“Go, if ye daur!” he shrieked; “for it shall be but one o’ us, if ye’ll no turn about the way I’m walkin’. It’s through you, is it, that Maggie flouts me, an’ throws back my gifts, that are o’ mair cost than ye can earn, ye loupin’ beggar?”

“Hand off!” I shouted; “or I’ll no answer for mysel’,” for he was pressin’ on, an’ there was no room for a struggle between the rock an’ the road’s edge. “Haud off, or not one, but baith, may make a turn too many.”

“Gie me that trash,” he said, making a snatch toward the necklace. “Gie it me, and go no more to Maggie’s house – you nor your baby cousin Rab. Gie it me, I say!”

He was upon me before I could answer him, mad wi’ passion and wi’ whisky, and dealt me a heavy blow upon the head; but I was quicker and stronger than he, and, before he could repeat it, had him by wrist and shoulder. As I’ve said, ’twas no place to wrestle in, and when we both came to grips, we had but one scuffle, and then our footing was gone, and I lost him and myself, too – lost sense, and hearing, and a’ things.

The sun was high in the sky, when I came to myself – shining like a golden shield over the blue sea, and the wavin’ grass and heather; and I could just see the ripple o’ the waves and the fleece o’ white clouds far away, but naething else.

It was a while before I could do that, for I seemed to be covered wi’ dried grass and leaves above my chin as I lay there in a deep cleft in the cliff side, mid a tangle of stalks an’ roots, and dry driftsand, that had got into my claes, and tilled my ears and eyes. I was like a man paralysed, too; and had to move an inch at a time, till I could rub, first my arms, an’ then, when I had got upon one elbow, give my legs a turn, and then my back. The first thing I did was to feel if the necklace was on my wrist still; but it had gone; dropped off and lost in the scuffle. Next I crawled to the edge of the hole, and peered down the cliff side, and all round, as far as I could see, to look for the body of Rory Smith, living or dead.

I could not tell how he had fallen; but unless he had clutched at the long weed, or reached a cliff lower down, he’d hardly be alive after a whole night; for, had he fallen on the beach, and been disabled, his body was now under the water, above which the sea-birds wheeled and piped in the bright morning air.

Perhaps he had cried out, and help had come, while I lay senseless. However it was, I must get to the village and see what could be done. The quickest way was to climb up to the path again, and so get toward the long street o’ Slievochan, nearer than going back to find uncle an’ Rab, who’d most likely be at Donald Miller’s to look for me.

It was strange to think that I should have been fightin’ for Maggie, an’ all the time was the only one that made no claim to be her lover. I began to wonder whether, after all, the lassie might have understood me different, and had been waitin’ for me to speak out, preferrin’ me to Rab even, and wonderin’ why I had his name always foremost. The thought wasna’ a good one, for I felt a kind of sudden fancy to win the girl, even though I couldna say I loved her; indeed, I’d thought of her only as a winsome child; and, lately, had never spoke of her to Rab, except wi’ caution, for I could see that the puir laddie was sair in airnest. Somehow, the thought o’ my bein’ Maggie’s lover, though I put it frae me, caused me for a moment to wonder what she’d say to me if she saw me all dusty, and with torn clothes and grimy face. This made me look at my clothes, and, wi’ a sort o’ wonder, I found that my pilot coat had got all brown at the back, where I lay upon it, and broke as though it had been scorched. My shoes, too, were all dry and stiff; and as I began to climb the cliff, very slowly an’ painfully, my shirt an’ trousers gave way at knees and elbows. I sat down on the bank of the path after I’d reached it, a’most dead with faintness an’ hunger, so put my hand in my pocket to find my pipe. It was there, sure enough, along wi’ my steel bacca-box, and there was bacca there too, an’ a bit o’ flint to get a light. The bacca was dry as powder, but it eased the gnawin’ of my limbs, and I tottered on.

On to the first cottages, leading to the main street, where I meant to go first to Mrs Gillespie’s, and find some of the fishermen to search the cliff for the keeper. As I came nearer to those cottages, I could see that something was stirring in the village, for women an’ bairns were all out in the street, an’ in their best claes; and across the street farther away was a rope bearin’ a great flag an’ bunches of heather, an’ the people all about Mrs Gillespie’s door, an’ the by-way leadin’ toward Donald Miller’s cottage, and so right up to the kirk. I could see a’ this only when I got closer; but I could na’ turn up the high street. A kind o’ fear an’ wonder kept me back, an’ more than once I shut my e’en, and stretchit oot my arms all round, to feel whether I was na’ dreamin’ it all in the hole of the cliff side, or, maybe, in my bunk at hame, or on the deck of the Robert Bruce, wi’ Rab at the tiller, an’ uncle smoking forrard.

I turned up a by-way, and got near to the church itsel’, where a man and woman – strangers to me – were leanin’ against the wall, talkin’. I thought I knew everybody in the place; but these people had just come out o’ a cottage that belonged to auld Nannie Dun, and had turned the key o’ the door as though they lived there, at the sicht o’ me coming along the path.

They eyed me over, too, as I came near, and answered wi’ caution, when I asked what was goin’ on the day.

“Weel, it’s a weddin’ in the kirk,” says the wife, “an’ sae lang waited for that it’s little wonder a’ the toon is oot to give joy to the bonnie bride an’ groom. Ye’re a stranger, and where may ye come frae?”

“Nae, nae,” I said, between a laugh an’ a fright. “Ae body kens me hereabout; but where’s auld Nannie, that ye’ve come to see to-day; she’ll know me.”

The couple looked skeerit. “Auld Nannie Dun was deed an’ buried six years ago come July,” said the woman. “Ye’ve been long away frae this toon, I’m thinkin’.”

“Frae this village,” says I. “Slievochan’s na’ a toon.”

“’Deed, but it is, though, since the auld laird’s death, and the new street was built, two years’ ago; when Donal’ Miller an’ Ivan Dhu bought the land that it stands on for a portion for son an’ daughter – but there they come.”

“Just one moment,” I cried, clutching the man by the arm. “Will ye kindly tell me the day an’ the year?”

“What day, mon?” says he, lookin’ at me in doubt.

“This present day o’ the month and the year. Is it auchteen hunnerd saxteen?”

“Hoot, mon!” cried the fellow, gettin’ away frae me. “Nae; but the third June, auchteen hunnerd twenty-sax. Ha’e ye been asleep these ten years?”

I had!

It rushed upon me a’ o’ a sudden. My claes like tinder; the bed o’ dry leaves; my shrivelled boots; the bacca in powder. There, in that cave o’ the cliff I’d slept in a trance, with ne’er a dream to know o’, an’ the world had gone round while I stoppit still. There was a soun’ o’ talking an’ laugh in’ at the kirk door, an’ then a shout, as a band o’ fishermen came out, all in their best rig; an’ then a shoal of pretty lassies, an’ then my uncle Ivan, an’ Mistress Miller – (Old Donald was deed, then, I thought); and then the bailie an’ my Aunt Tibbie; and, after all, Rab an’ Maggie – he looking a grand, noble man, for he was no longer a boy; but wi’ his father’s strength, and Aunt Tibbie’s soft, tender smile; an’ she – Maggie, I mean – older an’ paler; but wi’ a light in her een, an’ a lovin’ look upon her face, that made me forget mysel’ in joy to think how they had come together at last, whatever might have happened in the ten years.

But what would happen if I should be seen by the bailie, starin’ there at the church porch, in my rags and unkempt hair an’ beard – I, that had perhaps been sought for, and might be suspectit? – Ah! that was dreadfu’! – suspectit o’ murder! for where was Rory Smith? – and who could tell the true tale but me?

I might be recognised in a minute; for how did I know whether I was altered? – and I could remember half the men who were there shouting, and half the women claverin’ in the kirkyard. I crept away.

The best thing I could do was to make off down to the fisher village on the beach; for everybody had come up to the wedding, and I could gain my uncle’s house without meeting any one that I knew. So crammin’ what was left of my bacca into my pipe, I turned down a lane, and could see the man and woman that I’d spoken to stopping to look after me.

I was wrong in the thinking that I should reach my uncle’s house unknown. At all events, I was known after I’d entered the house, though there was naebody there. The first thing I did was to stir up the embers o’ the fire, for I was chilled, though it was a warm summer’s day; then I cut a slice from the loaf, and took a mug o’ milk from the pan; an’ then went to the ben, to see after washing myself, and go on to my ain auld room, to look what had come o’ my claes.

The room was altered, but the chest was there; and though my men’s claes had gone, some of my boy’s claes were there; an’ even some of them that I wore as a child, when Aunt Tibbie made me a new suit. I was thocht to be dead, then, but wasna’ forgotten.

If a mon can cry, it does him a world o’ good at times – that is, if he doesna’ cry much nor often. I cried, and it did me good. Then I went up to the little bit o’ broken glass that was nailed to the wa’ to speer what like I was. My hair had began to whiten – bleached, maybe, by the sea air. I had a strange, wild look, for hair and beard had grown all tangled, and my face was grey instead of red-brown, as it once was. Would my uncle know me?

When I went down again to eat some more bread, and to look for a little whisky to put wi’ the milk, there was a man’s face peerin’ through the window; and before I could stir, the door-latch clicked, and in walked my uncle Ivan. I had started to my feet, and my uncle strode in, with his hand uplifted, as if to strike me.

I never stirred, but looked at him full in the eyes.

His hand fell to his side.

“What brings ye here frae the dead, or from waur than the dead, Sandy Macpherson?” he exclaimed, hoarsely.

“I’ve no been that far; if they that I’d have looked for had looked for me,” I answered. “If Rory Smith is alive, he can tell ye about it; or if his dead body’s been found, I’ll tell my story over that afore all Slievochan.”

“Then it was you, after all?” said my uncle, sinking into a seat, and leaning his head on his hands. “An’ I’ve stood up for ye, and swore that if there was foul play ’twas he, and not you – or maybe Preece, as your aunt thocht at first, because he had the necklace. Can ye, an’ will ye, clear up this dreadfu’ mystery?”

“Uncle Ivan,” I said, takin’ him by both hands; “look at my face and hair; look close at my claes and shoon! Come wi’ me, and bring others too, to the cliff face below the sitting-stone in the turn o’ the path – and then it’s just possible, but it’s no likely, ye’ll believe what I have to tell. First, let me say to ye, I’m innocent o’ any crime. Do ye believe that?”

My uncle lookit at me long and hard, and I grippit his hands tight.

“I do,” he said, at last.

A weight sprung off my heart.

“Uncle, did I ever tell ye a lee?”

“Never that I ken.”

“Never – never! I kenned he wud come back!” said another voice.

It was Aunt Tibbie, and she took me in her arms. “I believed ye to be innocent, Sandy; and sae did Rab, and a many more,” she said. “But where ha’ ye been?”

“Ye’ll no believe me, gin’ I tell ye. I don’t wonder at that. Ye can’t believe it, mebbe, but I’ll tell ye.”

“It’s naething wrong, Sandy?” said Aunt Tibbie.

“Nae, naething but laziness, an’ I couldna help that. I’ve been asleep – in a traunce – in a stupor – like a toad in a stane, for a’ these years, an’ have come to life this verra day!”

Then I told them all about it; and sic things as traunces – though not, maybe, to last as long as mine – had been heard o’ before, and they could not but believe it; but they were awa’ again to Rab’s wedding, frae which they’d come hame only to fetch a silver cup, that was to drink the healths o’ the bride and bridegroom.

“Auntie! where’s my silver mug, that I won at the games at the laird’s hair’st?” I asked.

“Safe put away wi’ the chaney, lad, an’ noo it’s yours again.”

“Auntie, wad ye tak it as my gift ta Maggie? and, uncle, will ye gie my message to Rab, that I’ll no’ stay here to bring an ill name or suspicion on him or his; but if he’d come an’ gie me his hand before I’m awa’? – t’will be little to him, and much to me, though I’ve been true to him for a whole lifetime – what’s gane of it, at least.”

So auntie took the silver mug, and they both left me; but not till I had heard how, twa days after I had gane, David Preece had been to Donald Miller’s cottage an’ offered Maggie a necklace o’ gaudy beads, and how Maggie handed them back tae him, though he told her he was to leave Slievochan next day. Aunt Tibbie heard o’ this: and when Maggie told what was the like o’ the bauble, there was a cry for Preece, till it was heard how Rory Smith hadna’ been seen for those three days, and that I hadna’ been found or heard o’.

So, ye ken, it was which o’ us should come back first wad be ca’d to find the other twa.

I sat brood – broodin’, waiting for aunt and uncle to return. Eatin’ and drinkin’, and smokin’ (for there was beef an’ whisky, and a cold pie o’ auntie’s making); but I wadna’ change my claes till they should gae wi’ me to the cliff face.

Before the sun was off the sea, I heard a sound of voices outside; and in a minute I had a hand o’ Rab, and a hand o’ Maggie and her mither, an’ half-a-dozen o’ our fishers round us who’d known me from a laddie; and then uncle said, “Now let us away to the cliff path before any o’ the rest come back fra the wedding. While they think Rab and Maggie hae gone off o’ the sly, as, indeed, they hae, and are ganging ower to the island in the new boat to Rab’s cottie.”

“’Twas gran’ o’ ye, Rab, and o’ ye, too, Maggie, to come to see me on your weddin’-day,” I said. “I’ll no forget it when I’m far awa.”

“I would ha’ been no gran’ not to ha’ come,” said Rab, “to tell our brither that we stan’ against a’ that daur accuse him o’ wrang. Why need ye gae, Sandy? Stay and tak’ the brunt o’t.”

“An’ for why, Rab? To bring trouble an’ cold looks upo’ them that I’d as sune die as cause grief to, an’ that when there’s no need o’ me to work here. Nae, nae, I’m awa’ to sea, Rab; an’ when I come hame, only friends need know who ’tis, except, indeed, I suld find Rory Smith alive in my travels; and, who knows, but I may find puir David Preece, and get my necklace back.”

“Dinna touch it – dinna touch it!” said Aunt Tibbie, shudderin’.

So we a’ went to the cliff, and there, standin’ by the stane, in my withered claes and puckered shoon, and wi’ my whitened face an’ a’, I told them again; and we men went down to the hole on the cliff side, while the women sat on the stane above, and we shook hands all round.

That same evening, two boats shot out o’ our little bay, the first one a new craft, Rab’s ain, wi’ a gran’ flag flying, and carrying him an’ his bonnie bride hame. Auntie and Mistress Miller were with us; uncle sitting by me while I stood at the tiller, and two men forward. Behind it was a row-boat, wi’ a piper at the prow, playin’ the bride hame. In this boat we a’ went back to Slievochan, except Rab and Maggie; and once more I slept in my old room till mornin’; when, wi’ a fit-out o’ claes, and some money that I was to repay as soon as I could draw my wages, I set out for England.

It was when the Polar Expedition of 1827 was getting ready, and I was one o’ them that joined it, though ye may not know my name.

I’ll no’ describe onything o’ that voyage, sin’ ye will ha’ it that I’m repeatin’ frae book; but I’m near to the end o’ my yarn now. When we met the last o’ the natives near to the Pole, there was a party came out to barter with us, and one man came forward to speak English, which he did sae weel that we lookit hard at him. We had little to barter at that time, but presently this fellow pulls out something frae his pouch, an’ holds it up by the end, and ye’ll no believe it, but there was the row o’ beads that had nigh lost me my life, and had quite lost me my hame above ten years before! Up to him I strode. “David Preece,” I shouted in his ear, “ye can gae back to Slievochan; for ’twas no you that killit Rory Smith, nor that stole my present, meant for Maggie Miller.”

“No,” said Preece, slowly, after looking round to see whether any of the Esquimaux noticed him; “and I’ll tell you, for your comfort, that you didn’t kill Rory Smith neither; for when I went to the great American plains, after leaving Scotland, and finishing a job in Cornwall, I went across with a party of trappers and Indians, and there was Rory sitting on a mustang, and looking for all the world like a Mexikin. I shall come home with you now, and bring this necklace with me. The people here think it’s a charm.”

As Sandy Macpherson ceased, and his eyes came back out of space, the men found their tongues.

“And did he come back, Sandy?”

“Yes; but not with me.”

“And did you go back to what d’ye call it – Slievochan?”

“Of course I did, and left a nest-egg for Rab and Maggie’s eldest boy.”

“And that was how long ago?”

“Above thirty years.”

“And have you been since?”

“Of course; to leave a dowry for his eldest girl.”

“And how long’s that ago?”

“Say ten years.”

“Then you haven’t been to sleep since?”

“Haven’t I though! I’ve had thirty years of it, in three different times; else how should I be eighty year old, and yet out here.”

“Well, of all the yarns – ” began Bostock.

“Hoot! of a’ the yarns and a’ the yarns! What’s wrang wi’ ye? Wad ye hae a Scot’s yarn wi’out plenty o’ twist tae’t?”

“Here, stop!” cried the doctor – “stop, man! You haven’t told us how you got frozen in here. Don’t say you found the North Pole?”

“No fear, doctor,” I said, as a cold wind seemed to fill the tent, and the place of the Scotch sailor was taken up by a thin, blue, filmy mist.

“But I wanted – ” began the doctor.

“Don’t; pray don’t try to call him back, uncle,” said his nephew.

“But he’s told us nothing about his being frozen in,” said the doctor.

“And won’t now,” growled Binny Scudds. “I say, lads, do you know I like this here. We’ll have another one out to-morrow.”

“Let’s go outside and look,” said the doctor.

We did, and there was the square block of ice neatly open, leaving the shape of the Scotch sailor perfect, even to the place where his long, thin nose had been.

“Well, turn in, lads,” said the doctor; “we’ll hunt out another to-morrow.”

“So we will,” said the lads. “Who’s afeard?”

“Nobody!” growled Bostock. “I say, doctor, what’s the difference between these and ghosts?”

“These, my men,” began the doctor, “are scientific specimens, while your ghost is but a foolish hallucination of the – Bless me, how rude! – the fellow’s asleep.”

And the rest were soon in the same condition. Early the next morning, though, the doctor gave the order, “Strike tents!” and we journeyed on a couple of miles along the edge of the great crater, looking curiously down the mysterious slope, at the pale, thin mist far below.

“I should like to go down,” said the doctor, looking longingly at the great hollow; “but it won’t do; there’s the getting back, and I should be such a loss to the scientific world. Hallo! here’s another.”

He pointed to the clearly-seen figure of a man underneath the ice, and the men, having now become familiar to such sights, set to laughingly, and were saved much trouble, for the ice cracked away from the figure, and after a few strokes they were able to lift the body out, and lay it in the sun, where, before many minutes had passed, it made the motion of taking snuff, and then ejaculated —

“Declare to goodness!”

“Take a nip, mate,” said Abram Bostock, handing a tot of rum; but the figure waved it away.

“Who are you?” said the doctor. “How did you get here? Don’t say you’ve already discovered the North Pole.”

“Pole? North Pole?” said the figure, sleepily. “I know nothing about the North Pole. No, indeed!”

“Well, who are you?” said the doctor. “Come, give us a scientific account;” and the stranger began.