CHAPTER XII.

AUSTIN got back to his cell, and somewhat regained his head in solitude. He lay on his bed all day, and a little after dark the warder before mentioned came in, and got him to go to bed.

He slept for a time, not, luckily, for very long Then he woke with a feeling of horror upon him, a feeling that something terrible was coming. He got out of bed, and felt for the bell.

Round and round the room, from end to end; how damp and cold and strange the walls felt!—and where the devil was the bell-rope? His servant, he knew, slept in the room overhead. He was ill; it would be better to call for him. He called out,"Edward! Edward!" many times, and waited to hear the door above open: but it did not. Confound

the lad!—why should he choose this night, of all others, to be out! He had better feel his way into bed again, and wait till he heard Edward go upstairs. He began feeling his way towards his bed again, but he did not get to it. In a moment the whole ghastly truth came before him. For one instant he remembered all that had happened, and he knew where he was. Then he gave a wild cry, and fell down on the cold stone floor insensible.

The warder heard him, and came in. He got him on to his bed again, which was a lucky thing for Austin, for if he had lain long insensible on the cold stone floor, in his fever, he would have died.

His fever was violent and obstinate; he was often delirious for a day at a time. He knew the doctor and the warder now and then. At the end of ten days he was still delirious, but he recognised some one who came to see him then.

Gil Macdonald, pondering about many things, after the last terrible famine winter, during which the Ronaldsay folk had lived on rotten potatoes, seaweed, and limpets; had gotten it into his head, that he must, as soon as he could see things a bit right, and save money enough, go south. South-from his barren, mountain highland home, where mighty men,

such as he, were eating their hearts in starvation and idleness-down to the rich country of England, where there was a career and fair play for all; where a long-leggit hieland chiel" might find his place among these broad-shouldered, grey-eyed, thoughtful English, and be welcomed as a friend, not as a rival. Gil had heard the Mactavish call these men "Cockneys," by which he, Gil, understood, a set of effeminate fellows, enervated by living in a warmer climate. But Gil was far too true a Scotchman to set his watch by the Mactavish's clock, or by Christopher North's clock, or by Professor Blackie's clock; and so he had come to the conclusion, having heard Englishmen, who had come north, talking of England and the English, that they were a very manly and noble set of fellows; and argued, that if the English were fools, as some tried to make out, so much the better for him, who had a strong notion that he was not a fool. If they were the fellows he thought, why then it would be all the better to live among them.

Besides, Austin Elliot was an Englishman, and lived in England, and Austin Elliot was the one person around whom most of Gil's hopes for the future grouped themselves. Austin was the most heroic and amiable person he had ever seen, and the

memory of him was, perhaps, brighter in the Scotchman's mind, than the reality. But he must first get south, and see Austin. If Austin could help him he would; if he could not, at all events Gil would see him again that would be something. So strange was the admiration of this young man for Austin, he being in many points—not unimportant ones-somewhat Austin's superior.

One brilliant June morning he landed from the Leith steamboat, and strode wondering along the streets, looking at the names over the shop-doors to see for a Highland one. Having "speired" of one MacAlister, who was taking down his shutters, and whose personal appearance gave Gil the highest hopes, he did as he was told; he walked "aye west" for eight miles or more toward Mortlake, where Mr. Elliot had lived. He found Stanhope House, and rang, waiting for an answer with a beating heart.

Old Mr. Elliot, the servant told him, had been dead above a year; young Mr. Elliot lived at such a number in Pall Mall.

So Gil, resting a little, and taking a frugal meal at a public-house, strode eastward again, carefully asking his way at Scotch shops only-not that he was distrustful by nature, but only cautious; and it was an

unco muckle city, and a stranger didna ken. So he asked his way at the Scotch shops only.

Feeling his way, with many mistakes, he came at Here he made his only non-Scotch

last to Pall Mall.

inquiry that day.

Seeing a handsome, goodnatured

looking young dandy, very like Austin, standing at a corner, he took courage to ask him whether or no that was Paul Maul? The young gentleman answered civilly that it was Pell Mell. This made poor Gil fancy that he had gone wrong again; he determined to trust none but his fellow-countrymen for directions. He walked on till he saw a Highland name over a shop, and went in and asked. He was right this time. The house at which he determined to ask was the very house where Austin lived: he saw that by the number. He asked the landlord, who was in his shop, unscrewing the breech from a rifle, whether or no Mr. Elliot lived there?

The landlord, hearing the dear old music of his native accent, took off his spectacles, and said at a venture, in Gaelic

"He did live here, God forgive us; but he is fretting out his brave heart in prison now, my son."

Poor Gil sat down. In prison. He remembered almost the last words they had spoken together at