of the dead and hung it up in his house, burnishing it and
sharpening it for sixty years, to be ready for the next
rebellion. His father, the youngest son and the last left alive,
had refused to attend on Queen Victoria in Scotland. And Evan
himself had been of one piece with his progenitors; and was not
dead with them, but alive in the twentieth century. He was not
in the least the pathetic Jacobite of whom we read, left behind
by a final advance of all things. He was, in his own fancy, a
conspirator, fierce and up to date. In the long, dark afternoons
of the Highland winter, he plotted and fumed in the dark. He
drew plans of the capture of London on the desolate sand of
Arisaig.

When he came up to capture London, it was not with an army of
white cockades, but with a stick and a satchel. London overawed
him a little, not because he thought it grand or even terrible,
but because it bewildered him; it was not the Golden City or even
hell; it was Limbo. He had one shock of sentiment, when he turned
that wonderful corner of Fleet Street and saw St. Paul's sitting
in the sky.

"Ah," he said, after a long pause, "that sort of thing was built
under the Stuarts!" Then with a sour grin he asked himself what
was the corresponding monument of the Brunswicks and the
Protestant Constitution. After some warning, he selected a
sky-sign of some pill.

Half an hour afterwards his emotions left him with an emptied
mind on the same spot. And it was in a mood of mere idle
investigation that he happened to come to a standstill opposite