Fierce indeed was the tempest without, but within the castle raged one
still fiercer--that of two strong natures fighting a bitter battle. So
loud were their voices raised in altercation that the storm without was
scarce heeded.

Dunmorton was a fine old castle of the Norman type, with a large moat
surrounding it, and having all the characteristics appertaining to the
feudal state. To the rear of the moat, behind the castle, stretched broad
lands, on which were scattered many cottages, whose occupants had paid
feu-duty to the Lords of Dunmorton for many a generation. To the left of
these cottages stretched a large pinewood, with thickly grown underbrush,
where, in blissful ignorance of their coming fate, luxuriated golden
pheasants and many a fat brace of partridge. That night, the depths of
the pine forest were shaken, for the storm was worse than usual even for
the east coast of Scotland, where storms are so frequent.

Crossing the drawbridge, and coming to the low Norman arched doorway, one
entered at once into the hall. This was a lofty room some twelve feet
wide. At one end of it was a broad fire-place, where huge resinous pine
logs sent up an odor most grateful to the senses and emitted a pleasant,
fitful blaze, lighting up, ever and anon, the faces of The McAllister and
his second son Ivan.

On the walls hung huge antlers and heads of deer, the trophies of many a
hard day's sport, for they had been a race of sportsmen for generations,
these McAllisters, a hardy, strong, self-reliant people, like their own
harsh mountain breezes.

The two representatives of the race now quarrelling in the hall were both