Now Thora had been anxious to meet the old wanderer ever since I had told her of the wreck of the Undine, and throwing her shawl over her head she ran out of the cottage to bid him enter and share the meal she had prepared.

She had not gone far, however, before she observed another person approaching old Lothian from the opposite direction.  This was Tom Kinlay, and as she recognized him she paused and slowly retreated to the cottage without being observed, for she had no desire to meet him, or be seen by him at that moment.

As she looked round the two men met and stood face to face.  The wind carried the sound of their voices towards her, and she heard angry words pass between them.  Yet what they said was indistinct.  She only gathered that they were quarrelling about something that Lothian had told to the excise officers.  The dog barked at Kinlay, and he kicked the animal.

Finally, Tom allowed the old man to continue his way a few yards and shouted after him, “Well, anyhow, you’ll tell no more;” and as he said these words he raised a gun to his shoulder and fired.

The girl saw Lothian stagger and fall.  Then Tom went and knelt down at the side of his victim as though he would complete his work with the knife he took from his belt.  But, looking nervously round in the direction of the cottage, as though fearing that the report of the gun might bring some one out, he hurried away in the direction of the cliffs, carrying with him a rope which was coiled over his shoulder.

Already Thora had left the cottage, but Tom had not observed her.  She ran through the snow towards the wounded man.  The dog was yelping and running frantically about.

The old man raised himself to a sitting posture as she stooped and supported his head.  He did not recognize her until she spoke.

“Where are you hurt, Colin?” she asked.  “Do you not know me?  I’m Thora.”

He tried to place his hand on his side, and fell back helpless.

“Can ye walk with me as far as Mary Firth’s?” she said.

“Nay, Thora, lassie,” he murmured.  “I’ll not walk any more.  My travelling is ower.  The life flies out o’ me.”

Thora wrung her hands, not knowing what to do.  The darkness of night was coming on.  They were far away from any dwelling, save the little cottage, and the snow wreaths on the desolate moor were becoming every moment more impassable.

“I will run to Stromness for Dr. Linklater,” she said.

“No, lassie, no; there’s no use o’ doing that,” said Colin.  “The doctor can do nothing.  Go away home and let me die.”

“No, I canna leave you, Colin,” she said woefully.  “And how can I go home when my own brother has done this thing?”

“Tom Kinlay is no brother o’ yours, Thora!” gasped Colin.  “Nor Carver your father!”

“What do you mean, Colin?  Oh, what do you mean?” cried she.  “Carver not my father!  Who is my father, then?”