'Why?' 'Because she is interested in me,' replied Lewie Baronald, smiling. 'For what reason?' 'Her first lover had been one of the Scots Brigade, and her heart still warms to the uniform.' The knitted brow of the General relaxed for a moment, and he said with a grim smile: 'Then there have been two fools at least in the Brigade, to my knowledge. And for this prize, Dolores--I have caught her absurd name, you perceive--have you no rivals--no competitors?' The young man's brow grew very dark. 'Yes,' said he, after a pause. 'Many?' 'One chiefly.' 'Whom you fear?? 'I fear no man that wears a sword, uncle! She has a cousin, called Maurice Morganstjern, whom I greatly distrust.' 'Grandson of that Morganstjern who was one of the assassins of the De Witts in the last century? Avoid the whole brood, I say! If you will not be guided by me, who have your interest at heart, consult your Colonel, Drumlanrig, on this matter, and hear what _he_ will say.' 'The last man to consult on such a topic.' 'Why?' 'Like yourself, he shuns female society. He is a gloomy misanthrope, and one of a fated race.' 'Right: a curse fell on his house, for the duke's share in the Union of 1707. I thought your family troubles were at an end when you joined the Brigade; but, der Duyvel! they seem only beginning, with this Dolores. To me it appears that there are some families--in Scotland more especially--whom misfortune--fate--which you will--pursueth to utter destruction.' 'The fate of mine was their own choosing: it lay between prudence and loyalty, and ill would it have become my people to have wavered when the Royal Standard was unfurled in Glenfinnan.' 'Your father's views and mine were different in that matter,' said the General in a softer tone. 'Give me your hand. I do not despair of your favour for us yet.' 'Indeed!' 'Tyne heart, tyne all, as we say at home.' 'In old Scotland, yes--and before the enemy, that is well enough; but anent a woman--go--go--or I shall lose my temper again. Besides, Lewie, there is a cloud on the horizon--the political horizon, I mean--which, though as yet no bigger than a man's hand, may expand into a dark and mighty one of storm and bloodshed. A revolution is at hand in France, and a time is coming when we--the Scots Brigade--will have other work than love-making cut out for us, and we shall have to choose between casting our lot forever with the States-General or with his Majesty George III.; for there is not a tavern and not a caserne in Holland in which the matter is not debated keenly and hotly now.' Though the steady opposition and hostility of his uncle and patron, on whom all his hopes depended, left the young man depressed in spirit and heavy in heart, and inspired by no small dread of separation from the object of his love, he quitted the General's house, and set forth to visit her. CHAPTER II. THE COLONEL-COMMANDANT.