The crisis came when Cathro, still ignorant that the heather was on fire, dropped some disparaging remarks about the Stuarts to his history class.  Tommy said nothing, but—­but one of the school-windows was without a snib, and next morning when the dominie reached his desk he was surprised to find on it a little cotton glove.  He raised it on high, greatly puzzled, and then, as ever when he suspected knavery, his eyes sought Tommy, who was sitting on a form, his arms proudly folded.  That the whelp had put the glove there, Cathro no longer doubted, and he would have liked to know why, but was reluctant to give him the satisfaction of asking.  So the gauntlet—­for gauntlet it was—­was laid aside, the while Tommy, his head humming like a beeskep, muttered triumphantly through his teeth, “But he lifted it, he lifted it!” and at closing time it was flung in his face with this fair tribute: 

“I’m no a rich man, laddie, but I would give a pound note to know what you’ll be at ten years from now.”

There could be no mistaking the dire meaning of these words, and Tommy hurried, pale but determined, to the quarry, where Corp, with a barrow in his hands, was learning strange phrases by heart, and finding it a help to call his warts after the new swears.

“Corp,” cried Tommy, firmly, “I’ve set sail!”

On the following Saturday evening Charles Edward landed in the Den.  In his bonnet was the white cockade, and round his waist a tartan sash; though he had long passed man’s allotted span his face was still full of fire, his figure lithe and even boyish.  For state reasons he had assumed the name of Captain Stroke.  As he leapt ashore from the bark, the Dancing Shovel, he was received right loyally by Corp and other faithful adherents, of whom only two, and these of a sex to which his House was ever partial, were visible, owing to the gathering gloom.  Corp of that Ilk sank on his knees at the water’s edge, and kissing his royal master’s hand said, fervently, “Welcome, my prince, once more to bonny Scotland!” Then he rose and whispered, but with scarcely less emotion, “There’s an egg to your tea.”

CHAPTER XXII

THE SIEGE OF THRUMS

The man in the moon is a native of Thrums, who was put up there for hacking sticks on the Sabbath, and as he sails over the Den his interest in the bit placey is still sufficient to make him bend forward and cry “Boo!” at the lovers.  When they jump apart you can see the aged reprobate grinning.  Once out of sight of the den, he cares not a boddle how the moon travels, but the masterful crittur enrages him if she is in a hurry here, just as he is cleverly making out whose children’s children are courting now.  “Slow, there!” he cries to the moon, but she answers placidly that they have the rest of the world to view to-night.  “The rest of the world be danged!” roars the man, and he cranes his neck for a last glimpse of the Cuttle Well, until he nearly falls out of the moon.