"Last year I lay before Tournay under a starlit sky while all around me breathed thousands of men who lay before many hours on the field of Fontenoy. That is war, Rob, not skirling up and down the country with a few hundred puir Hielan' bodies." "But I am enlisting," he said, considerably chilled by such words. The stranger sniffed over the pot most audibly. The savour was more than a hungry man could tolerate. "You would make a rare campaigner, Miss Macpherson," he said, "Rob is surely daft to think of losing such a stew for all the thrones of Europe." "It is only an ordinary stew," she said, with a faint flush on her cheeks. "It may be for you, Miss Macpherson--I'll no deny it--but as a man not strange to stews I'd call it by another name..." and he smacked his lips and drew in another draught of it with relish. "Weel, weel," murmured Miss Macpherson, and taking off the lid she set a knife into a piece of meat and with a spoon she emptied the gravy upon a plate. "Draw in your stool," she said, and laid the bannocks beside him. Then after a momentary hesitation she laid a round black bottle upon the table. "It is from Laggan way," she said. "A bonny country," he replied, and without delay set to with the greatest zest. Meanwhile Rob drew near the fire, and laid a peat or two upon the dying glow. He suddenly remembered how near he had been to falling the prey to his aunt's schemes, and yet to look at her face one would have said she suffered no disappointment or resentment. There was a strong vein of fatalism in Miss Macpherson. When the stranger had finished eating he pushed back his stool, and wiped his mouth very genteelly with a kerchief. "And now, sir," said he, addressing Rob, "what is this talk of the wars?" "Aye," re-echoed Miss Macpherson, brightening, "ye may well ask that, Mister..." she hesitated. "No matter," he replied quickly, "my name will keep." "I want to fight for the Prince," said Rob, sturdily; "I have this claymore." And he brought it from the corner where it lay. One look was sufficient for the stranger. "Ye are a hundred years too late, my man," he said, regarding the rusty sword with a critical eye. "It is all I have," said Rob. "And all ye are good for," retorted his aunt. The stranger meanwhile sat with his chin resting on one hand, a frown upon his face. Of a sudden he stirred fretfully. "What sort of talk is this?" he cried. "To-morrow or the next day will see us scattered like muir fowl; but we've had a run for our money, whereas, you, poor lad, will have a sair run for your life. Bide a wee--there will be other risings," at which he stopped, and won a smile from Miss Macpherson for his brave advice. "Thank ye, sir," she said, cordially; "and listen to the gentleman, Rob, for he speaks true words." Rob was about to break in when the stranger motioned him to silence.