“An’ hae ye murder’t MacMuir, John Paul, an’ gien’s claw to a Buckskin gowk?”

The knot stirred with an angry murmur:  in truth they meant violence, —­nothing less.  But they had counted without their man, for Paul was born to ride greater crises.  With his lips set in a line he stepped lightly out of the boat into their very midst, and they looked into his eyes to forget time and place.  MacMuir had told me how those eyes could conquer mutiny, but I had not believed had I trot been thereto see the pack of them give back in sullen wonder.  And so we walked through and on to the little street beyond, and never a word from the captain until we came opposite the sign of the Hurcheon.”

“Do you await me here, Richard,” he said quite calmly; “I mast seek Mr. Currie, and make my report.”

I have still the remembrance of that pitiful day in the clean little village.  I went into the inn and sat down upon an oak settle in a corner of the bar, under the high lattice, and thought of the bitterness of this home-coming.  If I was amongst strangers, he was amongst worse:  verily, to have one’s own people set against one is heaviness of heart to a man whose love of Scotland was great as John Paul’s.  After a while the place began to fill, Willie and Robbie and Jamie arriving to discuss Paul’s return over their nappy.  The little I could make of their talk was not to my liking, but for the captain’s sake I kept my anger under as best I could, for I had the sense to know that brawling with a lot of alehouse frequenters would not advance his cause.  At length, however, came in the same sneering fellow I had marked on the wharf, calling loudly for swats.  “Ay, Captain Paul was noo at Mr. Curries, syne banie Alan seed him gang forbye the kirk.”  The speaker’s name, I learned, was Davie, and he had been talking with each and every man in the long-boat.  Yes, Mungo Maxwell had been cat-o’-ninetailed within an inch of his life; and that was the truth; for a trifling offence, too; and cruelly discharged at some outlandish port because, forsooth, he would not accept the gospel of the divinity of Captain Paul.  He would as soon sign papers with the devil.

This Davie was gifted with a dangerous kind of humour which I have heard called innuendo, and he soon had the bar packed with listeners who laughed and cursed turn about, filling the room to a closeness scarce supportable.  And what between the foul air and my resentment, and apprehension lest John Paul would come hither after me, I was in prodigious discomfort of body and mind.  But there was no pushing my way through them unnoticed, wedged as I was in a far corner; so I sat still until unfortunately, or fortunately, the eye of Davie chanced to fall upon me, and immediately his yellow face lighted malignantly.

“Oh! here be the gentleman the captain’s brocht hame!” he cried, emphasizing the two words; “as braw a gentleman as eer taen frae pirates, an’ nae doubt sin to ae bien Buckskin bonnet-laird.”