Pausing at a hut on the side of the great green mountain, we looked north toward Helva, white-crested with a wreath of vapour.

(You need not look on your map of Scotland for Cawda and Helva, for you will not find them any more than you will find Pettybaw and Inchcaldy.) One by one the tops of the distant hills began to clear, and with the glass we could discern the bonfire cairns up-built here and there for Scotland's evening sacrifice of love and fealty.

Cawda was still veiled, and Cawda was to give the signal for all the smaller fires.

Pettybaw's, I suppose, was counted as a flash in the pan, but not one of the hundred patriots climbing the mountain-side would have acknowledged it; to us the good name of the kingdom of Fife and the glory of the British Empire depended on Pettybaw fire.

Some of us had misgivings, too,--misgivings founded upon Miss Grieve's dismal prophecies.