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This etext was produced by Edward A. White. and proofed by Robert F. Jaffe.

HUNTINGTOWER

BY JOHN BUCHAN

To W. P. Ker.

If the Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford has not
forgotten the rock whence he was hewn, this simple story may give an
hour of entertainment. I offer it to you because I think you have
met my friend Dickson McCunn, and I dare to hope that you may even
in your many sojournings in the Westlands have encountered one or
other of the Gorbals Die-Hards. If you share my kindly feeling for
Dickson, you will be interested in some facts which I have lately
ascertained about his ancestry. In his veins there flows a portion
of the redoubtable blood of the Nicol Jarvies. When the Bailie,
you remember, returned from his journey to Rob Roy beyond the
Highland Line, he espoused his housekeeper Mattie, "an honest man's
daughter and a near cousin o' the Laird o' Limmerfield." The union
was blessed with a son, who succeeded to the Bailie's business and
in due course begat daughters, one of whom married a certain
Ebenezer McCunn, of whom there is record in the archives of the
Hammermen of Glasgow. Ebenezer's grandson, Peter by name,
was Provost of Kirkintilloch, and his second son was the father of
my hero by his marriage with Robina Dickson, oldest daughter of one
Robert Dickson, a tenant-farmer in the Lennox. So there are
coloured threads in Mr. McCunn's pedigree, and, like the Bailie,
he can count kin, should he wish, with Rob Roy himself through
"the auld wife ayont the fire at Stuckavrallachan."

Such as it is, I dedicate to you the story, and ask for no better
verdict on it than that of that profound critic of life and
literature, Mr. Huckleberry Finn, who observed of the Pilgrim's
Progress that he "considered the statements interesting, but tough."
J.B.

CONTENTS.

Prologue

1. How a Retired Provision Merchant felt the Impulse of Spring.

2. Of Mr. John Heritage and the Difference in Points of View.

3. How Childe Roland and Another came to the Dark tower.

4. Dougal.

5. Of the Princess in the Tower.

6. How Mr. McCunn departed with Relief and returned with Resolution.

7. Sundry Doings in the Mirk.

8. How a Middle-aged Crusader accepted a Challenge.

9. The First Battle of the Cruives.

10. Deals with an Escape and a Journey.

11. Gravity out of Bed.

12. How Mr. McCunn committed an Assault upon an Ally.

13. The Coming of the Danish Brig.

14. The Second Battle of the Cruives.

15. The Gorbals Die-Hards go into Action.

16. In which a Princess leaves a Dark Tower and a Provision Merchant
returns to his Family.

HUNTINGTOWER.

PROLOGUE.

The girl came into the room with a darting movement like a swallow,
looked round her with the same birdlike quickness, and then ran
across the polished floor to where a young man sat on a sofa with
one leg laid along it.

"I have saved you this dance, Quentin," she said, pronouncing the
name with a pretty staccato. "You must be lonely not dancing, so I
will sit with you. What shall we talk about?"

The young man did not answer at once, for his gaze was held by her
face. He had never dreamed that the gawky and rather plain little
girl whom he had romped with long ago in Paris would grow into such
a being. The clean delicate lines of her figure, the exquisite pure
colouring of hair and skin, the charming young arrogance of the
eyes--this was beauty, he reflected, a miracle, a revelation.
Her virginal fineness and her dress, which was the tint of pale
fire, gave her the air of a creature of ice and flame.

"About yourself, please, Saskia," he said. "Are you happy now that
you are a grown-up lady?"

"Happy!" Her voice had a thrill in it like music, frosty music.
"The days are far too short. I grudge the hours when I must sleep.
They say it is sad for me to make my debut in a time of war.
But the world is very kind to me, and after all it is a victorious
war for our Russia. And listen to me, Quentin. To-morrow I am to
be allowed to begin nursing at the Alexander Hospital. What do you
think of that?"

The time was January 1916, and the place a room in the great
Nirski Palace. No hint of war, no breath from the snowy streets,
entered that curious chamber where Prince Peter Nirski kept some of
the chief of his famous treasures. It was notable for its lack of
drapery and upholstering -- only a sofa or two and a few fine rugs
on the cedar floor. The walls were of a green marble veined like
malachite, the ceiling was of darker marble inlaid with white intaglios.
Scattered everywhere were tables and cabinets laden with celadon
china, and carved jade, and ivories, and shimmering Persian and
Rhodian vessels. In all the room there was scarcely anything of
metal and no touch of gilding or bright colour. The light came
from green alabaster censers, and the place swam in a cold green
radiance like some cavern below the sea. The air was warm and scented,
and though it was very quiet there, a hum of voices and the strains
of dance music drifted to it from the pillared corridor in which
could be seen the glare of lights from the great ballroom beyond.

The young man had a thin face with lines of suffering round the
mouth and eyes. The warm room had given him a high colour, which
increased his air of fragility. He felt a little choked by the
place, which seemed to him for both body and mind a hot-house,
though he knew very well that the Nirski Palace on this gala evening
was in no way typical of the land or its masters. Only a week ago
he had been eating black bread with its owner in a hut on the
Volhynian front.

"You have become amazing, Saskia," he said. "I won't pay my old
playfellow compliments; besides, you must be tired of them. I wish
you happiness all the day long like a fairy-tale Princess. But a
crock like me can't do much to help you to it. The service seems to
be the wrong way round, for here you are wasting your time talking
to me."

She put her hand on his. "Poor Quentin! Is the leg very bad?"

He laughed. "O, no. It's mending famously. I'll be able to get
about without a stick in another month, and then you've got to teach
me all the new dances."

The jigging music of a two-step floated down the corridor. It made
the young man's brow contract, for it brought to him a vision of
dead faces in the gloom of a November dusk. He had once had a
friend who used to whistle that air, and he had seen him die in the
Hollebeke mud. There was something macabre in the tune.... He was
surely morbid this evening, for there seemed something macabre about
the house, the room, the dancing, all Russia.... These last days he
had suffered from a sense of calamity impending, of a dark curtain
drawing down upon a splendid world. They didn't agree with him at
the Embassy, but he could not get rid of the notion.

The girl saw his sudden abstraction.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked. It had been her favourite
question as a child.

"I was thinking that I rather wished you were still in Paris."

"But why?"

"Because I think you would be safer."

"Oh, what nonsense, Quentin dear! Where should I be safe if not in
my own Russia, where I have friends--oh, so many, and tribes and
tribes of relations? It is France and England that are unsafe with
the German guns grumbling at their doors....My complaint is that my
life is too cosseted and padded. I am too secure, and I do not want
to be secure."

The young man lifted a heavy casket from a table at his elbow. It
was of dark green imperial jade, with a wonderfully carved lid. He
took off the lid and picked up three small oddments of ivory--a
priest with a beard, a tiny soldier, and a draught-ox. Putting the
three in a triangle, he balanced the jade box on them.

"Look, Saskia! If you were living inside that box you would think
it very secure. You would note the thickness of the walls and the
hardness of the stone, and you would dream away in a peaceful green
dusk. But all the time it would be held up by trifles--brittle
trifles."

She shook her head. "You do not understand. You cannot understand.
We are a very old and strong people with roots deep, deep in the earth."

"Please God you are right," he said. "But, Saskia, you know that if
I can ever serve you, you have only to command me. Now I can do no
more for you than the mouse for the lion--at the beginning of the story.
But the story had an end, you remember, and some day it may be in my
power to help you. Promise to send for me."

The girl laughed merrily. "The King of Spain's daughter," she quoted,

"Came to visit me,
And all for the love
Of my little nut-tree."

The other laughed also, as a young man in the uniform of the
Preobrajenski Guards approached to claim the girl. "Even a nut-tree
may be a shelter in a storm," he said.

"Of course I promise, Quentin," she said. "Au revoir. Soon I will
come and take you to supper, and we will talk of nothing but nut-trees."

He watched the two leave the room, her gown glowing like a tongue of
fire in that shadowy archway. Then he slowly rose to his feet,
for he thought that for a little he would watch the dancing.
Something moved beside him, and he turned in time to prevent the jade
casket from crashing to the floor. Two of the supports had slipped.

He replaced the thing on its proper table and stood silent for a moment.

"The priest and the soldier gone, and only the beast of burden left.
If I were inclined to be superstitious, I should call that a dashed bad
omen."

CHAPTER 1

HOW A RETIRED PROVISION MERCHANT FELT THE IMPULSE OF SPRING

Mr. Dickson McCunn completed the polishing of his smooth cheeks with
the towel, glanced appreciatively at their reflection in the
looking-glass, and then permitted his eyes to stray out of the window.
In the little garden lilacs were budding, and there was a gold line
of daffodils beside the tiny greenhouse. Beyond the sooty wall a
birch flaunted its new tassels, and the jackdaws were circling about
the steeple of the Guthrie Memorial Kirk. A blackbird whistled from
a thorn-bush, and Mr. McCunn was inspired to follow its example.
He began a tolerable version of "Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch."

He felt singularly light-hearted, and the immediate cause was his
safety razor. A week ago he had bought the thing in a sudden fit
of enterprise, and now he shaved in five minutes, where before he
had taken twenty, and no longer confronted his fellows, at least one
day in three, with a countenance ludicrously mottled by sticking-plaster.
Calculation revealed to him the fact that in his fifty-five years,
having begun to shave at eighteen, he had wasted three thousand three
hundred and seventy hours--or one hundred and forty days--or between four
and five months--by his neglect of this admirable invention. Now he
felt that he had stolen a march on Time. He had fallen heir, thus late,
to a fortune in unpurchasable leisure.

He began to dress himself in the sombre clothes in which he had been
accustomed for thirty-five years and more to go down to the shop in
Mearns Street. And then a thought came to him which made him
discard the grey-striped trousers, sit down on the edge of his bed,
and muse.

Since Saturday the shop was a thing of the past. On Saturday at
half-past eleven, to the accompaniment of a glass of dubious sherry,
he had completed the arrangements by which the provision shop in
Mearns Street, which had borne so long the legend of D. McCunn,
together with the branches in Crossmyloof and the Shaws, became the
property of a company, yclept the United Supply Stores, Limited.
He had received in payment cash, debentures and preference shares,
and his lawyers and his own acumen had acclaimed the bargain.
But all the week-end he had been a little sad. It was the end of so
old a song, and he knew no other tune to sing. He was comfortably
off, healthy, free from any particular cares in life, but free too
from any particular duties. "Will I be going to turn into a useless
old man?" he asked himself.

But he had woke up this Monday to the sound of the blackbird, and
the world, which had seemed rather empty twelve hours before, was
now brisk and alluring. His prowess in quick shaving assured him
of his youth. "I'm no' that dead old," he observed, as he sat on
the edge of he bed, to his reflection in the big looking-glass.

It was not an old face. The sandy hair was a little thin on the top
and a little grey at the temples, the figure was perhaps a little
too full for youthful elegance, and an athlete would have censured
the neck as too fleshy for perfect health. But the cheeks were
rosy, the skin clear, and the pale eyes singularly childlike.
They were a little weak, those eyes, and had some difficulty in
looking for long at the same object, so that Mr McCunn did not stare
people in the face, and had, in consequence, at one time in his
career acquired a perfectly undeserved reputation for cunning.
He shaved clean, and looked uncommonly like a wise, plump schoolboy.
As he gazed at his simulacrum he stopped whistling "Roy's Wife" and
let his countenance harden into a noble sternness. Then he laughed,
and observed in the language of his youth that there was "life in
the auld dowg yet." In that moment the soul of Mr. McCunn conceived
the Great Plan.

The first sign of it was that he swept all his business garments
unceremoniously on to the floor. The next that he rootled at the
bottom of a deep drawer and extracted a most disreputable tweed suit.
It had once been what I believe is called a Lovat mixture, but was
now a nondescript sub-fusc, with bright patches of colour like
moss on whinstone. He regarded it lovingly, for it had been for
twenty years his holiday wear, emerging annually for a hallowed month
to be stained with salt and bleached with sun. He put it on,
and stood shrouded in an odour of camphor. A pair of thick nailed
boots and a flannel shirt and collar completed the equipment of
the sportsman. He had another long look at himself in the glass,
and then descended whistling to breakfast. This time the tune was
"Macgregors' Gathering," and the sound of it stirred the grimy lips
of a man outside who was delivering coals--himself a Macgregor--to
follow suit. Mr McCunn was a very fountain of music that morning.

Tibby, the aged maid, had his newspaper and letters waiting by his
plate, and a dish of ham and eggs frizzling near the fire. He fell
to ravenously but still musingly, and he had reached the stage of
scones and jam before he glanced at his correspondence. There was a
letter from his wife now holidaying at the Neuk Hydropathic.
She reported that her health was improving, and that she had met
various people who had known somebody else whom she had once
known herself. Mr. McCunn read the dutiful pages and smiled.
"Mamma's enjoying herself fine," he observed to the teapot.
He knew that for his wife the earthly paradise was a hydropathic,
where she put on her afternoon dress and every jewel she possessed
when she rose in the morning, ate large meals of which the novelty
atoned for the nastiness, and collected an immense casual
acquaintance, with whom she discussed ailments, ministers, sudden
deaths, and the intricate genealogies of her class. For his part he
rancorously hated hydropathics, having once spent a black week under
the roof of one in his wife's company. He detested the food, the
Turkish baths (he had a passionate aversion to baring his body
before strangers), the inability to find anything to do and the
compulsion to endless small talk. A thought flitted over his mind
which he was too loyal to formulate. Once he and his wife had had
similar likings, but they had taken different roads since their
child died. Janet! He saw again--he was never quite free from
the sight--the solemn little white-frocked girl who had died long
ago in the Spring.

It may have been the thought of the Neuk Hydropathic, or more likely
the thin clean scent of the daffodils with which Tibby had decked
the table, but long ere breakfast was finished the Great Plan had
ceased to be an airy vision and become a sober well-masoned
structure. Mr. McCunn--I may confess it at the start--was an
incurable romantic.

He had had a humdrum life since the day when he had first entered
his uncle's shop with the hope of some day succeeding that honest
grocer; and his feet had never strayed a yard from his sober rut.
But his mind, like the Dying Gladiator's, had been far away.
As a boy he had voyaged among books, and they had given him a world
where he could shape his career according to his whimsical fancy.
Not that Mr. McCunn was what is known as a great reader.
He read slowly and fastidiously, and sought in literature for one
thing alone. Sir Walter Scott had been his first guide, but he read
the novels not for their insight into human character or for their
historical pageantry, but because they gave him material wherewith
to construct fantastic journeys. It was the same with Dickens.
A lit tavern, a stage-coach, post-horses, the clack of hoofs on a
frosty road, went to his head like wine. He was a Jacobite not
because he had any views on Divine Right, but because he had always
before his eyes a picture of a knot of adventurers in cloaks, new
landed from France among the western heather.

On this select basis he had built up his small library--Defoe,
Hakluyt, Hazlitt and the essayists, Boswell, some indifferent
romances, and a shelf of spirited poetry. His tastes became known,
and he acquired a reputation for a scholarly habit. He was
president of the Literary Society of the Guthrie Memorial Kirk, and
read to its members a variety of papers full of a gusto which rarely
became critical. He had been three times chairman at Burns
Anniversary dinners, and had delivered orations in eulogy of the
national Bard; not because he greatly admired him--he thought him
rather vulgar--but because he took Burns as an emblem of the
un-Burns-like literature which he loved. Mr. McCunn was no scholar
and was sublimely unconscious of background. He grew his flowers in
his small garden-plot oblivious of their origin so long as they gave
him the colour and scent he sought. Scent, I say, for he
appreciated more than the mere picturesque. He had a passion for
words and cadences, and would be haunted for weeks by a cunning
phrase, savouring it as a connoisseur savours a vintage.
Wherefore long ago, when he could ill afford it, he had purchased
the Edinburgh Stevenson. They were the only large books on his
shelves, for he had a liking for small volumes--things he could
stuff into his pocket in that sudden journey which he loved to
contemplate.

Only he had never taken it. The shop had tied him up for eleven
months in the year, and the twelfth had always found him settled
decorously with his wife in some seaside villa. He had not fretted,
for he was content with dreams. He was always a little tired, too,
when the holidays came, and his wife told him he was growing old.
He consoled himself with tags from the more philosophic of his
authors, but he scarcely needed consolation. For he had large
stores of modest contentment.

But now something had happened. A spring morning and a safety razor
had convinced him that he was still young. Since yesterday he was a
man of a large leisure. Providence had done for him what he would
never have done for himself. The rut in which he had travelled so
long had given place to open country. He repeated to himself one of
the quotations with which he had been wont to stir the literary
young men at the Guthrie Memorial Kirk:

"What's a man's age? He must hurry more, that's all;
Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold:
When we mind labour, then only, we're too old--
What age had Methusalem when he begat Saul?

He would go journeying--who but he?--pleasantly.

It sounds a trivial resolve, but it quickened Mr. McCunn to the
depths of his being. A holiday, and alone! On foot, of course,
for he must travel light. He would buckle on a pack after the
approved fashion. He had the very thing in a drawer upstairs, which
he had bought some years ago at a sale. That and a waterproof and a
stick, and his outfit was complete. A book, too, and, as he lit his
first pipe, he considered what it should be. Poetry, clearly, for
it was the Spring, and besides poetry could be got in pleasantly
small bulk. He stood before his bookshelves trying to select a
volume, rejecting one after another as inapposite. Browning--Keats,
Shelley--they seemed more suited for the hearth than for the
roadside. He did not want anything Scots, for he was of opinion
that Spring came more richly in England and that English people had
a better notion of it. He was tempted by the Oxford Anthology,
but was deterred by its thickness, for he did not possess the
thin-paper edition. Finally he selected Izaak Walton. He had never
fished in his life, but The Compleat Angler seemed to fit his mood.
It was old and curious and learned and fragrant with the youth
of things. He remembered its falling cadences. its country songs and
wise meditations. Decidedly it was the right scrip for his pilgrimage.

Characteristically he thought last of where he was to go. Every bit
of the world beyond his front door had its charms to the seeing eye.
There seemed nothing common or unclean that fresh morning. Even a
walk among coal-pits had its attractions....But since he had the
right to choose, he lingered over it like an epicure. Not the
Highlands, for Spring came late among their sour mosses. Some place
where there were fields and woods and inns, somewhere, too, within
call of the sea. It must not be too remote, for he had no time to waste
on train journeys; nor too near, for he wanted a countryside untainted.
Presently he thought of Carrick. A good green land, as he remembered
it, with purposeful white roads and public-houses sacred to the memory
of Burns; near the hills but yet lowland, and with a bright sea
chafing on its shores. He decided on Carrick, found a map, and
planned his journey.

Then he routed out his knapsack, packed it with a modest change of
raiment, and sent out Tibby to buy chocolate and tobacco and to cash
a cheque at the Strathclyde Bank. Till Tibby returned he occupied
himself with delicious dreams....He saw himself daily growing
browner and leaner, swinging along broad highways or wandering in
bypaths. He pictured his seasons of ease, when he unslung his pack
and smoked in some clump of lilacs by a burnside--he remembered a
phrase of Stevenson's somewhat like that. He would meet and talk
with all sorts of folk; an exhilarating prospect, for Mr. McCunn
loved his kind. There would be the evening hour before he reached
his inn, when, pleasantly tired, he would top some ridge and see the
welcoming lights of a little town. There would be the lamp-lit
after-supper time when he would read and reflect, and the start in
the gay morning, when tobacco tastes sweetest and even fifty-five
seems young. It would be holiday of the purest, for no business now
tugged at his coat-tails. He was beginning a new life, he told
himself, when he could cultivate the seedling interests which had
withered beneath the far-reaching shade of the shop. Was ever a man
more fortunate or more free?

Tibby was told that he was going off for a week or two. No letters
need be forwarded, for he would be constantly moving, but Mrs.
McCunn at the Neuk Hydropathic would be kept informed of his whereabouts.
Presently he stood on his doorstep, a stocky figure in ancient
tweeds, with a bulging pack slung on his arm, and a stout hazel
stick in his hand. A passer-by would have remarked an elderly
shopkeeper bent apparently on a day in the country, a common little
man on a prosaic errand. But the passer-by would have been wrong,
for he could not see into the heart. The plump citizen was the
eternal pilgrim; he was Jason, Ulysses, Eric the Red, Albuquerque,
Cortez--starting out to discover new worlds.

Before he left Mr. McCunn had given Tibby a letter to post.
That morning he had received an epistle from a benevolent
acquaintance, one Mackintosh, regarding a group of urchins who
called themselves the "Gorbals Die-Hards." Behind the premises in
Mearns Street lay a tract of slums, full of mischievous boys, with
whom his staff waged truceless war. But lately there had started
among them a kind of unauthorized and unofficial Boy Scouts, who,
without uniform or badge or any kind of paraphernalia, followed the
banner of Sir Robert Baden-Powell and subjected themselves to a
rude discipline. They were far too poor to join an orthodox troop,
but they faithfully copied what they believed to be the practices of
more fortunate boys. Mr. McCunn had witnessed their pathetic parades,
and had even passed the time of day with their leader, a red-haired savage
called Dougal. The philanthropic Mackintosh had taken an interest
in the gang and now desired subscriptions to send them to camp
in the country.

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