“Will there be wars, Doctor dear, where you ones is goin’?” asked old Jack Dunn, wistfully, as he polished the young gentlemen’s boots for the last time before their departure.  The friends were smoking a last pipe by the kitchen fire of the cottage where Mrs. Archer lived in her husband’s old parish, among the people who had loved him.  Jack was polishing the boots close to them, pausing every now and then to exchange a word with his “wichel,” whom he had nursed as an infant, petted and scolded as a schoolboy, and shielded from punishment on innumerable occasions.  His “wichel” was now a huge young man, taller than Dr. McGregor by four inches.

“Wha’ll black them boots now?” said Jack in a sentimental tone.  “Wha’ll put the richt polish on them?  Some scatter-brained youngster, I’m thinkin’, that shouldna be trusted to handle boots like these anes.”  Thus he spoke, making the hissing, purring noise with which he accompanied his rubbing down of King William.

The friends smiled at each other.  “That’s hard work, Jack,” remarked Henry.

“But are ye goin’ to the wars, my wean?  Doctor dear, tell me, will he be fightin’ them savage Indians?”

“We believe so, Jack.  We are to join the 5th Fusiliers, and they are to fight the warlike Hill Tribes, fine soldiers—­tall, fine men they are, we are told.”

“Alase-a-nie!  You’ll nae be fightin’ yoursel, Doctor?”

“No,” smiled McGregor, “my duty will be to cure, not to kill.”

“Then, man alive, ye’ll hae an eye to Henry.”

So the young men tore themselves away from the sobbing mother, and, through her blinding tears, she watched them mount the steep road leading to Letterkenny first and then to the outside world, where danger must be faced and glory won.  Her husband’s loving people collected that evening in her cottage garden to condole with her and offer their roughly-expressed but heartfelt sympathy.

“Dinna be cryin’ that way, mistress dear,” said old Jack.  “Sure thon’s a quare steady fellow, thon Doctor, an’ he will hae an eye to Henry.”

* * * * *

It was November, 1888, when our troops were obliged to retreat from the Black Mountain, and Mrs. Archer’s son and his friend were among them.  Need it be recorded here how bravely Englishmen had fought, how unmurmuringly they had endured the extremity of cold and fatigue?  Their Gourka allies had stood by them well; but the wild Hill Tribes, the “fine soldiers” of whom McGregor had told Jack Dunn, were getting the best of it, and we were forced to retreat.  Many months had passed since the two friends first saw the Black Mountain, compared with which the mightiest highland in wild Donegal, land of mountains, was an anthill.  Dear Gartan Lough was as a drop of water in their eyes, their snipe-haunted marshes as a potato garden, when they saw the gigantic scale of Indian scenery.  Henry had fought well in many a skirmish and had escaped without a wound.  Malcolm had used his surgical skill pretty often, generally with good effect.  He was beloved by officers and men for his kindness of heart.  Was there a letter to be written for any poor fellow—­a last message to be sent home, words of Christian hope to be spoken, Dr. McGregor was called upon.