Here he was pretty well sheltered from the arrows that they sent in clouds about him, while he succeeded in killing other two of his enemies who had ventured to approach.  At last they rode off:  and it seemed as though he would be permitted to rejoin his dastardly comrades.  But the Indians had only gone to windward to set the tall grass on fire; and presently he had to scramble, burned and blinded, up the tree, where he was an easy mark for their arrows.  Fortunately, when he fell he was dead.  This was the story told by some friendly Indians to a party of white men, and subsequently brought home to Castle Dare.

The next four of the sons of Dare were soldiers, as most of the Macleods of that family had been.  And if you ask about the graves of Roderick and Ronald, what is one to say?  They are known, and yet unknown.  The two lads were in one of the Highland regiments that served in the Crimea.  They both lie buried on the bleak plains outside Sevastopol.  And if the memorial stones put up to them and their brother officers are falling into ruin and decay—­if the very graves have been rifled—­how is England to help that?  England is the poorest country in the world.  There was a talk some two or three years ago of putting up a monument on Cathcart Hill to the Englishmen who died in the Crimea; and that at least would have been some token of remembrance, even if we could not collect the scattered remains of our slain sons, as the French have done, but then that monument would have cost L5000.  How could England afford L5000?  When a big American city takes fire, or when a district in France is inundated, she can put her hand into her pocket deeply enough; but how can we expect so proud a mother to think twice about her children who perished in fighting for her?  Happily the dead are independent of forgetfulness.

Duncan the Fair-haired—­Donacha Ban, they called him, far and wide among the hills—­lies buried in a jungle on the African coast.  He was only twenty-three when he was killed:  but he knew he had got the Victoria Cross.  As he lay dying, he asked whether the people in England would send it to his mother, showing that his last fancies were still about Castle Dare.

And Hector?  As you cross the river at Sadowa, and pass through a bit of forest, some cornfields begin to appear, and these stretch away up to the heights of Chlum.  Along the ridge there, by the side of the wood, are many mounds of earth.  Over the grave of Hector Macleod is no proud and pathetic inscription such as marks the last resting-place of a young lieutenant who perished at Gravelotte—­Er ruht saft in wiedererkampfter deutscher Erde—­but the young Highland officer was well beloved by his comrades, and when the dead were being pitched into the great holes dug for them, and when rude hands were preparing the simple record, painted on a wooden cross—–­“Hier liegen—­tapfere Krieger”—­a separate memento was placed over the grave of Under-lieutenant Hector Macleod of the ——­th Imperial and Royal Cavalry Regiment.  He was one of the two sons who had not inherited the title.  Was it not a proud boast for this white-haired lady in Mull that she had been the mother of four baronets?  What other mother in all the land could say as much?  And yet it was that that had dimmed and saddened the beautiful eyes.