On the morrow, John Splendid came riding up the street on his way to the foreign wars. He had attired himself most sprucely; he rode a good horse, and he gave it every chance to show its quality. Old women cried to him from their windows and close-mouths. “Oh! _laochain,_” they said, “yours be the luck of the seventh son!” He answered gaily, with the harmless flatteries that came so readily to his lips always, they seemed the very bosom’s revelation. “Oh! women!” said he, “I’ll be thinking of your handsome sons, and the happy days we spent together, and wishing myself soberly home with them when I am far away.” But not the old women alone waited on his going; shy girls courtesied or applauded at the corners. For them his horse caracoled on Stonefield’s causeway, his shoulders straightened, and his bonnet rose. “There you are!” said he, “still the temptation and the despair of a decent bachelor’s life. I’ll marry every one of you that has not a man when I come home.” “And when may that be?” cried a little, bold, lair one, with a laughing look at him from under the blowing locks that escaped the snood on her hair. “When may it be?” he repeated. “Say ‘Come home, Barbreck,’ in every one of your evening prayers, and heaven, for the sake of so sweet a face, may send me home the sooner with my fortune.” Master Gordon, passing, heard the speech. “Do your own praying, Barbreck------” “John,” said my hero. “John, this time, to you.” “John be it,” said the cleric, smiling warmly. “I like you, truly, and I wish you well.” M’Iver stooped and took the proffered hand. “Master Gordon,” he said, “I would sooner be liked and loved than only admired; that’s, perhaps, the secret of my life.” It was not the fishing season, but the street thronged with fishers from Kenmore and Cairndhu and Kilcatrine and the bays of lower Cowal. Their tall figures jostled in the causeway, their white teeth gleamed in their friendliness, and they met this companion of numerous days and nights, this gentleman of good-humour and even temper, with cries as in a schoolboy’s playground. They clustered round the horse and seized upon the trappings. Then John Splendid’s play-acting came to its conclusion, as it was ever bound to do when his innermost man was touched. He forgot the carriage of his shoulders; indifferent to the disposition of his reins, he reached and wrung a hundred hands, crying back memory for memory, jest for jest, and always the hope for future meetings. “O scamps! scamps!” said he, “fishing the silly prey of ditches when you might be with me upon the ocean and capturing the towns. I’ll never drink a glass of Rhenish, but I’ll mind of you and sorrow for your sour ales and bitter _aqua!_” “Will it be long?” said they--true Gaels, ever anxious to know the lease of pleasure or of grief.