had to scramble, burned and blinded, up the tree, where he was an easy
mark for their arrows. Fortunately, when he fell he was dead. This was
the story told by some friendly Indians to a party of white men, and
subsequently brought home to Castle Dare.

The next four of the sons of Dare were soldiers, as most of the Macleods
of that family had been. And if you ask about the graves of Roderick and
Ronald, what is one to say? They are known, and yet unknown. The two
lads were in one of the Highland regiments that served in the Crimea.
They both lie buried on the bleak plains outside Sevastopol. And if the
memorial stones put up to them and their brother officers are falling
into ruin and decay--if the very graves have been rifled--how is England
to help that? England is the poorest country in the world. There was a
talk some two or three years ago of putting up a monument on Cathcart
Hill to the Englishmen who died in the Crimea; and that at least would
have been some token of remembrance, even if we could not collect the
scattered remains of our slain sons, as the French have done, but then
that monument would have cost £5000. How could England afford £5000?
When a big American city takes fire, or when a district in France is
inundated, she can put her hand into her pocket deeply enough; but how
can we expect so proud a mother to think twice about her children who
perished in fighting for her? Happily the dead are independent of
forgetfulness.

Duncan the Fair-haired--Donacha Ban, they called him, far and wide among
the hills--lies buried in a jungle on the African coast. He was only
twenty-three when he was killed: but he knew he had got the Victoria
Cross. As he lay dying, he asked whether the people in England would
send it to his mother, showing that his last fancies were still about
Castle Dare.