A Lost Lady of Old Years by John Buchan

Author:John Buchan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: John Buchan, suspence, thriller, political, British, power, crime, mystery, detective, shocking, spy, seduction, on the run, Scottish, political, 007, James Bond
Publisher: Fractal Press
Published: 2014-11-09T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XI.

The Prince’s Cabinet of War.

Black John set him some miles on his way, leading him down glen and up corry till he brought him out on the strath of Nairn. The day was warm for a northern spring, and the guide grew exceeding cheerful and hymned the joys of war. “There will be braw battles,” he cried, “for all the craws will be fleeing north, and they are the birds that ken.” Sometimes they met a lonely shepherd, and then John would stop for a parley in Gaelic and leave Francis to find the path for a mile or so alone. But when once they sighted the broad river valley, he left him with shrill farewells. “If seed o’ mine meet seed o’ yours,” he said, “brothers they sall be,” and he spat in his hand and clasped his parting guest’s.

And now it was clearly the seat of war, for the tracks in the vale were rough with ruts and all the meadowland was trampled. There were few houses in the land—now and then a turf sheiling on the brae-face and once the grey wall of a castle; but the place was Lowland and habitable contrasted with the wild country he had dwelled in. He had already walked far, and soon his head began to swim with faintness. It was a long toil for a man so lately sick, and it was with many pauses and long, helpless reclinings on the wayside heather that he made the journey. He had a desperate fear of falling ill a second time,—a thing bitter to dream of now on the very seat of war. And yet his hopes hung on the frail thread of his strength, so with circumspect and elderly care he nursed his body, choosing dry places to lie on, drinking but moderately from the hillburns, and sipping the whisky which he had carried out with him from the morning.

One man only he met in all that green, silent vale. This was a pedlar with a pack, a man seemingly half-witted, but to Francis’ delight able to speak Scots easily. When he met him he was swinging on, with a vacant eye on the hill-tops, singing some nonsensical catch. He was about to pass without noticing his presence, but Francis stopped him short and asked him the way. Clearly there could be no danger in getting news of the land from a crazy packman.

“Saw ye any soldiers,” said Francis, “as ye came up the water?”

The man with difficulty cut short his star-gazing and looked at the questioner.

“Sodgers ay, sodgers mony,” said he, and he went on with his singing,—

“If ye hae plenty and winna gie,

Besouthen, Besouthen!

The deil will get ye when ye dee,

And awa’ by southron toun!”

Francis weariness made him cross. “Where saw ye them?” he asked.

“There were some at the Nairn and mae at Iverness and mony mae at the Spey-side,” said the man. “There’ll be war, bluidy war, and mony deid at Beltane.”

“Then where is the Prince’s army?”

“Whatna Prince?” said the man, dreamily.

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