had defied English raids, and traced the line of Prince Charlie's march.
Whitney found it rather bewildering. There was so much romantic incident packed into two or three centuries; but he felt that he understood the insular Briton better than he had done, and this understanding improved his conception of the native-born American. It was here that some of the leading principles of American democracy were first proclaimed and fought for. Another thing was plain – if the spirit of this virile people had not greatly changed, deeds worthy of new ballads would be done in France and Flanders.
On the return journey they reached Hawick one evening and stopped for an hour or two. Dick suggested that they stay the night; but there was nothing to keep them in the smoky, wool-spinning town, and Andrew preferred to push on.
"The night air's bracing among the moors and I like to hear the whaups crying round the house," he said to Whitney. "There's a small hotel, built right on the fellside, and we should get there in an hour."
They set off, with Andrew on the carrier, and the powerful machine rolled smoothly out of the town. The street lamps were beginning to twinkle as they left it and low mist crept across the fields past which they sped. The cry of geese, feeding among the stubble, came out of the haze, which lay breast-high between the hedgerows, clogging the dust, but it thinned and rolled behind them as the road began to rise. Then the stubble fields became less frequent, fewer dark squares of turnips checkered the sweep of grass, and the murmur of Teviot, running among the willows, crept out of the gathering dusk.
Cothouses marked by glimmering lights went by; they sped through a dim, white village; and Whitney opened out his engine as they went rocking past a line of stunted trees. They were the last and highest, for after them the rough ling and bent-grass rolled across the haunts of the sheep and grouse. Whitney changed his gear as the grade got steeper, the hedges gave place to stone walls until they ran out on an open moor, round which the hills lifted their black summits against the fading sky. The three men made a heavy load on the long incline, but the machine brought them up, and the last of the light had gone when they stopped in front of a lonely hotel. It looked like a Swiss châlet on the breast of the fell, and a dark glen dropped steeply away from it, but it glowed with electric light.
"They seem to have some shooting people here," Dick said. "I'll run across and see if they can take us in, while you look at the carbureter. We may have to go on to Langholm and she wasn't firing very well."
He went up the drive and Whitney opened his tool bag. The top of the pass was about half a mile behind them, and the road ran straight down from it, widening in front of the hotel. There was a patch of loose stones on the other side, and the motorcycle stood a yard or two from the gate. Everything was very still except for the sound of running water, and it was rather dark, because the hills rose steeply above the glen.
"Dick's a long time coming back," Andrew said with a frown.
"Perhaps you'd better go for him," Whitney suggested.
Andrew went off, but met Dick in the drive.
"It's all right; there's nobody stopping here," he reported. "They keep the lights blazing to draw motoring people."
He spoke clearly, but with an evident effort, and Andrew frowned again.
"There's a nut I can't get hold of," Whitney called to them from under the motorcycle. "Do you think I could borrow a smaller spanner here, Dick?"
"I'll get it for you," Dick volunteered jovially, and started back toward the house.
Andrew put a firm hand on his arm.
"You will not!" he said shortly.
Dick turned upon him in a moment's rage; and then laughed.
"Oh, all right. You're a tyrant, Andrew, but you mean well."
When Whitney went for the spanner Dick knelt down in the road to inspect the machine.
"Lend me your knife," he requested. "It will be all right if I put something in the jaws."
"I'm inclined to think you'd better leave it alone," Andrew replied meaningly.
Dick laughed.
"You're a suspicious beggar. I wasn't away five minutes. Anyhow, there's a fascination in tampering with other people's machines. Where's the knife?"
Andrew let him have it, and soon afterward Dick uttered an expletive as he tore the skin from one of his knuckles.
"The beastly thing will slip; but I'm not going to be beaten by a common American nut," he declared. "If I can't screw it up, I'll twist the bolt-head off."
"Leave it alone!" said Andrew.
"It's going!" Dick panted, and threw the spanner down. "Another knuckle skinned," he added grimly.
As he stopped to wipe his hand, a loud humming came across the summit. Then four lights leaped up and their united beam rushed down the pass.
"That fellow's driving very fast, but he has plenty of room," Dick remarked, and Andrew, stepping back, saw that the tail-lamp of the motorcycle was burning well.
Dick got up, and Andrew moved out a yard or two across the road with the headlamp, half dazzled by the blaze of light that filled the glen. Suddenly the stream of radiance wavered, and Andrew wondered whether the driver had lost his nerve on seeing the patch of stones, which perhaps looked larger than they were. Then he heard the wheels skid and loose metal fly as the car lurched across the road.
"Jump!" he shouted, violently hurling Dick back before he sprang out of the way.
He struck the motorcycle with his lame leg, staggered, and fell on the gravel close to the gate. For a moment or two he had not the courage to look up, and then, with keen relief, he saw Dick standing safe.
"The clumsy brute!" Dick cried, in a voice that sounded hoarse with rage.
Running to the bicycle, he started it and jumped into the saddle. The red tail-light streamed away through the dark like a rocket, and when it grew dim, Andrew, standing shakily, saw Whitney beside him.
"He's gone mad!" Whitney exclaimed.
Andrew did not speak, and above the dying roar the big car made in the narrow hollow they heard a shrill buzzing that sounded strangely venomous.
"Forty miles an hour, anyway," Whitney estimated. "It would take a good car to get away from her. Is he fool enough to run into the back of it?"
"I don't know," said Andrew. "Dick's capable of anything when he's worked up. The curious thing is that his head is steadier than usual then."
They waited until the sound grew fainter and then died away.
"I am going down the glen," Andrew said.
They had not gone far when they heard a motor panting up hill to meet them, and a minute later Dick's car ran past and he waved his hand.
"Hotel gate!" he shouted. "Don't want to stop!"
When they reached the gate, Dick was waiting. Andrew turned the light on him, and started at the sight which met him. Dick's face was white and strained and smeared with blood, and he was evidently laboring under an emotion not wholly due to anger and excitement.
Even in the sudden flash past them of the automobile Andrew thought he had recognized the car as
