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CHAPTER LVII. THE HOME OF SORROW

It was six weeks after the events in which we last saw Kate Luttrell that she was sufficiently able to rise from her sick-bed, and sit at the little window of her room. She was wan, and worn, and wasted, her eyes deep sunken, and her cheeks hollow. Beautiful was she still in all the delicate outline of her features, the finely-rounded nostril and gracefully-turned chin almost gaining by the absence of the brilliant colouring which had at one time, in a measure, absorbed all the admiration of her loveliness. Her long luxuriant hair – spared by a sort of pity by her doctor, who, in his despair of rescuing her from her fever, yielded to her raving entreaties not to cut it off – this now fell in wavy masses over her neck and shoulders, and in its golden richness rendering her pale face the semblance of marble. Each day had the doctor revealed to her some detail of what had happened during her illness: How she had been “given over,” and received the last rites of the Church; how, after this, one who called himself her brother had arrived, and insisted on seeing her; how he came with the man named O’Rorke and the priest O’Rafferty, and remained a few seconds in her room, and left, never to return again; indeed, all three of them had left the town within an hour after their visit.

She heard all this in mute amazement, nor even was she certain that her faculties yet served her aright, so strange and incomprehensible was it all. Yet she rarely asked a question, or demanded any explanation, hearing all in silence, as though hoping that with time and patience her powers of mind would enable her to surmount the difficulties that now confronted and defied her.

For days and days did she labour to remember what great event it was had first led her to this town of Lifford, the very name of which was strange to her. The same dislike to ask a question pursued her here, and she pondered and pondered over the knotty point, till at last, of a sudden, just as though the light broke instantaneously upon her, she cried out:

“I remember it all! I know it now! Has the trial come off? What tidings of my grandfather?” The poor woman to whom this was addressed imagined it was a return of her raving, and quietly brought the doctor to her side. “Are the assizes oyer?” whispered Kate in his ear.

“More than a month ago.”

“There was an old man – Malone. Is he tried?”

“The murder case?

“I was at it.”

“And the verdict?”

“The verdict was guilty, with a recommendation to mercy for his great age, and the want of premeditation in the crime.”

“Well, go on.”

“The Judge concurred, and he will not be executed.”

“He will be banished, however – banished for life,” said she, in a low, faltering voice.

“To believe himself he asks no better, he made a speech of nigh an hour in his defence, and if it had not been that at the last he attempted a sort of justification of what he had done, the Judge would not, in all probability, have charged against him; but the old fellow insisted so strongly on the point that a poor man must always look to himself and not to the law for justice, that he destroyed his case.”

“And was there not one to advise him?”

“Apparently not; and when the Chief Baron named a lawyer to defend him, the old fellow refused the aid, and said, ‘The work that’s done for nothing is worth nothing. I’ll just speak for myself.’”

“And this other man – O’Rorke, I mean – where was he? – what did he do?”

“He left this the night before the trial came on, with that young gentleman that was here.”

“Ah, he left him! Deserted him in his last need!” cried she, faintly, but with an intense agony in the tone.

“Had they been friends?” asked the doctor; but she never heard the question, and sat with her hands clasped before her, motionless and silent.

“Were you there throughout the whole trial?” asked she, at last.

“No, I was present only on the last day, and I heard his speech.”

“Tell me how he looked; was he broken or depressed?”

“The very reverse. It would have been better for him if he had looked cast down or in grief. It was too bold and too defiant he was, and this grew on him as he spoke, till, towards the end of his speech, he all but said, ‘I dare you to find me guilty!’”

“The brave old man!” muttered she below her breath.

“When the crowd in the court cheered him, I knew what would happen. No Judge in the land could have said a word for him after that.”

“The brave old man!” mattered she again.

“It seemed at one time he was going to call witnesses to character, and he had a list of them in his hand, but he suddenly changed his mind, and said, ‘No, my Lord, whatever you’re going to do with me this day, I’ll do my best to meet it, but I won’t make any one stand up here, and have the shame to say he knows a man that the mere turn of a straw might send to the gallows!’”

“Did he say that?” cried she, wildly.

“He did; and he looked at the jury all the while, as though to say, ‘Take care what you do; it’s a man’s life is on it!’”

“Did he ever mention my name? Did he ask for any one in particular, did you hear?” asked she, faintly.

“No; but before he began his speech he looked all over the court for full five minutes or more, as if in search of some one, and even motioned some people in the gallery to stand aside that he might see better, and then he drew a long breath – either disappointment or relief; it might be either.”

“‘How could they have the heart to say guilty?” said she.

“There was no other word to say. They were on their oaths, and so the Judge told them, and the whole country was looking at them.”

“And where is he now?” asked she, eagerly.

“All the prisoners for transportation have been sent on to Dublin. They’ll not leave the country before spring.”

She hid her head between her hands, and sat for a long time without speaking. At last she raised her face, and her eyes were red with weeping, and her cheeks furrowed.

“Doctor,” said she, plaintively, “have I strength enough to go to him?”

He shook his head mournfully, in token of dissent.

“Am I too ill?”

“You are too weak, my poor child; you have not strength for such a journey.”

“But I have great courage, doctor, and I can bear far more fatigue than you would think.”

He shook his head again.

“You do not know,” said she, in a low but earnest voice, “that I was reared in hardship, brought up in want, and cold, and misery. Ay, and I have never forgotten it!”

He smiled; it was half in compassion, half in disbelief.

“Do you know me? – do you know who I am?” asked she, eagerly.

“I know it all, my poor child – I know it all,” said he, sadly.

“Know it all! What does your phrase mean? How all?”

He arose, but she grasped his hand with both hers’, and held him fast.

“You shall not leave this till you have answered me!” cried she. “Is it not enough that I am sick and friendless? Why should you add the torture of doubt to such misery as mine? Tell me, I beseech you – I entreat of you, tell me what you have heard of me! I will deny nothing that is true!”

He pleaded warmly at first to be let off altogether, and then to be allowed further time – some period when she had grown to be stronger and better able to bear what he should have to tell her. Her entreaties only became more urgent, and she at last evinced such excitement, that, in terror lest a return of her brain fever might be feared, he yielded, promising that the confidence reposed in him was a trust nothing should induce him to break.

There is no need that the reader should pass through the sad ordeal of Kate’s suffering, even as a witness. No need is there that her shame, her sorrow, her misery, and, last of all, her passionate indignation, should be displayed before him; nor that he should see her as she sat there wrung with affliction, or half maddened with rage. Compressing the doctor’s story into the fewest words, it was this:

“Kate had met young Ladarelle at Dalradern Castle, where a passion had grown up between them. The young man, heir to a vast fortune, and sure of a high position, did not scruple to avail himself of what advantages his brilliant station conferred – won her affections, and seduced her with the promise of a speedy marriage. Wearied out at the unfulfillment of this pledge, she had fled from Dalradern, and sought refuge at Arran, intending to reveal all to her uncle, whose pride would inevitably have sought out her betrayer, and avenged her wrong, when she yielded to O’Rorke’s persuasion to meet her lover at Westport, where, as he assured her, every preparation for their marriage had been arranged. Thus induced, she had quitted her uncle’s house, and met Ladarelle. A mock marriage, performed by a degraded priest, had united them, and they were about to set out for the Continent, when she was struck down by brain fever. The fear of being recognised, as the town was then filling for the Assizes, determined Ladarelle and his friend to take their departure. There was deposited with the doctor a sum sufficient to defray every charge of her illness, with strict injunctions to keep all secret, and induce her, if she recovered, to proceed to Paris, where, at a given address, she would be welcomed and well received.”

This was the substance of a narrative that took long in the telling, not alone for the number of incidents it recorded, but that, as he proceeded, the unlucky doctor’s difficulties increased as some point of unusual delicacy would intervene, or some revelation would be required, which, in the presence of the principal actor in it, became a matter of no small embarrassment to relate.

“And how much of all this, Sir, do you believe?” said she, calmly, as he concluded.

He was silent, for the question impugned more than his credulity, and he hesitated what to answer.

“I ask you, Sir, how much of this story do you believe?”

“There is a colour to part of it,” said he, diffidently.

“And what part?”

“The part which refers to the marriage here.”

“What do you mean, Sir?”

“When you lay on that bed yonder, with fixed eyes, motionless, unconscious, and, as all believed, dying, a priest muttered some words over you, and placed your hand in that of this young man I spoke of. The woman of the house saw this through the keyhole of the door; she saw a ring produced, too, but it fell to the ground, and the priest laughingly said, ‘It’s just as good without the ring;’ and, after they had gone, the woman picked it up beneath the bed, and has it now. She saw them, besides, when they came down stairs, sit down at a table and draw up a paper, to which the priest ordered her to be a witness by a mark, as she cannot write; and this paper she believes to have had some reference to the scene she saw above. All this I believe, for she who told it to me is truthful and honest.”

Kate passed her hand across her forehead like one trying to clear her faculties for better reflection, and then said: “But this is no marriage!”

“Certainly not; nor could it have been had recourse to to quiet scruples of yours, since you were unconscious of all that went on.”

“And with what object, then, was it done?”

This was what he could not answer, and he sat silent and thoughtful; at last he said: “Were you not at this Castle in Wales I spoke of?”

“Yes.”

“And left it for Arran?”

“Yes,” said she again, “that’ also is true; and I left it to come and see that old man whose trial you witnessed. He was my grandfather.”

“Your grandfather! Surely I am speaking to Miss Luttrell of Arran?”

She nodded, and, after a moment, said: “That old man was my mother’s father, and I journeyed here for no other end than to see him and comfort him. Of all these schemes and plots I know nothing, nor have I the strength now to attempt to think of them. Which of ns will you believe, Sir – them or me?”

“I believe you – every word you have told me,” said he; “but can you forgive me for the tale I have just told you?”

“Enough, now, that you do not believe it. And yet what can it matter to me how I am thought of? The opinion of the world is only of moment to those who have friends, I have not one!”

He did his best to comfort and to cheer her; he said all those kind things which even the humblest of his walk know how to pour into the ear of affliction, and he urged her to go back at once to Arran – to her uncle.

The counsel came well timed, and she caught at it eagerly. “My wretchedness will plead for me if I cannot speak for myself,” said she, half aloud; and now all her thoughts were how to reach Westport, and take boat for the island. The doctor volunteered to see her so far on her journey, and they set out the same evening.

Arrived at Westport, tired and fatigued as she was, she would not stay to rest, but embarked at once. The night was a bright and pleasant one, with a light land breeze, and as she stepped into the boat, she said, “The sea has given me the feeling of health again. I begin to hope I shall live to see you and thank you for all your friendship. Good-by.” And as she spoke, the craft was away, and she saw no more.

The poor suffering frame was so overcome by fatigue, that they were already at anchor in the harbour of Arran before she awoke. When she did so, her sensations were so confused that she was almost afraid to speak or question the boatmen, lest her words should seem wild and unconnected.

“Are you coming back with us, Miss?” asked one of the men, as she stepped on shore.

“No – yea – I believe not; it may be – but I hope not,” said she, in a broken accent.

“Are we to wait for you?” repeated he.

“I cannot say. No – no – this is my home.”

“A dreary home it is, then!” said the man, turning away; and the words fell heavily on her heart, and she sat down on a stone and gazed at the wild, bleak mountain, and the little group of stunted trees amidst which the Abbey stood; and truly had he called it a dreary home.

The dawn was just breaking as she reached the door, and ere she had time to knock, Molly saw her from her window, and rushed out to meet her and welcome her home. Almost hysterical with joy and grief together, the poor creature clung to her wildly. “It’s in time you’re come, darlin’,” she cried, amidst her sobs; “he’s going fast, sleeping away like a child, but asking for you every time he wakes up, and we have to tell him that you were tired, and were gone to lie down, and then he mutters some words and goes off again.”

It needed but this sorrow, Kate thought, to fill up the measure of her misery; and she tottered into the little room and sat down without uttering a word, while the woman went on with the story of her master’s illness.

“A mere cold at first, brought on by going down to the point of rocks at daybreak to watch the boats. He thought he’d see you coming back. At last, when he was so ill that he couldn’t leave the house, he said that the man that brought him the first news you were coming, he’d give him hothouse and garden rent free for his life, and it didn’t need that same to make us long to see you! Then came the fever, and for a while he forgot everything, but he talked away about poor Master Harry, and what a differ we’ll feel when he was the master, raving, raving on, and never ceasing. After that he came back to his senses, and began to ask where you were, and why you didn’t sit with him. There he is now! Hear that; that’s your name he’s trying to say. Come to him while it’s time.”

Kate arose. She never spoke, but followed the woman through the passage, and entered the little bedroom, where a faint lamp blended its light with the breaking day.

The sick man’s eager eye saw her as she crossed the threshold, and in a vague, discordant voice he cried out, “I knew you’d come to me. Sit here – sit down here and hold my hand. Such stories as they told me!” muttered he, as he caught her hand in his grasp. “They can’t make that drink for me, Kate,” said he, in a low, winning voice.

“I’ll make it, dearest uncle. I’ll be your nurse now,” said she, stooping and kissing his forehead.

“No, no; I’ll not let you leave me again. You must sit there and speak to me. When you go away, I feel as if you had gone for weeks.”

“My dear, dear uncle!”

“Strange! how strange!” whispered he. “I knew well you were there – there, in that room yonder, asleep, but my thoughts would wander away till I came to think you had left me – deserted me! Don’t cry, darling. I felt that tear; it fell on my cheek. I do believe,” cried he, aloud, “they wished me to think I was deserted – a Luttrell of Arran dying without a friend or a kinsman to close his eyes. And the last Luttrell, too! The haughty Luttrells they called us once! Look around you, girl, at this misery, this want, this destitution! Are these the signs that show wealth and power? And it is all that is left to us! All!”

“My own dear uncle, if you but get well, and be yourself once more, it is enough of wealth for us.”

“Are we alone, Kate?” asked he, stealthily.

“No, Sir; poor Molly is here.”

“Tell her to go. I have something to say to you. Look in that top drawer for a paper tied with a string. No, not that —that is a direction for my funeral; the other – yes, you have it now – is my will. Arran will be yours, Kate. You will love it through all its barrenness, and never part with it. Promise me that.”

She muttered something through her sobs.

“Be kind to these poor people. I have never been to them as I ought, but I brought them a broken heart as well as a broken fortune. And wherever you live, come back sometimes to see these old rocks, and sit in that old chair; for, solitary as it all is, it would grieve me bitterly if I thought it were to be deserted!”

She tried to speak,, but could not.

“If those on the mainland should try to encroach – if they should come upon your fishing-grounds, girl – defend your rights. We have had these royalties for more than three hundred years. Be firm, be bold!” He muttered on for some moments, and the last words his lips uttered were, “A Luttrell of Arran!” His eyes closed as he said it, and he covered his face with his hand. Kate thought it was sleep, but it was the last sleep of all.

CHAPTER LVIII. SIR WITHIN ABROAD

SIR Within, accompanied by Grenfell, who was now become an “indispensable” to him, left Dalradern for the Continent. The old man neither knew nor cared what direction he should take. The consciousness that any avowal of his love for Kate would but expose him to bitter raillery and ridicule, debarred him from all the sympathy he so much needed. Such a passion at his age was exactly one of those follies that all concur to laugh at, and it is precisely in the class that this old man pertained to, these dowagers of the world of statecraft, that ridicule is most powerful. The man who deems a witty “mot” a triumph, is just as ready to accept a severe epigram as a death-wound.

One would not have believed how a few days of sorrow could have aged him. It was not alone that a stern melancholy sat on his features, but that even his erect carriage and firm step had left him, and he walked now with bent-down head feebly and uncertainly. Arrived at Paris, Grenfell endeavoured to interest him by some of the pleasures of that marvellous capital. He induced him to dine at the “Rocher,” and to drive in the Bois; he narrated all the passing gossip of the day; told him the scandals in vogue, and showed him the actors in them as they drove by on the Boulevards; but it seemed as though all the world of these vanities had closed for him, and he neither smiled nor vouchsafed a word as he listened.

Once only did he betray the slightest animation of voice or manner; it was when Grenfell pointed out to him in a carriage one of the great beauties of the time. The old man looked fixedly for an instant at her, and then, turning away his head, muttered, “She is infinitely more beautiful.”

Paris he soon discovered to be too noisy and too bustling. For Switzerland, the season was already late, and the climate was severe. Spain or Italy remained, and he was yet hesitating which to take, when Grenfell mentioned that he saw Mr. M’Kinlay’s name amongst the arrivals at the hotel, and, on inquiry, learned that he was on his way out to Italy to see Vyner, and was to leave Paris that night.

“I think I should like to see Vyner too; that is, if he would receive me,” said Sir Within, feebly. “Could you manage to catch this Mr. M’Kinlay?”

“Shall we have him to dinner to-day?”

“No; I think not. I’m not equal to it.”

“Suppose you were to try. He’s not a person to make much ceremony with. If he bores you, pretend indisposition, and leave him.”

The old man smiled – a strange, dubious sort of smile it was; perhaps it amused him to receive a lesson in social craft or address from “a Mr. George Grenfell.” At all events, Grenfell read the smile as a partial concurrence with his suggestion, and went on:

“M’Kinlay would be flattered by the invitation; and, if you should want him in any other way, he will be all the more tractable.”

“That is certainly something,” replied he, musing.

“Not to say,” added Grenfell, laughing, “that we run no great risk in being tired of him, since the mail leaves at ten, and he’ll scarcely remain after nine!”

“That is also something,” said Sir Within again.

“Here goes, then, for a note; or stay, I’ll just see if he be in the house. We shall say six o’clock dinner, and alone; these men abhor the idea of dressing, if they can help it.”

Sir Within merely raised his eyebrows, half pitifully, that there were such people; and Grenfell hastened away on his mission. He was back in a moment. “Just caught him getting into a cab; he’ll be delighted – he was delighted when I gave him your message. He goes off to-night, as the waiter said, and apparently full of important news. Vyner, it would seem, has come all right. All he told me was: ‘Sir Gervais will be on his legs again;’ but we’ll have it all after dinner.”

Sir Within heard the tidings with far less interest than Grenfell looked for. He smiled benignly, indeed; he muttered something about being “charmed to hear it;” and then heaved a heavy sigh and sat down with his back to the light. How heartless and unfeeling did it seem to him to have so much compassion for loss of mere fortune, and not one word of sympathy for a broken and bereaved heart! What a world it was! What a world of perverted feeling and misapplied generosity!

Grenfell said something about the epicurism of the lawyer class, and went off to give special directions about the dinner; and the old man dozed, and woke, and wandered on in thought over the past, and dozed again, till his servant came to apprise him it was time to dress.

It was the first time he was to encounter the presence of a stranger after some months of seclusion, and he shrank from the effort, and would have retreated altogether if he could only have found a pretext. Conventionalities are, however, the tyrants of such men as himself, and the bare idea of anything unseemly in politeness was unendurable. He suffered his valet, therefore, to restore him to something of his former appearance. His eyebrows were newly tinted and well arched; his furrowed cheeks were skilfully smoothed over and suffused with a soft, permanent blush; and his whiskers were ingeniously brought into keeping with the vigorous darkness of his raven wig, imparting to him altogether a sort of surcharged vitality, that, to an acute observer, might have imparted a sense little short of horror. The very brilliants of his rings caught a twinkling lustre from his tremulous hands, as though to impress the beholder with the contrast between splendour and decay.

Nor was his manner less unreal than his appearance. With his darkened eyebrows and his diamond studs he had put on his old tone of soft insinuation, and all that was natural in the Man was merged in the crafty devices of the Minister. No wonder was it M’Kinlay was charmed with a tone and address that had done service in Courts. Sir Within thus “warmed to his work,” and actually at last began to feel pleasure in the success he achieved; and even Grenfell, long trained to the habits of the world, was astonished at conversational resources for which he had never given him credit.

Thus happily did the dinner proceed; and when the servants retired, M’Kinlay had arrived at that point of beatitude in which he regarded the company as something superlatively high, and himself fully worthy of it.

“You are on your way to my old friend Vyner, I think?” said Sir Within, with a heartiness that ignored all estrangement between them.

“Yes, Sir; on a pleasanter mission, I rejoice to say, than when I last travelled the same road.”

“He is all right again, I hear,” said Grenfell, who meant, by an abrupt declaration, to disarm all the conventional reserve of the lawyer.

“Well, that would be saying too much, perhaps – too much; but I hope, Mr. Grenfell, he is on the way to it.”

“With M’Kinlay for his pilot, he’ll make the harbour, I have no doubt whatever,” said Sir Within, smiling graciously.

“I shall certainly do my best, Sir,” said the other, bowing. “Not alone because it is my duty, but that Sir Gervais has been good enough to regard me, for many years back, in the light of his friend as well as his lawyer.”

“Of that I am well aware,” said Sir Within, lifting his glass and appearing to be quietly pledging Mr. M’Kinlay to himself as a toast.

“Has the scoundrel who ran away with his securities been caught?” asked Grenfell, impatiently.

“No, Sir; he is beyond being caught – he is dead.” After a pause, which Sir Within and Grenfell saw all the importance of not breaking but leaving to M’Kinlay the task of continuing his narrative, that gentleman went on: “It is quite a romance – positively a romance in real life. I’m afraid,” said he, looking at his watch, “I shall not have time to tell you the story in all its details. I must start by the ten-twenty train for Lyons.”

“We are only a few minutes after eight now,” said Grenfell. “Let us hear the story.”

“Even in outline,” chimed in Sir Within, blandly. “Pray help yourself to the wine – it is beside you.”

“I can give you but a sketch – a mere sketch, Sir. It would seem, Sir, that ever since the French conquest of Algeria, a French company has been engaged in the supply of munitions of war to the Arabs, and to this end had established agents at Tripoli, Tunis, and Morocco, who were thus enabled to transport these supplies into the interior of Africa. The director of this company was La Harpe, the Parisian banker, with whom Sir Gervais became acquainted through Mr. Gennet, himself the owner of many shares in the undertaking.”

Grenfell sighed drearily at the long-windedness which he saw awaited them; but Sir Within looked intensely interested, and M’Kinlay went on, and, with a prolixity that I have no desire to imitate, entered upon the nature of this company, its operations, and its gains. With a painstaking minuteness he described the false trade-marks used to prevent discovery, and how the weapons, which were forged in France, bore the stamp of Sheffield or Birmingham.

“Giving ‘La perfide Albion’ all the credit of the treachery,” said Sir Within, smiling.

“Precisely, Sir,” said M’Kinlay, delighted at the attention so graciously vouchsafed him. “I see you understand it all. Indeed, I may remark here, that a very sharp interchange of notes took place between the two Governments on the subject, the French alleging, and with apparent reason – ”

“Get on, in Heaven’s name, to what concerns Vyner,” cried Grenfell, “or it only wants a quarter to nine, otherwise you’ll have to leave us without the catastrophe.”

“I obey, Sir,” said M’Kinlay, with a certain irritation of voice at the same time. “I must observe, you will find it very difficult to fill up for yourselves the gaps you insist on my passing over. Mr. Gennet, then, for it is of him you wish me to speak, very soon perceiving that Sir Gervais Vyner was not a man to be drawn into such an illicit traffic, assumed to have obtained from the Bey of Tunis and others most valuable concessions to mines of various kinds, and by specimens of ore, reports of scientific mineralogists, and such-like, imposed on him so far as to induce him to enter largely into the speculation, not at all aware that every shilling he advanced was directed to the great enterprise of La Harpe and Company. It was not a very difficult task for an accomplished swindler like Gennet to show that the mines, which had no existence, had proved a failure. Indeed, the disastrous issue of the enterprise was so plausibly described, and the affairs were wound up with such apparent fairness, that it was no wonder if poor Sir Gervais actually pitied Gennet, and went so far as to beg he might not be molested. I assure you, Sir, I have a letter in my desk that says – ”

“Nine o’clock!” solemnly ejaculated Grenfell, as the hour rang out from a neighbouring steeple.

“I hear it, Sir, and regret much that my time should be so limited; but to resume. So soon as Gennet had established the fact of the mock bankruptcy, he fled from Europe, and it was believed took refuge in America, where he had lived many years as partner in a mercantile house – the firm of Reay, Pate, and Brothers, Forty-sixth-street, New York, large shipowners, and importers on their own account. I feel I am prolix, Mr. Grenfell, even without the admonition of that painful sigh. But really, gentlemen, I am merely selecting the salient points of a very complicated incident, and not entering upon any but the strictly essential details.”

Sir Within assured him he felt an unbounded confidence in his discretion, and he resumed:

“There chanced to be in the employ of that firm a merchant captain named Dodge, a man of remarkable energy of character and great daring; and here I may mention, as a curious circumstance, that I once happened by a singular coincidence to meet with this man, and be his fellow-traveller, under no common circumstances.”

“I believe I can recal them,” said Sir Within. “I was the guest of my friend Sir Gervais on the night you told a very remarkable story, in which this man’s name occurred. The name was a strange one, and it held a place in my memory. If I mistake not, you crossed over to the Arran Islands in his company?”