The laird of Glenfernie, rising from the great chair by the table, moved to the window of the room that had been his father's and mother's, the room where both had died.

He remembered the wild night of snow and wind in which his father had left the body.

Now it was August, and the light golden upon the grass and the pilgrim cedar.
Alexander walked slowly, with a great stick under his hand.

Old Bran was dead, but a young Bran stretched himself, wagged his tail, and looked beseechingly at the master.
"I'll let you out," said the latter, "but I am a prisoner; I cannot let myself out!" He moved haltingly to the door, opened it, and the dog ran forth.
Glenfernie returned to the window.

"Prisoner." The word brought to his strongly visualizing mind prisoners and prisons through all Britain this summer--shackled prisoners, dark prisons, scaffolds....