Jacobite Rebellion, 1745-1746 -- Fiction; Montrose Region (Scotland) -- History -- Fiction; Scotland -- History -- 18th century -- Fiction
Ferrier looked with complete trust to James Logie and his brother
Balnillo. The old man, during his judicial career, had made some
parade of keeping himself aloof from politics; and as his retirement
had taken place previous to the landing of the Prince, he had sunk the
public servant in the country gentleman before the world of
politicians began to divide the sheep from the goats. For some time
few troubled their heads about the peaceable and cautious old Lord of
Session, whose inconspicuous talents were vegetating among the trees
and grass-parks that the late Lady Balnillo had husbanded so carefully
for him. As to his very much younger brother, who had been incessantly
absent from his native land, his existence was practically forgotten.
But because the Government's Secret Intelligence Department on the
east coast had remembered it at last with some suspicion, Flemington
had been sent to Montrose with directions to send his reports to its
agent in Perth. And Flemington had bettered his orders in landing
himself at Balnillo.
As Archie heard a steady tread approaching, he shrank farther back
under the stair. He could only distinguish a middle-sized male figure
which might belong to anyone, and he followed it with straining eyes
to within a few feet of the lamp. Here it paused, and, skirting the
light patch, stepped out into the middle of the way.
He scarcely breathed. He was not sure yet, though the man had come
nearer by half the street; but the height matched his expectation, and
the avoidance of the solitary light proved the desire for secrecy in
the person before him. As the man moved on he slipped from his shelter
and followed him, keeping just enough distance between them to allow
him to see the way he went.
The two figures passed up the High Street, one behind the other,
Flemington shrinking close to the walls and drawing a little nearer.
Before they had gone a hundred yards, his unconscious guide turned
suddenly into one of those narrow covered-in alleys, or closes, as
they are called, which started at right angles from the main street.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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