They wound between high rocks, jutting out over the road, through a barren land--it seemed to McTaggart--of lonely hills and sombre valleys; crossed a bridge of crumbling stone over a river shallow and brown, turned a corner, sharp as a knife, and heard the roar of rushing water. "Falls of Ghyll," said the chauffeur. Far above them, out of the crags that seemed to pierce the sapphire sky, poured a stream dazzling white, wreathed in spray, mad to escape; leaping down like a storm spirit to kiss the river, that laughed below, with a rippling note of sheer delight, under the golden shafts of sunshine. McTaggart's blue eyes drank it in. The picture blent with his own mood. So, he would carry Jill away, borne on the flood tide of his love. "Over that hill, sir," said the chauffeur--"is where the fire was--Miss Morgan's house--the Suffragettes, at it again--I expect you saw it in the papers?" "Yes--confound them!" said McTaggart. The man nodded, approving the sentiment. "They say, sir, they're up to mischief to-day--going to upset the speech-making. I don't envy them if they does!" The note in his voice spurred McTaggart's fears. "A rough lot about here?" "There'll be murder done," said the man grimly. "They don't stop at much when they're roused." "Are we nearly there?" The chauffeur nodded. "In five minutes. Just over the rise and down to the valley. The meeting's held on the football ground in Cluar itself. I passed it as I came along. When we get there, sir, I'd best drop you, a bit before, and then run by, turn and come back and wait for you at the foot of the hill, if that will do?" "Sounds all right--keep the engine going. I shan't be long if I can help it." He swallowed down his anxiety as they started to mount the incline. Up and up ... Then, with a sense of open space 'neath the roof of heaven, a panorama spread before them like a vast sea of green and gray. The swelling curves of the mighty Earth, patched with woods and blackened crags, rolled up in giant waves that broke on the sky line, blurred with heat. Purple mountains, silvery vales; and above, like a scroll of parchment drawn to an endless length across the world and worked on by some long-dead monk in azure and gold illumination, the veil of the sky was stretched, superb, shutting out the face of God. "What a view!" McTaggart sighed. Below in the valley he saw grey roofs, like stones carelessly pitched downhill, tiny fields and a gleam of blue where the river glided in and out. Now they were hovering like a bird over the village; then, as the road, steep and winding, swept them down, the cottages rose all about them. They passed a church, a school, a bridge, and slackened speed. "Here we are. It's through that gate on the right, sir," the chauffeur pointed down the road.