S. R. Crockett
The Standard Bearer
Published by Good Press, 2019
EAN 4064066152451
Table of Contents
CHAPTER II. THE BLOOD OF THE MARTYRS.
CHAPTER III. THE LITTLE LADY OF EARLSTOUN.
CHAPTER V. I CONSTRUCT A RAFT. [ The Narrative is again from the MS. of Quintin MacClellan. ]
CHAPTER VI. ACROSS THE MOONLIGHT.
CHAPTER VIII. THE MUSTER OF THE HILL FOLK.
CHAPTER IX. I MEET MARY GORDON FOR THE SECOND TIME.
CHAPTER X. THE BLUE BANNER IS UP.
CHAPTER XII. THE LASS IN THE KIRKYARD.
CHAPTER XIII. MY LADY OF PRIDE.
CHAPTER XIV. THE TALE OF MESS HAIRRY.
CHAPTER XVI. THE CORBIES AT THE FEAST.
CHAPTER XVII. THE BONNY LASS OF EARLSTOUN.
CHAPTER XVIII. ONE WAY OF LOVE.
CHAPTER XIX. ANOTHER WAY OF LOVE. (Comment and Addition by Hob MacClellan.)
CHAPTER XX. MUTTERINGS OF STORM. (The Narrative of Quintin MacClellan resumed.)
CHAPTER XXI. THE EYES OF A MAID.
CHAPTER XXII. THE ANGER OF ALEXANDER-JONITA. (Comment and Addition by Hob MacClellan.)
CHAPTER XXIII. AT BAY. (The Narrative of Quintin MacClellan is resumed.)
CHAPTER XXIV. MARY GORDON’S LAST WORD.
CHAPTER XXV. BEHIND THE BROOM.
CHAPTER XXVI. JEAN GEMMELL’S BARGAIN WITH GOD.
CHAPTER XXVII. RUMOUR OF WAR. (Connect and Addition by Hob MacClellan.)
CHAPTER XXVIII. ALEXANDER-JONITA’S VICTORY.
CHAPTER XXIX. THE ELDERS OF THE HILL FOLK. (The Narrative taken up again by Quintin MacClellan.)
CHAPTER XXX. SILENCE IS GOLDEN.
CHAPTER XXXI. THE FALL OF EARLSTOUN.
CHAPTER XXXIII. THE DEMONIAC IN THE GARRET.
CHAPTER XXXIV. THE CURSING OF THE PRESBYTERY.
CHAPTER XXXV. LIKE THE SPIRIT OF A LITTLE CHILD.
CHAPTER XXXVI. THE STONE OF STUMBLING.
CHAPTER XXXVII. FARE YOU WELL!
CHAPTER XXXVIII. “I LOVE YOU, QUINTIN!”
CHAPTER XXXIX. THE LAST ROARING OF THE BULL.
CHAPTER I.
THE YEAR TERRIBLE.
This is what I, Quintin MacClellan, saw on the grassy summit of the Bennan—a thing which, being seen and overpast in an hour, changed all my life, and so in time by the grace of God and the chafe of circumstances made me for good or evil the man I am.
I was a herd laddie at the time, like David, keeping my father’s flocks and kicking up my heels among the collie tykes, with many another shepherd-boy in the wide moorish parishes of Minnigaff, Dalry and the Kells.
Now my father (and his father before him) had been all his life “indweller” in the hill farm of Ardarroch which sits on the purple braeface above the loch of Ken, with a little circumambient yard enclosed by cattle-offices and a dozen red-stemmed fir trees, in which the winds and the birds sing after their kind, winter and summer.
A sweet and grateful spot do I now remember that Ardarroch to be, and in these later days when I have tried so mickle of bliss and teen, and wearied my life out in so many wanderings and strivings, my heart still goes out kindly to the well-beloved