"Put up your bawbees," he said at length. "If Highlanders are poor, they are also proud, and the gold isn't dug yet that would tempt Dugald McCrane to neglect his duty. And if the auld laird himsel' was standing there, he'd tell you it's the truth I'm speaking. Right about face, my man, and march with us to the glen-head, or it may be the worse for you." The stranger gave a sigh and a sickly kind of smile, but he shouldered his gun and prepared to follow. "One minute," said Dugald, for Kenneth had beckoned him aside. Kenneth and he conversed for a moment; then Dugald returned. "You look tired," he said, shortly; "we'll go your road. Archie," he continued, "pick the ice-balls from the feet of those twa poor dogs. Your dogs, sir, are but little used to our Hielan' hills." "And indeed, my fine fellow," replied the stranger, "am but little used to your Highland manners, but grateful to you, young sir,"--he was addressing Kenneth--"for saving me a longer journey than needful." In half an hour's time the future laird of Alva, for it was no other, found himself a prisoner at the little inn of the clachan. This for a night; next day he produced a letter from McGregor himself--he had despatched a messenger to C--for it--which quite satisfied Dugald McCrane. Dugald was satisfied of something else as well, namely, that he had done his duty without exceeding it. Kenneth and Dugald visited Nancy Dobbell's next day and told her the story. "Och! och!" she said, "it will be a sore day for the folks of the clachan, when a stranger steps into the shoes of poor auld Laird McGregor. "But a cloud is rising o'er the hills, my laddies; there will be little more peace in Glen Alva. A cloud is rising o'er the hills, and that cloud will burst, and wreck and ruin will fall on the poor people. My dreams have told me this many and many a day since. Heigho! but Nancy's time is wearin' through. She'll never live to see it." Kenneth took the old thin hand that lay in her lap in both his, and looked into her face, while the tears gathered in his eyes. He was going to say something. But he did not dare trust himself to speak. He simply petted the poor wrinkled hand. Is Campbell the poet right, I wonder? "_Does_ the sunset of life give us mystical lore? _Do_ coming events cast their shadows before?" CHAPTER SEVEN. THE DEATH OF POOR NANCY. "I'm wearin' awa', Jean, Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean; I'm wearin' awa' To the Land o' the Leal." Old Song.