He was a tall, spare man like my father, a Scotchman, but his hair was in a cue.

“Come in, Duncan,” said my father, quietly.  “Davy, run out for wood.”

Loath as I was to go, I obeyed.  As I came back dragging a log behind me I heard them in argument, and in their talk there was much about the Congress, and a woman named Flora Macdonald, and a British fleet sailing southward.

“We’ll have two thousand Highlanders and more to meet the fleet.  And ye’ll sit at hame, in this hovel ye’ve made yeresel” (and he glanced about disdainfully) “and no help the King?” He brought his fist down on the pine boards.

“Ye did no help the King greatly at Culloden, Duncan,” said my father, dryly.

Our visitor did not answer at once.

“The Yankee Rebels ’ll no help the House of Stuart,” said he, presently.  “And Hanover’s coom to stay.  Are ye, too, a Rebel, Alec Ritchie?”

I remember wondering why he said Ritchie.

“I’ll no take a hand in this fight,” answered my father.

And that was the end of it.  The man left with scant ceremony, I guiding him down the creek to the main trail.  He did not open his mouth until I parted with him.

“Puir Davy,” said he, and rode away in the night, for the moon shone through the clouds.

I remember these things, I suppose, because I had nothing else to think about.  And the names stuck in my memory, intensified by later events, until I began to write a diary.

And now I come to my travels.  As the spring drew on I had had a feeling that we could not live thus forever, with no market for our pelts.  And one day my father said to me abruptly:—­

“Davy, we’ll be travelling.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Ye’ll ken soon enough,” said he.  “We’ll go at crack o’ day.”

We went away in the wild dawn, leaving the cabin desolate.  We loaded the white mare with the pelts, and my father wore a woollen suit like that of our Scotch visitor, which I had never seen before.  He had clubbed his hair.  But, strangest of all, he carried in a small parcel the silk gown that had been my mother’s.  We had scant other baggage.

We crossed the Yadkin at a ford, and climbing the hills to the south of it we went down over stony traces, down and down, through rain and sun; stopping at rude cabins or taverns, until we came into the valley of another river.  This I know now was the Catawba.  My memories of that ride are as misty as the spring weather in the mountains.  But presently the country began to open up into broad fields, some of these abandoned to pines.  And at last, splashing through the stiff red clay that was up to the mare’s fetlocks, we came to a place called Charlotte Town.  What a day that was for me!  And how I gaped at the houses there, finer than any I had ever dreamed of!  That was my first sight of a town.  And how I listened open-mouthed to the gentlemen at the tavern!  One I recall had a fighting head with a lock awry, and a negro servant to wait on him, and was the principal spokesman.  He, too, was talking of war.  The Cherokees had risen on the western border.  He was telling of the massacre of a settlement, in no mild language.