He stooped to the bench where lay the debris of the coast and mountains he had been lately building, and picked up a small, deep shell.  “My story is short,” he began.  “It could be packed into this.  I was born in the island of Mull, of my father a chieftain, and my mother a lady.  Some schooling I got in Aberdeen, some pleasure in Edinburgh and London, and some service abroad.  In my twenty-third year—­being at home at that time—­I was asked to a hunting match at Braemar, and went.  No great while afterwards I was bidden to supper at an Edinburgh tavern, and again I accepted the invitation.  There was a small entertainment to follow the supper,—­just the taking of Edinburgh Castle.  But the wine was good, and we waited to powder our hair, and the entertainment could hardly be called a success.  Hard upon that convivial evening, I, with many others, was asked across the Border to join a number of gentlemen who drank to the King after our fashion, and had a like fancy for oak boughs and white roses.  The weather was pleasant, the company of the best, the roads very noble after our Highland sheep tracks.  Together with our English friends, and enlivened by much good claret and by music of bagpipe and drum, we strolled on through a fine, populous country until we came to a town called Preston, where we thought we would tarry for a day or two.  However, circumstances arose which detained us somewhat longer. (I dare say you have heard the story?) When finally we took our leave, some of us went to heaven, some to hell, and some to Barbadoes and Virginia.  I was among those dispatched to Virginia, and to all intents and purposes I died the day I landed.  There, the shell is full!”

He tossed it from him, and going to the hitching-post loosed Haward’s horse.  Haward took the reins from his hand.  “It hath been ten years and more since Virginia got her share of the rebels taken at Preston.  If I remember aright, their indentures were to be made for seven years.  Why, then, are you yet in my service?”

MacLean laughed.  “I ran away,” he replied pleasantly, “and when I was caught I made off a second time.  I wonder that you planters do not have a Society for the Encouragement of Runaways.  Seeing that they are nearly always retaken, and that their escapades so lengthen their term of service, it would surely be to your advantage!  There are yet several years in which I am to call you master.”

He laughed again, but the sound was mirthless, and the eyes beneath the half-closed lids were harder than steel.  Haward mounted his horse and gathered up the reins.  “I am not responsible for the laws of the realm,” he said calmly, “nor for rebellions and insurrections, nor for the practice of transporting overseas those to whom have been given the ugly names of ‘rebel’ and ‘traitor.’  Destiny that set you there put me here.  We are alike pawns; what the player means we have no way of telling.  Curse Fate and the gods, if you choose,—­and find that your cursing does small good,—­but regard me with indifference, as one neither more nor less the slave of circumstances than yourself.  It has been long since I went this way.  Is there yet the path by the river?”