Marie Gourdon | Page 2

sorrow;
But love's rich rainbow's built from tears To-day, with smiles
to-morrow, The sunshine from our sky may die, The greenness from
life's tree, But ever 'mid the warring storm Thy nest shall shelter'd be.
The world may never know, dear heart! What I have found in thee; But,
though nought to the world, dear heart! Thou'rt all the world to me."
EPILOGUE. "Our acts our angels are, or good or ill, The fatal shadows

that walk by us still."

MARIE GOURDON.
CHAPTER I.
"Wae's me for Prince Chairlie."
Old Scotch Song.
It was a dark gloomy night in the year 1745. Huge clouds hung in
heavy masses over the sky, ready to discharge their heavy burden at
any moment. The thunder echoed and re-echoed with deafening crashes,
as if the whole artillery of heaven were arrayed in mighty warfare, and
shook even the giant crag on which the castle of Dunmorton was
situated.
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 fine looking men, though of somewhat different types. The
McAllister was a tall old man over six feet in height, well and strongly
built. His hair was iron-grey, his eyes blue and piercing, his nose rather
inclined to the Roman type, his mouth large and determined, and his
chin firm, square and somewhat obstinate. His eyebrows were very
thick and bushy, thus lending to his face a sinister and rather forbidding
expression. He wore a rough home-spun shooting suit, and had folded
round his shoulders a tartan of the McAllister plaid, which from time to
time he pushed from him with a hasty impatient gesture, as he
addressed his son in angry, menacing tones,--
"An' I tell ye, Ivan, though ye be my son, never mair shall I call ye so,
if ye join the rabble that young scamp has got together, and never mair
shall ye darken the doors of Dunmorton if ye gae wi' him. Noo choose
between that young pretender and your ain people."
"Father," said Ivan, "he is not a pretender, of that I am convinced, and
you will be soon. He is the descendant of our own King James VI.
(whose mother was bonnie Queen Mary), and you paid fealty at
Holyrood many years ago to King James. My bonnie Prince Chairlie
should by rights be sitting on the throne of Scotland, aye, and of
England too, and, by the help of Heaven and our guid Scotch laddies,
he will be there ere long."
"Never," sneered The McAllister, scornfully. "I am not afraid of that."
"Well, that is comforting to you at any rate, sir; then why care about my

going to join his army, for I am going, nothing can stop me now." And
Ivan McAllister's bonnie face glowed with an enthusiasm almost
pathetic as he thought of his beloved leader, for whom he would stake
all his worldly prospects, aye, and if need be his very life.
"Ivan McAllister," said his father, "I thought ye had mair common
sense, though it is rare in lads o' your age. Ye can never imagine that a
pack o' young idiots are going to overturn the whole country."
"No, sir, I do not,