“For . . . on account of what happened last night?”
Ewen nodded. “For my prudence. You see, the Prince does not write me down so turbulent as you do.”
There was something like tears in Alison’s eyes. “Prudence? No! It was because you gained that ‘needle-scratch’ for him!” She kissed the ring, and, taking the strong, passive hand, slipped it on again. “I will not plague you any more. Does the wound pain you, dearest heart?”
But next day Hector Grant came into possession of the story, more or less correct, which was flying about Edinburgh, and presented his sister with a fine picture of her lover, alone against a score of the Castle redcoats, standing with his back to the secret stair hewing down the foe until his sword broke in his hand, and the Cameron guard rushed in only just in time to save him. And, Alison unveiling this composition to the hero himself at their next meeting, Ewen was constrained in the interests of truth to paint out this flamboyant battle-piece and to substitute a more correct but sufficiently startling scene. Alison certainly found his sober account quite lurid enough.
“And you let the English officer go, after that!” she exclaimed breathlessly. “But, Ewen dearest, why?”
“For one reason, because ’twas such curst ill luck that his men should run away for the second time!” replied Ewen, settling his silken sling more comfortably.
“For the second time?”
“I have not yet told you who the officer was. Cannot you guess?”
“Surely ’twas not . . . Captain Windham . . . here in Edinburgh?”