"You do wrong to allow so much dust and disorder," he said sharply. "I
could write my name in that mirror, and there is a piece of brocade fallen
to the floor. Look to it that you keep the place more neat."

There was dead silence for a moment; then MacLean spoke in an even voice:
"Now a fool might call you as brave as Hector. For myself, I only give you
credit for some knowledge of men. You are right. It is not my way to
strike in the back an unarmed man. When you are gone, I will wipe off the
mirror and pick up the brocade."

He followed Haward outside. "It's a brave evening for riding," he
remarked, "and you have a bonny bit of horseflesh there. You'll get to the
house before candlelight."

Beside one of the benches Haward made another pause. "You are a Highlander
and a Jacobite," he said. "From your reference to Forster, I gather that
you were among the prisoners taken at Preston and transported to
Virginia."

"In the Elizabeth and Anne of Liverpool, _alias_ a bit of hell afloat; the
master, Captain Edward Trafford, _alias_ Satan's first mate," quoth the
other grimly.

He stooped to the bench where lay the débris of the coast and mountains he
had been lately building, and picked up a small, deep shell. "My story is
short," he began. "It could be packed into this. I was born in the island
of Mull, of my father a chieftain, and my mother a lady. Some schooling I
got in Aberdeen, some pleasure in Edinburgh and London, and some service
abroad. In my twenty-third year--being at home at that time--I was asked