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Essential MATLAB® for Engineers and Scientists
 Reviewers’ Quotes
This book provides an excellent initiation into programming in MATLAB while serving as a
teaser for more advanced topics. It provides a structured entry into MATLAB programming
through well designed exercises.
Carl H. Sondergeld
Professor and Curtis Mewbourne Chair
Mewbourne School of Petroleum and Geological Engineering
University of Oklahoma

This updated version continues to provide beginners with the essentials of Matlab, with many
examples from science and engineering, written in an informal and accessible style. The new
chapter on algorithm development and program design provides an excellent introduction to a
structured approach to problem solving and the use of MATLAB as a programming language.
Professor Gary Ford
Department of Electrical and Computer Engineering
University of California, Davis

For a while I have been searching for a good MATLAB text for a graduate course on methods
in environmental sciences. I finally settled on Hahn and Valentine because it provides the
balance I need regarding ease of use and relevance of material and examples.
Professor Wayne M. Getz
Department Environmental Science Policy & Management
University of California at Berkeley

This book is an outstanding introductory text for teaching mathematics, engineering, and
science students how MATLAB can be used to solve mathematical problems. Its intuitive
and well-chosen examples nicely bridge the gap between prototypical mathematical models
and how MATLAB can be used to evaluate these models. The author does a superior job of
examining and explaining the MATLAB code used to solve the problems presented.
Professor Mark E. Cawood
Department of Mathematical Sciences
Clemson University
Essential MATLAB®
for
Engineers and Scientists
Third edition

Brian D. Hahn
and
Daniel T. Valentine

AMSTERDAM • BOSTON • HEIDELBERG • LONDON • NEW YORK • OXFORD

PARIS • SAN DIEGO • SAN FRANCISCO • SINGAPORE • SYDNEY • TOKYO
Butterworth-Heinemann is an imprint of Elsevier
Butterworth-Heinemann is an imprint of Elsevier
Linacre House, Jordan Hill, Oxford, OX2 8DP
30 Corporate Drive, Burlington, MA 01803

First published 2002

Reprinted 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006
Second edition 2006
Third edition 2007

Copyright © 2002, 2006, 2007 Brian D. Hahn and Daniel T. Valentine. Published by Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved

The right of Brian D. Hahn and Daniel T. Valentine to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted in
accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any
means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the
publisher

Permission may be sought directly from Elsevier’s Science & Technology Rights Department
in Oxford, UK: phone (+44) (0) 1865 843830; fax (+44) (0) 1865 853333; email: [email protected].
Alternatively you can submit your request online by visiting the Elsevier web site at
http://elsevier.com/locate/permissions, and selecting Obtaining permission to use Elsevier material

Notice
No responsibility is assumed by the publisher for any injury and/or damage to persons or property as a matter of
products liability, negligence or otherwise, or from any use or operation of any methods, products, instructions or
ideas contained in the material herein. Because of rapid advances in the medical sciences, in particular,
independent verification of diagnoses and drug dosages should be made

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress

ISBN 13: 9-78-0-75-068417-0

ISBN 10: 0-75-068417-8

For information on all Butterworth-Heinemann publications visit our

web site at books.elsevier.com

Typeset by Charon Tec Ltd (A Macmillan Company), Chennai, India,

www.charontec.com
Printed and bound in Italy

07 08 09 10 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
 Contents

Preface to the third edition xvii

PART I ESSENTIALS 1
1 Introduction 3
1.1 Using MATLAB 4
1.2 The MATLAB desktop 15
1.3 Sample program 16
1.3.1 Cut and paste 16
1.3.2 Saving a program: script files 19
1.3.3 How a program works 21

2 MATLAB fundamentals 24
2.1 Variables and the workspace 24
2.1.1 Variables 24
2.1.2 Case sensitivity 25
2.1.3 The workspace 25
2.1.4 Adding commonly used constants to the workspace 27
2.2 Arrays: vectors and matrices 27
2.2.1 Initializing vectors: explicit lists 28
2.2.2 Initializing vectors: the colon operator 29
2.2.3 linspace 30
2.2.4 Transposing vectors 30
2.2.5 Subscripts 31
2.2.6 Matrices 31
2.2.7 Capturing output 32
2.3 Vertical motion under gravity 33
2.4 Operators, expressions and statements 35
2.4.1 Numbers 35
2.4.2 Data types 36
2.4.3 Arithmetic operators 37
2.4.4 Precedence of operators 37
2.4.5 The colon operator 38
2.4.6 The transpose operator 39
Contents

2.4.7 Arithmetic operations on arrays 39

2.4.8 Expressions 41
2.4.9 Statements 41
2.4.10 Statements, commands and functions 43
2.4.11 Vectorization of formulae 43
2.5 Output 47
2.5.1 disp 47
2.5.2 format 49
2.5.3 Scale factors 50
2.6 Repeating with for 51
2.6.1 Square roots with Newton’s method 51
2.6.2 Factorials! 53
2.6.3 Limit of a sequence 53
2.6.4 The basic for construct 54
2.6.5 for in a single line 56
2.6.6 More general for 56
2.6.7 Avoid for loops by vectorizing! 56
2.6.8 A common mistake: for less loops! 59
2.7 Decisions 60
2.7.1 The one-line if statement 60
2.7.2 The if-else construct 62
2.7.3 The one-line if-else statement 63
2.7.4 elseif 64
2.7.5 Logical operators 65
2.7.6 Multiple ifs versus elseif 65
2.7.7 Nested ifs 67
2.7.8 Vectorizing ifs? 68
2.7.9 switch 68
2.8 Complex numbers 69
2.9 More on input and output 71
2.9.1 fprintf 71
2.9.2 Output to a disk file with fprintf 73
2.9.3 General file I/O 73
2.9.4 Saving and loading data 73
2.10 Odds ’n ends 73
2.10.1 Variables, functions and scripts with the same name 73
2.10.2 The input statement 74
2.10.3 Shelling out to the operating system 75
2.10.4 More Help functions 76
2.11 Programming style 76

3 Program design and algorithm development 86

3.1 Computer program design process 87
3.1.1 Projectile problem example 89

vi
 Contents

3.2 Other examples of structure plans 98

3.2.1 Quadratic equation 99
3.3 Structured programming with functions 100

4 MATLAB functions & *data import-export utilities 104

4.1 Some common functions 105
4.2 *Importing and exporting data 110
4.2.1 The load and save commands 110
4.2.2 Exporting text (ASCII) data 110
4.2.3 Importing text (ASCII) data 111
4.2.4 Exporting binary data 111
4.2.5 The Import Wizard 112
4.2.6 Low-level file I/O functions 113
4.2.7 Other import/export functions 118

5 Logical vectors 121

5.1 Examples 122
5.1.1 Discontinuous graphs 122
5.1.2 Avoiding division by zero 123
5.1.3 Avoiding infinity 125
5.1.4 Counting random numbers 126
5.1.5 Rolling dice 127
5.2 Logical operators 127
5.2.1 Operator precedence 129
5.2.2 Danger 130
5.2.3 Logical operators and vectors 130
5.3 Subscripting with logical vectors 131
5.4 Logical functions 133
5.4.1 Using any and all 134
5.5 Logical vectors instead of elseif ladders 135

6 Matrices of numbers & arrays of strings 141

6.1 Matrices 142
6.1.1 A concrete example 142
6.1.2 Creating matrices 143
6.1.3 Subscripts 144
6.1.4 Transpose 144
6.1.5 The colon operator 144
6.1.6 Duplicating rows and columns: tiling 148
6.1.7 Deleting rows and columns 148
6.1.8 Elementary matrices 149
6.1.9 *Specialized matrices 150
6.1.10 Using MATLAB functions with matrices 151
6.1.11 Manipulating matrices 152

vii
Contents

6.1.12 Array (element-by-element) operations on matrices 153

6.1.13 Matrices and for 153
6.1.14 Visualization of matrices 154
6.1.15 Vectorizing nested fors: loan repayment tables 154
6.1.16 Multidimensional arrays 156
6.2 Matrix operations 157
6.2.1 Matrix multiplication 157
6.2.2 Matrix exponentiation 159
6.3 Other matrix functions 160
6.4 *Strings 160
6.4.1 Assignment 160
6.4.2 Input 160
6.4.3 Strings are arrays 161
6.4.4 Concatenation of strings 161
6.4.5 ASCII codes, double and char 162
6.4.6 fprintf of strings 163
6.4.7 Comparing strings 163
6.4.8 Other string functions 164
6.5 *Two-dimensional strings 164
6.6 *eval and text macros 165
6.6.1 Error trapping with eval and lasterr 166
6.6.2 eval with try...catch 167

7 Introduction to graphics 171

7.1 Basic 2-D graphs 171
7.1.1 Labels 173
7.1.2 Multiple plots on the same axes 173
7.1.3 Line styles, markers and color 174
7.1.4 Axis limits 175
7.1.5 Multiple plots in a figure: subplot 176
7.1.6 figure, clf and cla 178
7.1.7 Graphical input 178
7.1.8 Logarithmic plots 178
7.1.9 Polar plots 179
7.1.10 Plotting rapidly changing mathematical functions: fplot 180
7.1.11 The property editor 181
7.2 3-D plots 181
7.2.1 plot3 182
7.2.2 Animated 3-D plots with comet3 183
7.2.3 Mesh surfaces 183
7.2.4 Contour plots 186
7.2.5 Cropping a surface with NaNs 187
7.2.6 Visualizing vector fields 188
7.2.7 Visualization of matrices 189

viii
 Contents

7.2.8 Rotation of 3-D graphs 190

7.2.9 Other cool graphics functions 192

8 Loops 205
8.1 Determinate repetition with for 205
8.1.1 Binomial coefficient 205
8.1.2 Update processes 206
8.1.3 Nested fors 208
8.2 Indeterminate repetition with while 208
8.2.1 A guessing game 208
8.2.2 The while statement 209
8.2.3 Doubling time of an investment 210
8.2.4 Prime numbers 211
8.2.5 Projectile trajectory 212
8.2.6 break and continue 215
8.2.7 Menus 215

9 Errors and pitfalls 222

9.1 Syntax errors 222
9.1.1 lasterr 225
9.2 Pitfalls and surprises 225
9.2.1 Incompatible vector sizes 225
9.2.2 Name hiding 225
9.2.3 Other pitfalls for the unwary 226
9.3 Errors in logic 226
9.4 Rounding error 226
9.5 Trapping and generating errors 228

10 Function M-files 230

10.1 Some examples 230
10.1.1 Inline objects: harmonic oscillators 230
10.1.2 Function M-files: Newton’s method again 232
10.2 Basic rules 233
10.2.1 Subfunctions 239
10.2.2 Private functions 239
10.2.3 P-code files 239
10.2.4 Improving M-file performance with the profiler 240
10.3 Function handles 240
10.4 Command/function duality 242
10.5 Function name resolution 243
10.6 Debugging M-files 243
10.6.1 Debugging a script 244
10.6.2 Debugging a function 246
10.7 Recursion 246

ix
Contents

11 Vectors as arrays & *advanced data structures 251

11.1 Update processes 251
11.1.1 Unit time steps 252
11.1.2 Non-unit time steps 255
11.1.3 Using a function 256
11.1.4 Exact solution 258
11.2 Frequencies, bar charts and histograms 259
11.2.1 A random walk 259
11.2.2 Histograms 260
11.3 *Sorting 261
11.3.1 Bubble Sort 261
11.3.2 MATLAB’s sort 263
11.4 *Structures 264
11.5 *Cell arrays 267
11.5.1 Assigning data to cell arrays 267
11.5.2 Accessing data in cell arrays 268
11.5.3 Using cell arrays 269
11.5.4 Displaying and visualizing cell arrays 270
11.6 *Classes and objects 270

12 *More graphics 272

12.1 Handle Graphics 272
12.1.1 Getting handles 273
12.1.2 Graphics object properties and how to change them 274
12.1.3 A vector of handles 276
12.1.4 Graphics object creation functions 277
12.1.5 Parenting 277
12.1.6 Positioning figures 278
12.2 Editing plots 279
12.2.1 Plot edit mode 279
12.2.2 Property Editor 280
12.3 Animation 281
12.3.1 Animation with Handle Graphics 282
12.4 Color etc. 285
12.4.1 Colormaps 285
12.4.2 Color of surface plots 287
12.4.3 Truecolor 288
12.5 Lighting and camera 288
12.6 Saving, printing and exporting graphs 289
12.6.1 Saving and opening figure files 289
12.6.2 Printing a graph 290
12.6.3 Exporting a graph 290

x
 Contents

13 *Graphical User Interfaces (GUIs) 292

13.1 Basic structure of a GUI 292
13.2 A first example: getting the time 293
13.2.1 Exercise 297
13.3 Newton again 297
13.4 Axes on a GUI 301
13.5 Adding color to a button 302

PART II APPLICATIONS 305

14 Dynamical systems 307
14.1 Cantilever beam 309
14.2 Electric current 311
14.3 Free fall 314
14.4 Projectile with friction 323

15 Simulation 328
15.1 Random number generation 328
15.1.1 Seeding rand 329
15.2 Spinning coins 329
15.3 Rolling dice 330
15.4 Bacteria division 331
15.5 A random walk 331
15.6 Traffic flow 333
15.7 Normal (Gaussian) random numbers 336

16 *More matrices 341

16.1 Leslie matrices: population growth 341
16.2 Markov processes 345
16.2.1 A random walk 345
16.3 Linear equations 348
16.3.1 MATLAB’s solution 349
16.3.2 The residual 350
16.3.3 Overdetermined systems 350
16.3.4 Underdetermined systems 351
16.3.5 Ill conditioning 351
16.3.6 Matrix division 352
16.4 Sparse matrices 354

17 *Introduction to numerical methods 359

17.1 Equations 359
17.1.1 Newton’s method 359
17.1.2 The Bisection method 362

xi
Contents

17.1.3 fzero 364

17.1.4 roots 364
17.2 Integration 364
17.2.1 The Trapezoidal rule 365
17.2.2 Simpson’s rule 366
17.2.3 quad 367
17.3 Numerical differentiation 367
17.3.1 diff 368
17.4 First-order differential equations 369
17.4.1 Euler’s method 369
17.4.2 Example: bacteria growth 370
17.4.3 Alternative subscript notation 371
17.4.4 A predictor-corrector method 373
17.5 Linear ordinary differential equations (LODEs) 374
17.6 Runge-Kutta methods 375
17.6.1 A single differential equation 375
17.6.2 Systems of differential equations: chaos 376
17.6.3 Passing additional parameters to an ODE solver 379
17.7 A partial differential equation 381
17.7.1 Heat conduction 381
17.8 Other numerical methods 385

Appendix A: Syntax quick reference 390

A.1 Expressions 390
A.2 Function M-files 390
A.3 Graphics 390
A.4 if and switch 391
A.5 for and while 392
A.6 Input/output 393
A.7 load/save 393
A.8 Vectors and matrices 393

Appendix B: Operators 395

Appendix C: Command and functionquick reference 396

C.1 General purpose commands 397
C.1.1 Managing commands 397
C.1.2 Managing variables and the workspace 397
C.1.3 Files and the operating system 397
C.1.4 Controlling the Command Window 398
C.1.5 Starting and quitting MATLAB 398
C.2 Logical functions 398

xii
 Contents

C.3 Language constructs and debugging 398

C.3.1 MATLAB as a programming language 398
C.3.2 Interactive input 399
C.4 Matrices and matrix manipulation 399
C.4.1 Elementary matrices 399
C.4.2 Special variables and constants 399
C.4.3 Time and date 400
C.4.4 Matrix manipulation 400
C.4.5 Specialized matrices 400
C.5 Mathematical functions 400
C.6 Matrix functions 401
C.7 Data analysis 402
C.8 Polynomial functions 402
C.9 Function functions 402
C.10 Sparse matrix functions 402
C.11 Character string functions 403
C.12 File I/O functions 403
C.13 Graphics 403
C.13.1 2-D 403
C.13.2 3-D 404
C.13.3 General 404

Appendix D: ASCII character codes 405

Appendix E: Solutions to selected exercises 406

Index 421

xiii
This page intentionally left blank
Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
 CHAPTER XXI
LOVE IN EXILE

The Skye boatmen took their Prince safely to the mainland, and were
not ashamed because they wept at parting from him. And then the
Stuart and Sir Jasper’s heir set out again along the lone tracks that
taught them understanding of each other—understanding of the
world that does not show its face among the crowded haunts where
men lie and slander and drive hard bargains one against the other.
Their bodies were hard, for wind and weather had toughened them
till they were lean and rugged as upland trees that have grown
strong with storm. Their courage was steady, because all except life
was lost. And at their hearts there was a quick, insistent music, as if
the pipes were playing. They were fighting against long odds, and
they were northern born; and the world, in some queer way, went
not amiss with them.
Rupert, in between the journeys and the vigils shared with the
Prince, was often abroad on the errands that had grown dear to him
since coming into Scotland. He would ride here, ride there, with
night and danger for companions, gathering news of the enemies,
the friends, who could be counted on. And he found constantly the
stirring knowledge that, though he had not been keen to ride to
hounds in Lancashire, he was hot to take his fences now.
On one of these days he rode in, tired and spent, bringing news
from the braes of Glenmoriston, and found the Stuart smoking his
pipe, while he skinned a deer that he had shot.
“You are killing yourself for loyalty,” said the Prince, glancing at him
with a sudden, friendly smile.
“By your leave, sir,” said Rupert, as if he talked of Murray’s plain
arithmetic, “I am alive at last.”
“You’re made of the martyr’s stuff,” said the other.
“Your Highness, they called me the scholar there in Lancashire, and
I knew what that meant. I am trying to outride the shame.”
Rupert was tired out. The Prince was tired at heart, because of
Culloden, because of Miss MacDonald, whom he was not to see
again, and all the dreams that had tumbled from the high skies to
sordid earth. Neither of them had tasted food for six-and-thirty
hours. And at these times men are apt to find a still, surprising
companionship, such as the tramps know who foot it penniless along
the roads.
“We have found our kingdom, you and I,” said the Prince, with
sudden intuition—“here on the upland tracks, where a man learns
something of the God who made him.”
Rupert looked out across the mountains, blue-purple in the
gloaming, and caught the other’s mood, and spoke as a friend does
to a friend, when the heart needs a confidant. “It is all a riddle,” he
said slowly. “I thought all lost, after Culloden—and yet I’ve tasted
happiness, tasted it for the first time in my life. To carry your life on
the saddle with me, to keep open eyes when I’m sick for sleep, to
know that the Stuart trusts me—I tell you, I have tasted glory.”
The Prince turned his head aside. This was the loyalty known to him
since he first set foot in Scotland, the service he claimed, he knew
not why, from gentle and simple of his well-wishers. And he was
remembering how many of these eager folk had died on his behalf,
was forgetting that he, too, had gone sleepless through peril and
disaster because he carried at his saddle-bow, not one life only, but
a kingdom’s fate.
“Your news from Glenmoriston, sir?” he asked sharply.
“Pleasant news. A man has died for you, with gallantry.”
“You call it pleasant news?”
“Listen, your Highness! It was one Roderick MacKenzie—he was a
merchant in Edinburgh, and left the town to follow you; and he
found his way, after Culloden, to the hills about Glenmoriston. He
was alone, and a company of the enemy surprised him; and he
faced them, and killed two before they overcame him; and he died
in anguish, but found strength to lift himself just before the end. He
knew that he was like you, in height and face, and cried, ‘God
forgive you, you have killed your Prince!’”
“It was brave; it was well meant. But, sir, it is not pleasant news.”
“He bought your safety. They are carrying his head to London to
claim the ransom. And the troops have left the hills, your Highness—
they believe you dead.”
“I wish their faith were justified,” said the other, with the bitterness
that always tortured him when he heard that men had died on his
behalf. “Your pardon,” he added by and by. “I should thank you for
the news—and yet I cannot.”
The next day they climbed the brae and went down the long,
heathery slope that took them to Glenmoriston; and nowhere was
there ambush or pursuit, as Rupert had foretold—only crying of the
birds on hilly pastures, and warmth of the July sun as it ripened the
ling to full bloom, and humming of the bees among the early bell-
heather.
They came to the glen at last, and ahead of them, a half-mile away,
there was blue smoke rising from the chimney of a low, ill-thatched
farmstead. And the Prince touched Rupert’s arm as they moved
forward.
“Lord, how hunger drums at a man’s ribs!” he said, with a tired
laugh. “If there were all the Duke’s army lying in wait for us yonder,
we should still go on, I think. There may be collops there, and eggs
—all the good cheer that Mrs. MacDonald thought scanty when we
came to the laird’s house at Kingsborough.”
“By your leave,” said Rupert gravely, “it does not bear speaking of. I
begin to understand how Esau felt when he sold his birthright for a
mess of pottage.”
They reached the house, and they found there six outlaws of the
hills, ready with the welcome Rupert had made secure before he led
the Prince here. They had entrenched themselves in this wild glen,
had ridden abroad, robbing with discretion, but never hurting a man
who was too poor to pay tribute. Their name was a byword for
cattle-lifting, and they lived for plunder. Yet, somehow, when the
Stuart came among them, with thirty thousand pounds easy in the
gaining, they disdained blood-money.
For all that, another hope of the Prince’s crumbled and went by him,
after he had greeted his new hosts. There were neither eggs nor
collops in the house—only a dish of oatmeal, without milk to ease its
roughness. The Glenmoriston men explained that Cumberland’s
soldiery had been about the glen, had raided their cattle and sheep,
had laid bare the countryside.
“For all that,” said the Prince, unconquerable in disaster, “I thank you
for your oatmeal. As God sees me, you have stilled a little of the
ache I had.”
And the Glenmoriston men liked the way of him. And when, next
day, he and Rupert went up the hills and stalked a deer, and brought
it home for the cooking, their loyalty was doubled.
Through the days that followed the outlaws found leisure to prove
the guests they harboured. In the hill countries a man’s reputation
stands, not on station or fair words, but on the knowledgable, quiet
outlook his neighbours bring to bear on him. And ever a little more
the outlaws liked these two, who were lean and hard and weather-
bitten as themselves.
The Prince would not claim shelter in the house, because long use
had taught him to prefer a bed among the heather. And Rupert,
lying near by o’ nights, learned more of the Stuart than all these last
disastrous days had taught him. When a man sleeps in the open,
forgetting there may be a listener, he is apt to lose his hold on the
need for reticence that house-walls bring.
The Prince, half between sleep and waking, would lift himself on an
elbow, would murmur that men had died for him—men better than
himself, who had followed him for loyalty and not for hire, men
whom he should have shepherded to better purpose. And then he
would snatch an hour or two of sleep, and would wake again with a
question, sharp and hurried and unquiet.
“Where’s Miss MacDonald? She’s in danger. The seas are riding high
—they’re riding high, I say!—and there’s only my poor plaid to cover
her.”
And so it was always when the Prince rambled in his sleep. There
was never a complaint on his own behalf, never a wild lament that
he was skulking, a broken man, among the mountains after coming
near to London and high victory. He had two griefs only, in the night
hours that probe to the heart of a man—passionate regret for the
slain, passionate regard for Miss MacDonald’s safety.
And once the Prince, though he lay in a dead sleep, began to speak
of Miss MacDonald with such praise, such settled and devout regard,
that Rupert got up from the heather and went out into the still
summer night, lest he pried too curiously into sacred things. And as
he went up and down the glen, scenting the subtle odours that steal
out at night-time, his thoughts ran back to Lancashire. It seemed
long since he had roamed the moors in bygone summers, with just
these keen, warm scents about him, counting himself the scholar,
aching for Nance Demaine, dreaming high, foolish dreams of a day
that should come which would prove him fit to wear her favour.
And he was here, leaner and harder than of old, with a deed or two
to his credit. And he had learned a week ago, while riding on the
Prince’s business, that Lady Royd and Nance had come to
Edinburgh, intent on sharing the work of brave women there who
were aiding fugitives, by means fair or crafty, to reach the shores of
France. He knew that his father and Maurice were safely overseas;
and a sudden hope flashed across the hard, unremitting purpose
that had kept his knees close about the saddle these last days.
When the Prince was secure, when these hazards were over—the
hazards that had grown strangely pleasant—there might be leisure
to return to earlier dreams, to wake and find them all come true.
For an hour Rupert paced the glen, with gentler thoughts for
company than he had known since he first killed a man at the siege
of Windyhough. Then, with a shrug of the shoulders, he
remembered to-morrow and its needs, and went back and settled
himself to sleep; but he did not lie so near to the Prince as before,
lest he overhear him talk again of Miss MacDonald.
The next day news came that the soldiery were out among the hills
again. The gallant head of Roderick MacKenzie, who had earned a
long respite for his Prince, had been taken to London, and men who
knew the Stuart had sworn that it bore little likeness to him; and
news had been sped north, by riders killing a horse at every
journey’s end, that the Prince was still at large among the Highlands.
The Glenmoriston men were unmoved by this new trouble. They
explained, with careless humour, that their glen was already so
stripped of food as to be scarce worth living in; and they went out
with their guests into the unknown perils waiting for them as if they
went to revelry. And the Prince learned afresh that a man, when his
back is to the wall, had best not seek friends among the sleek and
prosperous, who have cherished toys to love, but among the outlaws
and the driven folk who know the open road of life.
It was by aid of the Glenmoriston men, their knowledge of the
passes, that the fugitives came safe to Lochiel’s country of Lochaber,
that, after dangers so close-set as to be almost laughable—so long
the odds against them were—they reached the shore of Loch
Moidart and found a French privateer beating about the coast. Those
on board the ship were keeping an anxious look-out toward both
land and sea; they had been advised that the Prince, with luck,
might reach Moidart about noon, and they knew, from sharp
experience during their voyage to the bay, that the enemy’s
gunboats were thick as flies about the Western Isles.
It was an odd company that gathered on the strand while the ship
beat inshore with the half of a light, uncertain wind. The Prince was
there, Lochiel and Rupert, and a small band of loyal gentry who had
been in hiding round about their homes. Yet a beggar in his rags and
tatters might have joined them and claimed free passage to the
French coast, so far as outward seeming went. Their clothes were
made up of odds and ends, begged or borrowed during the long
retreat. All were itching from the attacks of the big, lusty fleas that
abound along the loyal isles. The one sign that proved them the
Stuart’s gentlemen was a certain temperate ease of carriage, a large
disdain of circumstance, a security, gay and dominant, in the faith
that preferred beggarman’s rags to fine raiment bought by treachery.
They did not fear, did not regret, though they were leaving all that
meant home and the cosy hearth.
The Prince, while the French ships were beating inshore, took
Lochiel aside. Through the wild campaign they had been like twin
brothers, these two, showing the same keen faith, the like courage
under hardship.
“Lochiel, you know the country better than I. You’re bred to your
good land, while I was only born to it. You will tell me where the Isle
of Skye lies from here.”
“Yonder,” said the other, pointing across the grey-blue haze of
summer seas.
And the Prince stood silent, thinking of the victory there in Skye—the
victory that had left him wearier than Culloden’s sick defeat had
done. And Lochiel, who had had his own affairs to attend to lately,
and had been aloof from gossip, wondered as he saw the trouble in
the other’s face.
The Prince turned at last. “Lochiel,” he said, with a tired smile, “how
does the Usurper’s proclamation run? Thirty thousand pounds on my
head—dead or alive! Well, alive or dead, I wish this tattered body of
mine were still in Skye—in Skye, Lochiel, where I left the soul of
me.”
“You are sad, your Highness——”
“Sad? Nay, I’ve waded deeper than mere sadness, like the Skye
mists out yonder. Well, we stand where we stand, friend,” he added,
with sharp return from dreams, “and the ship is bringing to.”
There was still a little while before the boats were lowered from the
shore, and the Prince, pacing up and down the strand, encountered
Rupert. “A fine ending!” he said, with temperate bitterness. “I landed
in Lochaber from France with seven gentlemen. I go back with a few
more. This is the fruit of your toil, Mr. Royd—and of mine.”
And, “No, by your leave,” said Rupert. “Your Highness has lit a fire
that will never die—a fire of sheer devotion——”
“Ah! the courtier speaks.”
Rupert’s voice broke, harshly and without any warning. He saw his
Prince in evil case, when he should have been a conqueror. He
remembered the night rides, the faith, that had had the crowning of
the Stuart as their goal. “A broken heart speaks—a heart broken in
your service, sir,” he said.
The man’s strength, his candid, deep simplicity, struck home to the
Prince, bringing a foolish mist about his eyes. “Your love goes deep
as that?” he said.
“It goes deeper than my love of life, your Highness.”
So then, after a silence, the other laid a strong kindly hand on his
shoulder. “You’ll go far and well for me, sir—but put away that
superstition of the broken heart. Believe me, for I know”—he
glanced across the misty stretch of sea that divided him from Skye
—“there are broken hopes, and broken dreams, and disaster sobbing
at one’s ears, but a man—a man, sir, does not permit his heart to
break. You and I—I think we have our pride.”
When the boats grounded on the beach, the Prince waited till his
gentlemen got first aboard, and at last there were only himself and
Rupert left standing on the shore.
“You will precede me, Mr. Royd. It is my privilege just now to follow,
not to lead,” said the Prince.
“Your Highness, I stay, by your leave.”
The mist had been creeping down from the tops for the past hour,
and now the light, outer fringe of it had reached the water-line. The
waiting boat lay in a haze of mystery; the privateer beyond showed
big and wraithlike, though a shrouded sunlight still played on the
crests of mimic waves. And the Stuart and Rupert stood regarding
each other gravely at this last meeting for many weeks to come.
“You stay?” echoed the Prince. “Sir, you have done so much for me—
and I looked to have your company during the crossing; and,
indeed, you must be ill of your exertions to decline safety now.”
Rupert glanced at the ship, then at the Stuart’s face. There was
temptation in the longing, to be near his Prince until France was
reached, but none in the thought of personal safety. “I lay awake
last night,” he said slowly, “and it grew clear, somehow, that I was
needed here in Scotland. There’s the country round Edinburgh, your
Highness—packed thick with loyal men who are waiting their chance
to find a ship across to France—and I hold so many threads that
Oliphant of Muirhouse would have handled better, if he had lived.”
“Why, then,” said the Prince, yielding to impulse after these months
of abnegation, “we’ll let our friends set sail without us. These gentry
did me service. You shall teach me to return it.”
“Your Highness, it would ruin all! I can ride where you cannot,
because I’m of slight account——”
“So you, too, have your mathematics, like the rest,” put in the other
wearily—“and all your sums add up to the one total—that I must be
denied the open hazard. I tell you, Mr. Royd, it is no luxury to take
ship across to France and leave my friends in danger.”
The mist was thickening, and Lochiel, growing anxious on account of
the delay, leaped ashore and came to where the two were standing.
And the Prince, returning to the prose of things, knew that he must
follow the road of tired retreat mapped out for him since Derby.
“Lochiel,” he said grimly, “I was planning an escape—from safety.
And your eyes accuse me, because my heart is with this gentleman
who chooses to stay in Scotland.”
And then he told what Rupert had in mind; and Lochiel, for all the
urgency, halted a moment to appraise this lean, tranquil man who
met the call of destiny as if it were an invitation to some pleasant
supper-party.
“It was so Oliphant carried himself, Mr. Royd,” he said gravely. “God
knows I wish you well.”
They parted. And Rupert watched their boat reach the privateer,
watched the ship’s bulk glide huge and ghostly into the mists. He
was hard and zealous, had chosen his road deliberately; but he was
human, too, and a sense of utter loneliness crept over him. The
Cause was lost. Many of his friends would not tread French or
Scottish ground again, because the soil lay over them. He had not
tasted food that day, and the mist seemed to be soaking into the
bones of him. And loyalty, that had brought him to this pass, showed
like a dim, receding star which mocked him as a will-o’-the-wisp
might do.
For all that, he was born and bred a Royd, and the discipline of
many months was on his side. And, little by little, he regained that
steadiness of soul—not to be counterfeited or replaced by any other
joy—which comes to the man whose back is to the wall, with a mob
of dangers assaulting him in front.
The Glenmoriston men had been offered their chance of a passage
to France with the Prince, but had declined it, preferring their own
country and the dangerous life that had grown second nature to
them. And Rupert, knowing the glen to which they had ridden after
speeding the Stuart forward, waited till the mists had lifted a little
and found his way to them.
They crossed themselves when he appeared among them as they
sat on the slope of the brae, cooking the midday meal; but when he
proved himself no ghost and explained the reason of his coming,
and his need to be set on the way to Edinburgh, they warmed afresh
to his view of that difficult business named life. He shared their
meal, and afterwards one of their number, Hector, by name, led him
out along the first stage of his journey south.
The mists had cleared by this time, leaving the braesides russet
where the sun swept the autumn brackens, but the mood they bring
to Highlandmen was strong on Rupert’s guide. Hector could find no
joy in life, no talk to ease the going. Instead, he fell into a low,
mournful chant; and the words of it were not calculated to raise
drooping spirits:
“But I have seen a dreary dream
Beyond the Isle o’ Skye,
I saw a dead man won the fight.
And I think that man was I.”
A little chill crossed Rupert’s courage, as if a touch of east wind had
come from the heart of the warm skies. He had seen many dreary
dreams of late; had fared beyond the Isle o’ Skye; what if Hector
were “seeing far,” and this dirge were an omen of the coming days?
And then he laughed, because in the dangerous tracks men make
their own omens or disdain them altogether.
“You’re near the truth, Hector,” he broke in; “but it’s only a half-dead
man. There’s life yet in him.”
And Hector glowered at him; for the Highland folk, when they are
hugging sadness close, cherish it as a mother does her first-born
babe. For all that, he brought Rupert safely, after three days’
marching, to the next post of his journey, and passed him on to
certain outlaws whose country lay farther south; and by this sort of
help, after good and evil weather and some mischances by the way,
Rupert came at last to Edinburgh and reached the house where he
knew that Lady Royd and Nance were lodging.
The house lay very near to Holyrood; and as he went down the
street Rupert halted for a while, forgetful of his errand. The
tenderest moon that ever lit a troubled world looked down on this
palace of departed glories. The grey pile was mellowed, transfigured
by some light o’ dreams. It was as if the night knew all about the
Stuarts who would haunt Holyrood so long as its walls stood; knew
their haplessness, their charm, their steadfast hold on the fine,
unthrifty faith they held; knew the answer that some of them, who
had gone before, had found in the hereafter that does not weigh
with the shopkeepers’ scales.
There is a soul in such walls as Holyrood’s, and Rupert stood as if he
held communion with a friend whose sympathies ran step by step
with his. Here Mary Stuart had stood alone, a queen in name, facing
the barbarous, lewd nobles who were, by title of mere courtesy, her
gentlemen. Here she had seen Rizzio hurried down the twisting stair,
had supped with her fool-husband, Darnley. From here she had gone
out, the queen of hearts and tragedy, to that long exile which was to
end at Fotheringay.
Here, too, the Prince had kept high state, a year ago, and all
Edinburgh had flocked to dance a Stuart measure. He came fresh
from his first battle, crowned with victory and charm of person; and
the clans were rising fast; and hope shone bright toward London and
the crown.
Rupert looked at the grey pile and felt all this, as one listens to the
silence of a friend who does not need to speak. And then a drift of
cloud came across the moon, and Holyrood lay wan and grey. It was
as if a sudden gust had quenched all the candles that had lit the
ballroom here when the yellow-haired laddie came dancing south.
And still the fugitive tarried. He had been used so long to night
roads and the constant peril that this dim light, and the wind piping
at his ear, pleased him more than any blaze of candles and lilt of
dance-music. Deep knowledge came to him, bred of the hazards
that had made him hard and lean. He sorrowed no more for Derby
and Culloden; his present thirst and hunger went by him, as things
of slight account; for he remembered the long months of hiding, the
intimacy he had been privileged to share with Prince Charles
Edward. There had been no glamour of the dance, no pomp, about
these journeyings through the Highlands; there had been no swift,
eager challenge and applause from ladies’ eyes; and yet Rupert had
tested, as few had done, the fine edge and temper of the Stuart
charm.
Here, under the shadow of grey Holyrood, he loitered to recall their
wayfaring together. There had been winter journeyings through
incessant rain, or snow, or winds that raved down mountain passes;
there had been summer travels through the heather, with the sun
beating pitilessly on them, over the stark length of moors that had
none but brackish water and no shade. They had slept o’ nights with
danger for a pillow and the raw wind for coverlet. And through it all
the Prince had shown a brave, unanswerable front to the sickness of
defeat, the hiding when he longed for action. If food and drink were
scarce, he sang old clan songs or recalled light jests and stories that
had once roused the French Court to laughter. If danger pressed so
closely from all four quarters of the hill that escape seemed
hopeless, his cheeriness infected those about him with a courage
finer than their own.
Looking back on these days, Rupert knew that no ball at Holyrood
here, no triumph-march to London, could have proved the Stuart as
those Highland journeyings had done. The Prince and he had
learned the way of gain in loss, and with it the gaiety that amazes
weaker men.
From Holyrood—the moon free of clouds and the grey walls finding
faith again—a friendly message came to him. He caught the Stuart
glamour up—the true, abiding glamour that does not yield to this
world’s limitations. What he had read in the library at Windyhough
was now a triumph-song that he had found voice to sing.
He came to the house where Lady Royd was lodging, and knocked
at the door; and presently a trim Scots lassie opened to him, and
saw him standing there in the moonlight of the street, his face
haggard, his clothes, made up of borrowed odds and ends,
suggesting disrepute. She tried to close the door in his face; but
Rupert had anticipated this, and pushed his way inside.
“Is Miss Demaine in the house?” he asked.
The maid recovered a little of her courage and her native tartness.
“She is, forbye. Have you come buying old claes, or are you looking
just for a chance to steal siller from the hoose?”
Rupert caught at the help she gave him. “There’s the quick wit ye
have, my lass,” he said.
“Ah, now, you’ll not be ‘my lassing’ me! I’ll bid ye keep your station,
as I keep mine.”
“Well, then, my dear, go up to your mistress—the young mistress, I
mean—and tell her there’s a pedlar wanting her—a pedlar from the
hills of Lancashire. Tell her he comes buying and selling white
favours.”
“So you’re just one of us,” said the maid, with surprising change of
front. Then, her Scots caution getting the better of her again, “Your
voice is o’ the gentry-folk,” she added, “but you’re a queer body i’
your claes. How should I know what you’d be stealing while I ran up
to tell the mistress?”
Rupert, for answer, closed and barred the door behind him, and
pointed up the stair. And then the maid, by the masterful, quiet way
of him, knew that he came peddling honesty.
And by and by Nance came down, guessing who had come, because
twice during the past month Rupert had sent word to her by
messengers encountered haphazard in the Highland country.
At the stairfoot she halted, and never saw what clothes he wore. She
looked only at his hard, tired face, at the straight carriage of him, as
if he stood on parade. And, without her knowing it, or caring either
way, a welcome, frank and luminous, brought a sudden beauty to
the face that had been magical enough to him in the far-off
Lancashire days.
The warmth of the lighted hall, the sense of courage and well-being
that Nance had always brought him, were in sharp contrast with the
night and the ceaseless peril out of doors. He went to her, and took
her two hands, and would not be done with reading what her eyes
had to tell him. There could be no doubting what had come to them
—the love deep, and to the death, and loyal; the love, not to be
bought or counterfeited, that touches common things with radiance.
Rupert was giddy with it all. He had only to stoop and claim her,
without question asked or answered. And yet he would not. He
fought against this sudden warmth that tempted him to forget his
friends—those driven comrades who trusted him to see them safely
on board ship to the French coast. He put Nance away, as a courtier
might who fears to hurt his queen, and only the strength of him
redeemed his ludicrous and muddied clothes.
“You are not proved yet?” said Nance, with a gentle laugh of raillery
and comradeship. “And yet the men who come in from the Highlands
—the men we have helped to safety, Lady Royd and I—bring another
tale of you.”
Good women and bad are keen to play the temptress when they see
a man hard set by the peril of his own wind-driven, eager heart; for
Eve dies hard in any woman.
“There are others,” he said stubbornly—“loyal men who trust me to
bring them into Edinburgh.”
“Scruples?” She mocked him daintily. “Women are not won by
scruples.”
He looked at her with the disarming, boyish smile that she
remembered from old days—the smile which hid a purpose hard as
steel. “Then women must be lost, Nance,” he answered suavely.
Nance looked at him. He had changed since the days when her least
whim had swayed him more than did the giving of her whole heart
now. He was steady and unyielding, like a rock against which the
winds beat idly. And suddenly a loneliness came over her, a wild
impatience of men’s outlook. She recalled the day at Windyhough,
just after Sir Jasper had ridden out, when Lady Royd had
complained that honour was more to a man than wife-love and his
home’s need of him. She remembered how, with a girl’s untutored
zeal, she had blamed Sir Jasper’s wife because she could not realise
the high romance of it. But now she understood.
“You rode out to prove yourself—for my sake and the Cause?” she
said, with cool disdain.
“Yes, Nance.”
“And you found—adventure. And your name is one to kindle hero-
worship wherever loyal fugitives meet and speak of you. Oh, you
shall have your due, Rupert! But in the doing of it the hard
endeavour grew dear in itself—dearer than life, than—than little
Nance Demaine, for whose sake you got to horse.”
He flushed, knowing she spoke truth; and he stood at bay, ashamed
of what should have been his pride. And then he returned, by habit,
to the mood taught him by night-riding and the over-arching skies.
“Men love that way,” he said bluntly.
Nance was twisting and untwisting the kerchief she held between
her capable, strong fingers. She had not guessed till now the
bitterness of tongue she could command.
“Oh, yes, my dear; we learned it together, did we not, in the library
at Windyhough? There was a book of Richard Lovelace, his poems,
and he was very graceful when he bade his wife farewell:
“‘I could not love thee, dear, so much
Loved I not honour more.’
And honour took him to the open—to the rousing hunt—and his wife
stayed on at home.”
Rupert, unskilled in the lore that has tempted many fools afield, was
dismayed by the attack. In his simplicity, he had looked for praise
when he put temptation by him and asked only for a God-speed till
the road of his plain duty was ended and he was free to claim her.
He did not know—how should he?—that women love best the gifts
that never reach their feet.
“Nance,” he said, “what ails you women? It was so at Windyhough,
when the Loyal Meet rode out, and mother cried as if they’d found
dishonour.”
“What ails us?” She was not bitter now, but helpless, and her eyes
were thick with tears. “Our birthright ails us. We’re like children
crying in the dark, and the night’s lonely round us, and we are far
from home. And the strong hand comes to us, and we cast it off,
because we need its strength. And then we go crying in the dark
again, and wonder why God made us so. And—and that is what ails
us,” she added, with a flash of sharp, defiant humour. And her eyes
clouded suddenly. “I—I have lost a father to the Cause. It is hard to
be brave these days, Rupert.”
So then he looked neither before nor after, but took the straight way
and the ready with her. And by and by the yapping of a pampered
dog broke the silence of the house, and Lady Royd’s voice sounded,
low and querulous, from the stairhead.
“Nance, where are you? Poor Fido is not well—not well at all.”
For the moment Rupert believed that he was home at Windyhough
again. Fido’s bark, the need paramount that his wants must be
served at once, were like old days.
“They have not told her you are here,” said Nance. “I’ll run up and
break the news.”
When Rupert came into the parlour up above, Fido, true to old habit,
ran yapping round him, and bit his riding-boots; for he hated men,
because they knew him for a lap-dog. And, after the din had died
down a little, Rupert stepped to his mother’s side, and stooped to
kiss her hand. And she looked him up and down; and the
motherhood in her was keen and proved, but she could forego old
habits as little as could Fido.
“Dear heart, what clothes to wear in Edinburgh!” she cried. “It’s as
well you’re not known in the town for a Royd.”
“Yes, it’s as well, mother,” he answered dryly.
“You are thinner than you were, Rupert, and straighter in the
shoulders, and—and many things have happened to you.”
“I rode out for happenings.”
“Oh, yes, you’re so like your father; and they tell me what you’ve
done——”
“And you, mother?” he broke in. “There are gentlemen of the
Prince’s who would not be safe in France to-day without your help—
yours and Nance’s.”
“There, my dear, you fatigue me! I have done so little. It grew dull in
Lancashire, waiting for news of your father. It was all so simple—
Fido, my sweet, you will not bark at Rupert; he’s a friend—and then
I had my own fortune, you see, apart from Windyhough, and one
must spend money somehow, must one not? So I began playing at
ships—just like a child gone back to the nursery—and Nance here
was as big a baby as myself.”
If Rupert had changed, so had Lady Royd. There was no faded
prettiness now about her face, but there were lines of beauty.
Behind her light handling of these past weeks in Edinburgh there
was a record of sleepless nights, of harassed days, of discomfort and
peril undertaken willingly. She had spent money in providing means
of passage for the exiles; but she had spent herself, too, in ceaseless
stratagem and watchfulness.
“It was all so piquant,” she went on, in the old, indolent tone. “So
many gallant men supped here, Rupert, before taking boat. And they
brought each his tale of battle in the hills. And their disguises were
so odd, almost as odd as the clothes you’re wearing now, my dear.”
“The Prince’s were little better when I last saw him,” laughed the
other.
“Ah, now, you will sit down beside me—here—and Nance shall sit
there, like Desdemona listening to Othello. And you will tell us of the
Prince. You were very near his person during the Highland flight,
they tell me.”
So Rupert, because he had that one night’s leisure at command,
forgot his own perils in telling of the Stuart’s. He had no art of
narrative, except the soldier’s plain telling of what chanced; but, step
by step, he led them through the broken days, talking seldom of
himself, but constantly of Prince Charles Edward, until the bare
record of their wanderings became a lively and abiding tribute to the
Stuart’s strength. And when he had done Lady Royd was crying
softly, while Nance felt a strange loyalty play round her like a windy
night about the moors of Lancashire.
“He was like that!” said Lady Royd at last. “He was like that, while,
God forgive me! I was picturing him all the while in love-locks,
dancing a minuet.”
“The sword-dance is better known, mother, where we have been,”
said Rupert, with pleasant irony.
Late that night, when Nance had left them together for a while, Lady
Royd came and laid a hand on her son’s arm. “You have done
enough,” she said. “Oh, I know! There are still many broken men,
waiting for a passage. They must take their chance, Rupert. Your
father was not ashamed to cross to France, with my help.”
He put an arm about her, for he had learned tenderness in a hard
school. “Mother, he was not ashamed, because his work was done
here. Mine is not. What Oliphant knew of the byways—what the last
months have taught me—I cannot take the knowledge with me, to
rust in France. I am pledged to these gentry of the Prince’s.”
“Then I shall go on playing at ships here—till you come to ask a
passage.”
And her face was resolute and proud, as if this son of hers had
returned a conqueror.
The next day, after nightfall, Rupert went out again, through
Edinburgh’s moonlit streets, toward the northern hills and the perils
that he coveted. And just before he went Nance Demaine came
down into the hall, and stood beside him in the gusty candlelight.
Old days and new were tangled in her mind; she was aware only of
a great heart-sickness and trouble, so that she did not halt to ask
herself if it were maidenly or prudent to come down for another long
good-bye. In some muddled way she remembered Will Underwood,
his debonair and easy claiming of her kerchief, remembered their
meeting on the heath, and afterwards Will lying in the courtyard at
Windyhough, his body tortured by a gaping wound. She had given
him her kerchief then for pity, and now Rupert was going out
without claiming the token she would have given him for love.
Rupert seemed oddly forgetful of little things these days, she told
herself.
“Would you not wear my favour—for luck?” she asked.
And then, giving no time for answer, she began feverishly to knot
her kerchief into a white cockade; and then again she thought better
of it, and untied the blue scarf that was her girdle, and snipped a
piece from it with the scissors hanging at her waist.
“It is the dear Madonna’s colour; and I think you ride for faith,” she
said, with a child’s simplicity. “Rupert, I do not know how or why, but
I let you go very willingly. I did not understand until to-night how—
how big a man’s love for a woman is.”
They were not easy days that followed. Rupert was among the
Midlothian hills—farther afield sometimes—snatching sleep and food
when he could, shepherding the broken gentry, leaving nothing
undone that a man’s strength and single purpose could accomplish.
And in the house near Holyrood Lady Royd and Nance were helping
the fugitives he sped forward to get on shipboard. And ever, as they
plied this trade of separation under peril, a knowledge and a trust
went up and down between Edinburgh and the northern hills—a
trust that did not go on horseback or on foot, because its wings
were stretched for flight above ground.
And near the year’s end, with an easterly haar that made the town
desolate, the last fugitive came to the house that lay near Holyrood.
He should have been spent with well-doing, foot-sore and saddle-
sore with journeyings among the hills; but, instead he carried
himself as if he had found abundant health.
“I’ve done my work, mother,” he said, stooping to Lady Royd’s hand.
“It’s as well, my dear. Nance and I were nearly tired of playing at
ships.”
That night they got aboard at Leith; and, after a contrary and
troubled crossing, they came into harbour on the French coast. The
night was soft and pleasant, like the promises that France had made
the Stuart—the promises made and broken a score of times before
ever the Prince landed in the Western Isles. A full moon was making
a track of amethyst and gold across the gentle seas, and a faint, salt
breeze was blowing.
“Are you content?” asked Nance.
“Content? My dear, what else?”
And yet she saw his glance rove out across the moonlit track that led
to England; and a jealous trouble, light as the sea-breeze, crossed
her happiness; and she conquered it, because she had learned in
Edinburgh the way of a man’s heart.
“You’re dreaming of the next Rising?” she said, with a low, tranquil
laugh. “I shall forgive you—so long as you let me share your
dreams.”

FINIS

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
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