said I, "but the thing goes against me."

"Give it here," said she, "and I will open it myself."

"Nor you neither," said I. "You least of all. It concerns your
father, and his honour, dear, which we are both misdoubting. No
question but the place is dangerous-like, and the English ship being
here, and your father having word from it, and yon officer that stayed
ashore. He would not be alone either; there must be more along with
him; I daresay we are spied upon this minute. Ay, no doubt, the letter
should be opened; but somehow, not by you nor me."

I was about thus far with it, and my spirit very much overcome with a
sense of danger and hidden enemies, when I spied Alan, come back again
from following James and walking by himself among the sand-hills. He
was in his soldier's coat, of course, and mighty fine; but I could not
avoid to shudder when I thought how little that jacket would avail him,
if he were once caught and flung in a skiff, and carried on board of
the SEAHORSE, a deserter, a rebel, and now a condemned murderer.

"There," said I, "there is the man that has the best right to open it:
or not, as he thinks fit."

With which I called upon his name, and we both stood up to be a mark
for him.

"If it is so - if it be more disgrace - will you can bear it?" she
asked, looking upon me with a burning eye.

"I was asked something of the same question when I had seen you but the
once," said I. "What do you think I answered? That if I liked you as I
thought I did - and O, but I like you better! - I would marry you at
his gallows' foot."

The blood rose in her face; she came close up and pressed upon me,
holding my hand: and it was so that we awaited Alan.

He came with one of his queer smiles. "What was I telling ye, David?"
says he.

"There is a time for all things, Alan," said I, "and this time is
serious. How have you sped? You can speak out plain before this
friend of ours."

"I have been upon a fool's errand," said he.

"I doubt we have done better than you, then," said I; "and, at least,
here is a great deal of matter that you must judge of. Do you see
that?" I went on, pointing to the ship. "That is the SEAHORSE, Captain
Palliser."

"I should ken her, too," says Alan. "I had fyke enough with her when
she was stationed in the Forth. But what ails the man to come so
close?"

"I will tell you why he came there first," said I. "It was to bring
this letter to James More. Why he stops here now that it's delivered,
what it's likely to be about, why there's an officer hiding in the
bents, and whether or not it's probable that he's alone - I would
rather you considered for yourself."

"A letter to James More?" said he.

"The same," said I.

"Well, and I can tell ye more than that," said Alan. "For the last
night, when you were fast asleep, I heard the man colloguing with some
one in the French, and then the door of that inn to be opened and
shut."

"Alan!" cried I, "you slept all night, and I am here to prove it."

"Ay, but I would never trust Alan whether he was asleep or waking!"
says he. "But the business looks bad. Let's see the letter."

I gave it him.

"Catriona," said he, "you have to excuse me, my dear; but there's
nothing less than my fine bones upon the cast of it, and I'll have to
break this seal."

"It is my wish," said Catriona.

He opened it, glanced it through, and flung his hand in the air.

"The stinking brock!" says he, and crammed the paper in his pocket.
"Here, let's get our things together. This place is fair death to me."
And he began to walk towards the inn.

It was Catriona that spoke the first. "He has sold you?" she asked.

"Sold me, my dear," said Alan. "But thanks to you and Davie, I'll can
jink him yet. Just let me win upon my horse," he added.

"Catriona must come with us," said I. "She can have no more traffic
with that man. She and I are to be married." At which she pressed my
hand to her side.

"Are ye there with it?" says Alan, looking back. "The best day's work
that ever either of you did yet! And I'm bound to say, my dawtie, ye
make a real, bonny couple."

The way that he was following brought us close in by the windmill,
where I was aware of a man in seaman's trousers, who seemed to be
spying from behind it. Only, of course, we took him in the rear.

"See, Alan!"

"Wheesht!" said, he, "this is my affairs."

The man was, no doubt, a little deafened by the clattering of the mill,
and we got up close before he noticed. Then he turned, and we saw he
was a big fellow with a mahogany face.

"I think, sir," says Alan, "that you speak the English?"

"NON, MONSIEUR," says he, with an incredible bad accent.

"NON, MONSIEUR," cries Alan, mocking him. "Is that how they learn you
French on the SEAHORSE? Ye muckle, gutsey hash, here's a Scots boot to
your English hurdies!"

And bounding on him before he could escape, he dealt the man a kick
that laid him on his nose. Then he stood, with a savage smile, and
watched him scramble to his feet and scamper off into the sand-hills.

"But it's high time I was clear of these empty bents!" said Alan; and
continued his way at top speed, and we still following, to the backdoor
of Bazin's inn.

It chanced that as we entered by the one door we came face to face with
James More entering by the other.

"Here!" said I to Catriona, "quick! upstairs with you and make your
packets; this is no fit scene for you."

In the meanwhile James and Alan had met in the midst of the long room.
She passed them close by to reach the stairs; and after she was some
way up I saw her turn and glance at them again, though without pausing.
Indeed, they were worth looking at. Alan wore as they met one of his
best appearances of courtesy and friendliness, yet with something
eminently warlike, so that James smelled danger off the man, as folk
smell fire in a house, and stood prepared for accidents.

Time pressed. Alan's situation in that solitary place, and his enemies
about him, might have daunted Caesar. It made no change in him; and it
was in his old spirit of mockery and daffing that he began the
interview.

"A braw good day to ye again, Mr. Drummond," said he. "What'll yon
business of yours be just about?"

"Why, the thing being private, and rather of a long story," says James,
"I think it will keep very well till we have eaten."

"I'm none so sure of that," said Alan. "It sticks in my mind it's
either now or never; for the fact is me and Mr. Balfour here have
gotten a line, and we're thinking of the road."

I saw a little surprise in James's eye; but he held himself stoutly.

"I have but the one word to say to cure you of that," said he, "and
that is the name of my business."

"Say it then," says Alan. "Hout! wha minds for Davie?"

"It is a matter that would make us both rich men," said James.

"Do you tell me that?" cries Alan.

"I do, sir," said James. "The plain fact is that it is Cluny's
Treasure."

"No!" cried Alan. "Have ye got word of it?"

"I ken the place, Mr. Stewart, and can take you there," said James.

"This crowns all!" says Alan. "Well, and I'm glad I came to Dunkirk.
And so this was your business, was it? Halvers, I'm thinking?"

"That is the business, sir," said James.

"Well, well," said Alan; and then in the same tone of childlike
interest, "it has naething to do with the SEAHORSE, then?" he asked,

"With what?" says James.

"Or the lad that I have just kicked the bottom of behind yon windmill?"
pursued Alan. "Hut, man! have done with your lees! I have Palliser's
letter here in my pouch. You're by with it, James More. You can never
show your face again with dacent folk."

James was taken all aback with it. He stood a second, motionless and
white, then swelled with the living anger.

"Do you talk to me, you bastard?" he roared out.

"Ye glee'd swine!" cried Alan, and hit him a sounding buffet on the
mouth, and the next wink of time their blades clashed together.

At the first sound of the bare steel I instinctively leaped back from
the collision. The next I saw, James parried a thrust so nearly that I
thought him killed; and it lowed up in my mind that this was the girl's
father, and in a manner almost my own, and I drew and ran in to sever
them.

"Keep back, Davie! Are ye daft! Damn ye, keep back!" roared Alan.
"Your blood be on your ain heid then!"

I beat their blades down twice. I was knocked reeling against the
wall; I was back again betwixt them. They took no heed of me,
thrusting at each other like two furies. I can never think how I
avoided being stabbed myself or stabbing one of these two Rodomonts,
and the whole business turned about me like a piece of a dream; in the
midst of which I heard a great cry from the stair, and Catriona sprang
before her father. In the same moment the point of my sword
encountered some thing yielding. It came back to me reddened. I saw
the blood flow on the girl's kerchief, and stood sick.

"Will you be killing him before my eyes, and me his daughter after
all!" she cried.

"My dear, I have done with him," said Alan, and went, and sat on a
table, with his arms crossed and the sword naked in his hand.

Awhile she stood before the man, panting, with big eyes, then swung
suddenly about and faced him.

"Begone!" was her word, "take your shame out of my sight; leave me with
clean folk. I am a daughter of Alpin! Shame of the sons of Alpin,
begone!"

It was said with so much passion as awoke me from the horror of my own
bloodied sword. The two stood facing, she with the red stain on her
kerchief, he white as a rag. I knew him well enough - I knew it must
have pierced him in the quick place of his soul; but he betook himself
to a bravado air.

"Why," says he, sheathing his sword, though still with a bright eye on
Alan, "if this brawl is over I will but get my portmanteau - "

"There goes no pockmantie out of this place except with me," says Alan.

"Sir!" cries James.

"James More," says Alan, "this lady daughter of yours is to marry my
friend Davie, upon the which account I let you pack with a hale
carcase. But take you my advice of it and get that carcase out of
harm's way or ower late. Little as you suppose it, there are leemits
to my temper."

"Be damned, sir, but my money's there!" said James.

"I'm vexed about that, too," says Alan, with his funny face, "but now,
ye see, it's mines." And then with more gravity, "Be you advised,
James More, you leave this house."

James seemed to cast about for a moment in his mind; but it's to be
thought he had enough of Alan's swordsmanship, for he suddenly put off
his hat to us and (with a face like one of the damned) bade us farewell
in a series. With which he was gone.

At the same time a spell was lifted from me.

"Catriona," I cried, "it was me - it was my sword. O, are you much
hurt?"

"I know it, Davie, I am loving you for the pain of it; it was done
defending that bad man, my father. See!" she said, and showed me a
bleeding scratch, "see, you have made a man of me now. I will carry a
wound like an old soldier."

Joy that she should be so little hurt, and the love of her brave
nature, supported me. I embraced her, I kissed the wound.

"And am I to be out of the kissing, me that never lost a chance?" says
Alan; and putting me aside and taking Catriona by either shoulder, "My
dear," he said, "you're a true daughter of Alpin. By all accounts, he
was a very fine man, and he may weel be proud of you. If ever I was to
get married, it's the marrow of you I would be seeking for a mother to
my sons. And I bear's a king's name and speak the truth."

He said it with a serious heat of admiration that was honey to the
girl, and through her, to me. It seemed to wipe us clean of all James
More's disgraces. And the next moment he was just himself again.

"And now by your leave, my dawties," said he, "this is a' very bonny;
but Alan Breck'll be a wee thing nearer to the gallows than he's caring
for; and Dod! I think this is a grand place to be leaving."

The word recalled us to some wisdom. Alan ran upstairs and returned
with our saddle-bags and James More's portmanteau; I picked up
Catriona's bundle where she had dropped it on the stair; and we were
setting forth out of that dangerous house, when Bazin stopped the way
with cries and gesticulations. He had whipped under a table when the
swords were drawn, but now he was as bold as a lion. There was his
bill to be settled, there was a chair broken, Alan had sat among his
dinner things, James More had fled.

"Here," I cried, "pay yourself," and flung him down some Lewie d'ors;
for I thought it was no time to be accounting.

He sprang upon that money, and we passed him by, and ran forth into the
open. Upon three sides of the house were seamen hasting and closing
in; a little nearer to us James More waved his hat as if to hurry them;
and right behind him, like some foolish person holding up his hands,
were the sails of the windmill turning.

Alan gave but one glance, and laid himself down to run. He carried a
great weight in James More's portmanteau; but I think he would as soon
have lost his life as cast away that booty which was his revenge; and
he ran so that I was distressed to follow him, and marvelled and
exulted to see the girl bounding at my side.

As soon as we appeared, they cast off all disguise upon the other side;
and the seamen pursued us with shouts and view-hullohs. We had a start
of some two hundred yards, and they were but bandy-legged tarpaulins
after all, that could not hope to better us at such an exercise. I
suppose they were armed, but did not care to use their pistols on
French ground. And as soon as I perceived that we not only held our
advantage but drew a little away, I began to feel quite easy of the
issue. For all which, it was a hot, brisk bit of work, so long as it
lasted; Dunkirk was still far off; and when we popped over a knowe, and
found a company of the garrison marching on the other side on some
manoeuvre, I could very well understand the word that Alan had.

He stopped running at once; and mopping at his brow, "They're a real
bonny folk, the French nation," says he.

CONCLUSION

NO sooner were we safe within the walls of Dunkirk than we held a very
necessary council-of-war on our position. We had taken a daughter from
her father at the sword's point; any judge would give her back to him
at once, and by all likelihood clap me and Alan into jail; and though
we had an argument upon our side in Captain Palliser's letter, neither
Catriona nor I were very keen to be using it in public. Upon all
accounts it seemed the most prudent to carry the girl to Paris to the
hands of her own chieftain, Macgregor of Bohaldie, who would be very
willing to help his kinswoman, on the one hand, and not at all anxious
to dishonour James upon other.

We made but a slow journey of it up, for Catriona was not so good at
the riding as the running, and had scarce sat in the saddle since the
'Forty-five. But we made it out at last, reached Paris early of a
Sabbath morning, and made all speed, under Alan's guidance, to find
Bohaldie. He was finely lodged, and lived in a good style, having a
pension on the Scots Fund, as well as private means; greeted Catriona
like one of his own house, and seemed altogether very civil and
discreet, but not particularly open. We asked of the news of James
More. "Poor James!" said he, and shook his head and smiled, so that I
thought he knew further than he meant to tell. Then we showed him
Palliser's letter, and he drew a long face at that.

"Poor James!" said he again. "Well, there are worse folk than James
More, too. But this is dreadful bad. Tut, tut, he must have forgot
himself entirely! This is a most undesirable letter. But, for all
that, gentlemen, I cannot see what we would want to make it public for.
It's an ill bird that fouls his own nest, and we are all Scots folk and
all Hieland."

Upon this we all agreed, save perhaps Alan; and still more upon the
question of our marriage, which Bohaldie took in his own hands, as
though there had been no such person as James More, and gave Catriona
away with very pretty manners and agreeable compliments in French. It
was not till all was over, and our healths drunk, that he told us James
was in that city, whither he had preceded us some days, and where he
now lay sick, and like to die. I thought I saw by my wife's face what
way her inclination pointed.

"And let us go see him, then," said I.

"If it is your pleasure," said Catriona. These were early days.

He was lodged in the same quarter of the city with his chief, in a
great house upon a corner; and we were guided up to the garret where he
lay by the sound of Highland piping. It seemed he had just borrowed a
set of them from Bohaldie to amuse his sickness; though he was no such
hand as was his brother Rob, he made good music of the kind; and it was
strange to observe the French folk crowding on the stairs, and some of
them laughing. He lay propped in a pallet. The first look of him I
saw he was upon his last business; and, doubtless, this was a strange
place for him to die in. But even now I find I can scarce dwell upon
his end with patience. Doubtless, Bohaldie had prepared him; he seemed
to know we were married, complimented us on the event, and gave us a
benediction like a patriarch.

"I have been never understood," said he. "I forgive you both without
an after-thought;" after which he spoke for all the world in his old
manner, was so obliging as to play us a tune or two upon his pipes, and
borrowed a small sum before I left.

I could not trace even a hint of shame in any part of his behaviour;
but he was great upon forgiveness; it seemed always fresh to him. I
think he forgave me every time we met; and when after some four days he
passed away in a kind of odour of affectionate sanctity, I could have
torn my hair out for exasperation. I had him buried; but what to put
upon his tomb was quite beyond me, till at last I considered the date
would look best alone.

I thought it wiser to resign all thoughts of Leyden, where we had
appeared once as brother and sister, and it would certainly look
strange to return in a new character. Scotland would be doing for us;
and thither, after I had recovered that which I had left behind, we
sailed in a Low Country ship.

And now, Miss Barbara Balfour (to set the ladies first), and Mr. Alan
Balfour younger of Shaws, here is the story brought fairly to an end.
A great many of the folk that took a part in it, you will find (if you
think well) that you have seen and spoken with. Alison Hastie in
Limekilns was the lass that rocked your cradle when you were too small
to know of it, and walked abroad with you in the policy when you were
bigger. That very fine great lady that is Miss Barbara's name-mamma is
no other than the same Miss Grant that made so much a fool of David
Balfour in the house of the Lord Advocate. And I wonder whether you
remember a little, lean, lively gentleman in a scratch-wig and a
wraprascal, that came to Shaws very late of a dark night, and whom you
were awakened out of your beds and brought down to the dining-hall to
be presented to, by the name of Mr. Jamieson? Or has Alan forgotten
what he did at Mr. Jamieson's request - a most disloyal act - for
which, by the letter of the law, he might be hanged - no less than
drinking the king's health ACROSS THE WATER? These were strange doings
in a good Whig house! But Mr. Jamieson is a man privileged, and might
set fire to my corn-barn; and the name they know him by now in France
is the Chevalier Stewart.

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