“Then, John, if ye must have it” answered Sir Hector in his precise English, “though as an elder of the Scottish Church, a baronet, a general and a MacLean o’ Duart, I do not hold with the lawless and therefore nefarious traffic of smuggling, yet being also of a reprehensibly perverse and damnably adventurous spirit, I am the greatest smuggler of them all——” “You, Hector ... you?” “Myself, John! I own the _True Believer_, every plank an’ spar an’ rivet—though ne’er a body kens it save Potter, Bunkle and Sharkie Nye. Aye, an’ ’tis mony a hundred guineas I’ve handled these last twa years, but, bein’ elder, y’ ken, I’ve spent every penny on guid warks ... there’s the wee chapel ower to Berwick ... the row o’ almshooses ower to Seaford ... there’s blankets an’ kindlin’ to comfort auld banes i’ the winter. An’ yet, Johnnie, do what I will, the kirk elder in me canna abide the smuggler, whateffer! So whate’er the smuggler gains, the elder spends.... And to-night that de’il Sayle hath loosed strangers and soldiers on us, and thus ... if the lads must run risk o’ bullet and capture, so will I, since, like them. I’m just a smuggler. Aweel, here’s my confession, an’ muckle glad am I to be oot wi’t at last. An’ now, John, what’s your judgment?” For a moment Sir John was silent, then he laughed a little unsteadily and slipped his hand within Sir Hector’s arm. “O Hector—thou paradox!” quoth he. “Was there ever stranger, more lovable anomaly than Hector Lauchlan MacLean ... with his smuggling and almshouses? ’Faith, thou soarest far beyond my poor understanding. And who am I to judge thee? And, besides——” “Sirs,” said the Corporal in sudden, hoarse whisper, “beg to report moving bodies on our left front.” Sure enough, between the fitful wind-gusts was a confused murmur of sound that grew momentarily louder, until they could distinguish the muffled trampling of horses toiling up the steep ascent. Suddenly, afar in the dimness was the flash and report of a musket, the whine of a bullet with a distant shouting and clamour of pursuit. On came the fugitives near and nearer, a vague blur, the dim shapes of scrambling horses and men; nearer, until the watchers could hear the snort of labouring animals, the panting of men hard-pressed, a groan, a sobbing, muttered oath of pain and weariness, and then a voice cheery, dominating, familiar: “Bear up, Tom lad, it be only a bit farther! Bear up an’ we’ll cog ’em yet. You, Dick, is yon keg loose?” “Aye, Jarge, it be.” “Then let ’em ’ave it! Away wi’t!” Ensued a creak of leather, a heavy thud, and away down the slope bounded the unseen missile; and then horses and men were past and swallowed in the pervading gloom. But from below rose shouts, cries and cheers, a growing tumult, and up the slope straggled the pursuers, a mixed company of soldiery and coastguards pounding by with a rattle of accoutrements and the dull gleam of bayonet and cutlass.