On the northern side of the burying-ground there is a low stone, sculptured like most of the others, but broken by some accident into three pieces. A few stinted shrubs of broom spread their tiny branches and bright blossoms over the figures; they are obscured, besides, by rank tufts of moss and patches of lichens; but, despite of neglect and accident, enough of the inscription remains legible to tell us that we stand on the burial-place of one John Macleod, a _merchant_ of Cromarty. He kept, besides, the principal inn of the place. He had an only son, a tall, and very powerful man, who was engaged, as he himself had been in his earlier days, in the free trade, and who, for a series of years, had set the officers of the revenue at defiance. Some time late in the reign of Queen Anne, he had succeeded in landing part of a cargo among the rocks of the hill of Cromarty, and in transporting it, night after night, from the cavern in which he had first secreted it, to a vault in his father’s house, which opened into the cellar. After concealing the entrance, he had seated himself beside the old man at the kitchen fire, when two revenue-officers entered the apartment, and taking their places beside a table, called for liquor. Macleod drew his bonnet hastily over his brow, and edging away from the small iron lamp which lighted the kitchen, muffled himself up in the folds of his dreadnought greatcoat. His father supplied the officers. “Where is Walter, your son?” inquired the better-dressed of the two, a tall, thin man, equipped in a three-cornered hat, and a blue coat seamed with gold lace; “I trust he does not still sail the Swacker.” “Maybe no,” said the old man dryly. “For I have just had intelligence,” continued the officer, “that she was captured this morning by Captain Manton, after firing on her Majesty’s flag; and it will go pretty hard, I can tell you, with some of the crew.” A third revenue-officer now entered the kitchen, and going up to the table whispered something to the others. “Please, Mr. Macleod,” said the former speaker to the innkeeper, “bring us a light, and the key of your cellar.” “And wherefore that?” inquired the old man; “show me your warrant. What would ye do wi’ the key?” “Nay, sir, no trifling; you brought here last night three cart-loads of Geneva, and stored them up in a vault below your cellar; the key and a light.” There was no sign, however, of procuring either. “Away!” he continued, turning to the officer who had last entered; “away for a candle and a sledge-hammer!” He was just quitting the room when the younger Macleod rose from his seat, and took his stand right between him and the door. “Look ye, gentlemen,” he said in a tone of portentous coolness, “I shall take it upon me to settle this affair; you and I have met before now, and are a little acquainted. The man who first moves out of this place in the direction of the cellar, shall never move afterwards in any direction at all.” He thrust his