prompt:
Chapter: Before we had done cleaning out the round-house, a breeze sprang up from
a little to the east of north. This blew off the rain and brought out
the sun.

And here I must explain; and the reader would do well to look at a map.
On the day when the fog fell and we ran down Alan's boat, we had been
running through the Little Minch. At dawn after the battle, we lay
becalmed to the east of the Isle of Canna or between that and Isle
Eriska in the chain of the Long Island. Now to get from there to the
Linnhe Loch, the straight course was through the narrows of the Sound of
Mull. But the captain had no chart; he was afraid to trust his brig so
deep among the islands; and the wind serving well, he preferred to go by
west of Tiree and come up under the southern coast of the great Isle of
Mull.

All day the breeze held in the same point, and rather freshened than
died down; and towards afternoon, a swell began to set in from round the
outer Hebrides. Our course, to go round about the inner isles, was to
the west of south, so that at first we had this swell upon our beam, and
were much rolled about. But after nightfall, when we had turned the end
of Tiree and began to head more to the east, the sea came right astern.

Meanwhile, the early part of the day, before the swell came up, was
very pleasant; sailing, as we were, in a bright sunshine and with
many mountainous islands upon different sides. Alan and I sat in the
round-house with the doors open on each side (the wind being straight
astern), and smoked a pipe or two of the captain's fine tobacco. It was
at this time we heard each other's stories, which was the more important
to me, as I gained some knowledge of that wild Highland country on which
I was so soon to land. In those days, so close on the back of the great
rebellion, it was needful a man should know what he was doing when he
went upon the heather.

It was I that showed the example, telling him all my misfortune; which
he heard with great good-nature. Only, when I came to mention that good
friend of mine, Mr. Campbell the minister, Alan fired up and cried out
that he hated all that were of that name.

"Why," said I, "he is a man you should be proud to give your hand to."

"I know nothing I would help a Campbell to," says he, "unless it was a
leaden bullet. I would hunt all of that name like blackcocks. If I lay
dying, I would crawl upon my knees to my chamber window for a shot at
one."

"Why, Alan," I cried, "what ails ye at the Campbells?"

"Well," says he, "ye ken very well that I am an Appin Stewart, and the
Campbells have long harried and wasted those of my name; ay, and got
lands of us by treachery--but never with the sword," he cried loudly,
and with the word brought down his fist upon the table. But I paid the
less attention to this, for I knew it was usually said by those who have
the underhand. "There's more than that," he continued, "and all in the
same story: lying words, lying papers, tricks fit for a peddler, and the
show of what's legal over all, to make a man the more angry."

"You that are so wasteful of your buttons," said I, "I can hardly think
you would be a good judge of business."

"Ah!" says he, falling again to smiling, "I got my wastefulness from
the same man I got the buttons from; and that was my poor father, Duncan
Stewart, grace be to him! He was the prettiest man of his kindred; and
the best swordsman in the Hielands, David, and that is the same as to
say, in all the world, I should ken, for it was him that taught me.
He was in the Black Watch, when first it was mustered; and, like other
gentlemen privates, had a gillie at his back to carry his firelock for
him on the march. Well, the King, it appears, was wishful to see Hieland
swordsmanship; and my father and three more were chosen out and sent to
London town, to let him see it at the best. So they were had into the
palace and showed the whole art of the sword for two hours at a stretch,
before King George and Queen Carline, and the Butcher Cumberland, and
many more of whom I havenae mind. And when they were through, the King
(for all he was a rank usurper) spoke them fair and gave each man three
guineas in his hand. Now, as they were going out of the palace, they
had a porter's lodge to go by; and it came in on my father, as he was
perhaps the first private Hieland gentleman that had ever gone by that
door, it was right he should give the poor porter a proper notion of
their quality. So he gives the King's three guineas into the man's hand,
as if it was his common custom; the three others that came behind him
did the same; and there they were on the street, never a penny the
better for their pains. Some say it was one, that was the first to fee
the King's porter; and some say it was another; but the truth of it is,
that it was Duncan Stewart, as I am willing to prove with either sword
or pistol. And that was the father that I had, God rest him!"

"I think he was not the man to leave you rich," said I.

"And that's true," said Alan. "He left me my breeks to cover me, and
little besides. And that was how I came to enlist, which was a black
spot upon my character at the best of times, and would still be a sore
job for me if I fell among the red-coats."

"What," cried I, "were you in the English army?"

"That was I," said Alan. "But I deserted to the right side at Preston
Pans--and that's some comfort."

I could scarcely share this view: holding desertion under arms for an
unpardonable fault in honour. But for all I was so young, I was wiser
than say my thought. "Dear, dear," says I, "the punishment is death."

"Ay" said he, "if they got hands on me, it would be a short shrift and
a lang tow for Alan! But I have the King of France's commission in my
pocket, which would aye be some protection."

"I misdoubt it much," said I.

"I have doubts mysel'," said Alan drily.

"And, good heaven, man," cried I, "you that are a condemned rebel, and a
deserter, and a man of the French King's--what tempts ye back into this
country? It's a braving of Providence."

"Tut!" says Alan, "I have been back every year since forty-six!"

"And what brings ye, man?" cried I.

"Well, ye see, I weary for my friends and country," said he. "France is
a braw place, nae doubt; but I weary for the heather and the deer. And
then I have bit things that I attend to. Whiles I pick up a few lads
to serve the King of France: recruits, ye see; and that's aye a
little money. But the heart of the matter is the business of my chief,
Ardshiel."

"I thought they called your chief Appin," said I.

"Ay, but Ardshiel is the captain of the clan," said he, which scarcely
cleared my mind. "Ye see, David, he that was all his life so great a
man, and come of the blood and bearing the name of kings, is now brought
down to live in a French town like a poor and private person. He that
had four hundred swords at his whistle, I have seen, with these eyes
of mine, buying butter in the market-place, and taking it home in a
kale-leaf. This is not only a pain but a disgrace to us of his family
and clan. There are the bairns forby, the children and the hope of
Appin, that must be learned their letters and how to hold a sword, in
that far country. Now, the tenants of Appin have to pay a rent to King
George; but their hearts are staunch, they are true to their chief; and
what with love and a bit of pressure, and maybe a threat or two, the
poor folk scrape up a second rent for Ardshiel. Well, David, I'm the
hand that carries it." And he struck the belt about his body, so that
the guineas rang.

"Do they pay both?" cried I.

"Ay, David, both," says he.

"What! two rents?" I repeated.

"Ay, David," said he. "I told a different tale to yon captain man; but
this is the truth of it. And it's wonderful to me how little pressure
is needed. But that's the handiwork of my good kinsman and my father's
friend, James of the Glens: James Stewart, that is: Ardshiel's
half-brother. He it is that gets the money in, and does the management."

This was the first time I heard the name of that James Stewart, who was
afterwards so famous at the time of his hanging. But I took little heed
at the moment, for all my mind was occupied with the generosity of these
poor Highlanders.

"I call it noble," I cried. "I'm a Whig, or little better; but I call it
noble."

"Ay" said he, "ye're a Whig, but ye're a gentleman; and that's what does
it. Now, if ye were one of the cursed race of Campbell, ye would gnash
your teeth to hear tell of it. If ye were the Red Fox..." And at that
name, his teeth shut together, and he ceased speaking. I have seen many
a grim face, but never a grimmer than Alan's when he had named the Red
Fox.

"And who is the Red Fox?" I asked, daunted, but still curious.

"Who is he?" cried Alan. "Well, and I'll tell you that. When the men of
the clans were broken at Culloden, and the good cause went down, and the
horses rode over the fetlocks in the best blood of the north, Ardshiel
had to flee like a poor deer upon the mountains--he and his lady and his
bairns. A sair job we had of it before we got him shipped; and while he
still lay in the heather, the English rogues, that couldnae come at his
life, were striking at his rights. They stripped him of his powers; they
stripped him of his lands; they plucked the weapons from the hands of
his clansmen, that had borne arms for thirty centuries; ay, and the very
clothes off their backs--so that it's now a sin to wear a tartan plaid,
and a man may be cast into a gaol if he has but a kilt about his legs.
One thing they couldnae kill. That was the love the clansmen bore their
chief. These guineas are the proof of it. And now, in there steps a man,
a Campbell, red-headed Colin of Glenure----"

"Is that him you call the Red Fox?" said I.

"Will ye bring me his brush?" cries Alan, fiercely. "Ay, that's the man.
In he steps, and gets papers from King George, to be so-called King's
factor on the lands of Appin. And at first he sings small, and is
hail-fellow-well-met with Sheamus--that's James of the Glens, my
chieftain's agent. But by-and-by, that came to his ears that I have just
told you; how the poor commons of Appin, the farmers and the crofters
and the boumen, were wringing their very plaids to get a second rent,
and send it over-seas for Ardshiel and his poor bairns. What was it ye
called it, when I told ye?"

"I called it noble, Alan," said I.

"And you little better than a common Whig!" cries Alan. "But when it
came to Colin Roy, the black Campbell blood in him ran wild. He sat
gnashing his teeth at the wine table. What! should a Stewart get a bite
of bread, and him not be able to prevent it? Ah! Red Fox, if ever I
hold you at a gun's end, the Lord have pity upon ye!" (Alan stopped to
swallow down his anger.) "Well, David, what does he do? He declares all
the farms to let. And, thinks he, in his black heart, 'I'll soon get
other tenants that'll overbid these Stewarts, and Maccolls, and Macrobs'
(for these are all names in my clan, David); 'and then,' thinks he,
'Ardshiel will have to hold his bonnet on a French roadside.'"

"Well," said I, "what followed?"

Alan laid down his pipe, which he had long since suffered to go out, and
set his two hands upon his knees.

"Ay," said he, "ye'll never guess that! For these same Stewarts, and
Maccolls, and Macrobs (that had two rents to pay, one to King George
by stark force, and one to Ardshiel by natural kindness) offered him a
better price than any Campbell in all broad Scotland; and far he
sent seeking them--as far as to the sides of Clyde and the cross of
Edinburgh--seeking, and fleeching, and begging them to come, where there
was a Stewart to be starved and a red-headed hound of a Campbell to be
pleasured!"

"Well, Alan," said I, "that is a strange story, and a fine one, too. And
Whig as I may be, I am glad the man was beaten."

"Him beaten?" echoed Alan. "It's little ye ken of Campbells, and less
of the Red Fox. Him beaten? No: nor will be, till his blood's on the
hillside! But if the day comes, David man, that I can find time and
leisure for a bit of hunting, there grows not enough heather in all
Scotland to hide him from my vengeance!"

"Man Alan," said I, "ye are neither very wise nor very Christian to
blow off so many words of anger. They will do the man ye call the Fox no
harm, and yourself no good. Tell me your tale plainly out. What did he
next?"

"And that's a good observe, David," said Alan. "Troth and indeed,
they will do him no harm; the more's the pity! And barring that about
Christianity (of which my opinion is quite otherwise, or I would be nae
Christian), I am much of your mind."

"Opinion here or opinion there," said I, "it's a kent thing that
Christianity forbids revenge."

"Ay" said he, "it's well seen it was a Campbell taught ye! It would be
a convenient world for them and their sort, if there was no such a thing
as a lad and a gun behind a heather bush! But that's nothing to the
point. This is what he did."

"Ay" said I, "come to that."

"Well, David," said he, "since he couldnae be rid of the loyal commons
by fair means, he swore he would be rid of them by foul. Ardshiel was to
starve: that was the thing he aimed at. And since them that fed him in
his exile wouldnae be bought out--right or wrong, he would drive them
out. Therefore he sent for lawyers, and papers, and red-coats to stand
at his back. And the kindly folk of that country must all pack and
tramp, every father's son out of his father's house, and out of the
place where he was bred and fed, and played when he was a callant. And
who are to succeed them? Bare-leggit beggars! King George is to whistle
for his rents; he maun dow with less; he can spread his butter thinner:
what cares Red Colin? If he can hurt Ardshiel, he has his wish; if he
can pluck the meat from my chieftain's table, and the bit toys out of
his children's hands, he will gang hame singing to Glenure!"

"Let me have a word," said I. "Be sure, if they take less rents, be
sure Government has a finger in the pie. It's not this Campbell's fault,
man--it's his orders. And if ye killed this Colin to-morrow, what better
would ye be? There would be another factor in his shoes, as fast as spur
can drive."

"Ye're a good lad in a fight," said Alan; "but, man! ye have Whig blood
in ye!"

He spoke kindly enough, but there was so much anger under his contempt
that I thought it was wise to change the conversation. I expressed my
wonder how, with the Highlands covered with troops, and guarded like
a city in a siege, a man in his situation could come and go without
arrest.

"It's easier than ye would think," said Alan. "A bare hillside (ye see)
is like all one road; if there's a sentry at one place, ye just go by
another. And then the heather's a great help. And everywhere there are
friends' houses and friends' byres and haystacks. And besides, when folk
talk of a country covered with troops, it's but a kind of a byword at
the best. A soldier covers nae mair of it than his boot-soles. I have
fished a water with a sentry on the other side of the brae, and killed a
fine trout; and I have sat in a heather bush within six feet of another,
and learned a real bonny tune from his whistling. This was it," said he,
and whistled me the air.

"And then, besides," he continued, "it's no sae bad now as it was in
forty-six. The Hielands are what they call pacified. Small wonder, with
never a gun or a sword left from Cantyre to Cape Wrath, but what tenty*
folk have hidden in their thatch! But what I would like to ken, David,
is just how long? Not long, ye would think, with men like Ardshiel in
exile and men like the Red Fox sitting birling the wine and oppressing
the poor at home. But it's a kittle thing to decide what folk'll bear,
and what they will not. Or why would Red Colin be riding his horse all
over my poor country of Appin, and never a pretty lad to put a bullet in
him?"

     * Careful.

And with this Alan fell into a muse, and for a long time sate very sad
and silent.

I will add the rest of what I have to say about my friend, that he
was skilled in all kinds of music, but principally pipe-music; was a
well-considered poet in his own tongue; had read several books both in
French and English; was a dead shot, a good angler, and an excellent
fencer with the small sword as well as with his own particular weapon.
For his faults, they were on his face, and I now knew them all. But
the worst of them, his childish propensity to take offence and to pick
quarrels, he greatly laid aside in my case, out of regard for the battle
of the round-house. But whether it was because I had done well myself,
or because I had been a witness of his own much greater prowess, is more
than I can tell. For though he had a great taste for courage in other
men, yet he admired it most in Alan Breck.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The west coast of Scotland has a bunch of tiny islands and long inlets that are hard to picture without a map. In fact, Davie advises that you look at a map to see where the action's happening: they're currently approaching the island of Mull. Davie and Alan kick back and smoke some of Hoseason's tobacco in the round-house. Davie starts unloading all of his sorrows on Alan. But as soon as he mentions the minister Campbell's name, Alan tells Davie that he can't stand the Campbells. Alan says that he's an Appin Stewart , and that his family and the Campbells have lots of bad blood between them. The Campbells are always cheating the Stewarts, Alan claims. Alan does admit that his father, though he was a great guy, wasn't exactly good with money. Since he had no cash, Alan actually enlisted in the English army at one point -the same army that's hunting for him today. Alan abandoned the army, so now he's wanted not only for treason but for desertion. Davie is impressed that, even though Alan is both a rebel and a deserter, he keeps coming back to Britain. Why doesn't he just stay in France? Alan likes France well enough, he says, but he misses the heather and the deer of the Highlands. Also, he's very loyal to his clan chief, Ardshiel, and it's his responsibility to bring the rents from the tenants on Ardshiel's estate to Ardshiel's current home in France. Alan then curses the Campbell family and drops the name "Red Fox." He explains that Ardshiel has been stripped of his lands and titles by the English government for his part in the Jacobite rebellion. While he managed to escape the highlands with his life, wife, and kids, he's got nothing else legally left. Enter Colin Roy of Glenure, the "Red Fox" and member of the Campbell family. The English government puts him in charge of collecting rents on Ardshiel's lands in Appin. He finds out that Ardshiel's loyal tenants are scrimping and saving to send Ardshiel a second rent in addition to the rent that they're legally required to pay to the king. Red Fox wants to put a stop to this funding of Ardshiel's life in exile. So he looks for tenants who will pay more for the land than the people who are currently living there. Yet, even though the families living on Ardshiel's land are paying two rents, they still manage to outbid all of the Campbells in Red Fox's family, so they get to keep their places on Ardshiel's estates. Davie says that, even though he's a Whig, he's glad that Red Fox didn't succeed in ruining Ardshiel. Alan answers that Red Fox won't be beaten until he's actually been killed. After Red Fox realized that he couldn't get rid of Ardshiel's tenants by legal means, he brought in the army to chase them out. He replaced Ardshiel's tenants with people so poor that they couldn't afford both the king's rents and Ardshiel's. Davie tries to reason with Alan: it's the government's fault, not Red Fox's. Even if Alan were to kill Red Fox, someone else would just take his place. Alan is clearly disgusted by this thinking, so Davie quickly changes the subject. He wonders how Alan can come and go so openly in Scotland when he's a wanted criminal. Alan explains that because Scotland has been pretty much dominated by the English by now, you no longer see so many soldiers. This makes Alan sad: all the great men like Ardshiel have been tossed out of Scotland, and all the bad ones like Red Fox - the ones who won't give the English any trouble - remain. Davie sums up for us: Alan has many talents, but he also has a serious fault: he's sensitive and quick to anger. And one more thing: Alan admires a lot of people in this world, but none so much as himself. In other words: the man is vain.


prompt:
Chapter: It was already late at night, and as dark as it ever would be at that
season of the year (and that is to say, it was still pretty bright),
when Hoseason clapped his head into the round-house door.

"Here," said he, "come out and see if ye can pilot."

"Is this one of your tricks?" asked Alan.

"Do I look like tricks?" cries the captain. "I have other things to
think of--my brig's in danger!"

By the concerned look of his face, and, above all, by the sharp tones in
which he spoke of his brig, it was plain to both of us he was in deadly
earnest; and so Alan and I, with no great fear of treachery, stepped on
deck.

The sky was clear; it blew hard, and was bitter cold; a great deal of
daylight lingered; and the moon, which was nearly full, shone brightly.
The brig was close hauled, so as to round the southwest corner of the
Island of Mull, the hills of which (and Ben More above them all, with a
wisp of mist upon the top of it) lay full upon the lar-board bow. Though
it was no good point of sailing for the Covenant, she tore through
the seas at a great rate, pitching and straining, and pursued by the
westerly swell.

Altogether it was no such ill night to keep the seas in; and I had begun
to wonder what it was that sat so heavily upon the captain, when the
brig rising suddenly on the top of a high swell, he pointed and cried to
us to look. Away on the lee bow, a thing like a fountain rose out of the
moonlit sea, and immediately after we heard a low sound of roaring.

"What do ye call that?" asked the captain, gloomily.

"The sea breaking on a reef," said Alan. "And now ye ken where it is;
and what better would ye have?"

"Ay," said Hoseason, "if it was the only one."

And sure enough, just as he spoke there came a second fountain farther
to the south.

"There!" said Hoseason. "Ye see for yourself. If I had kent of these
reefs, if I had had a chart, or if Shuan had been spared, it's not sixty
guineas, no, nor six hundred, would have made me risk my brig in sic a
stoneyard! But you, sir, that was to pilot us, have ye never a word?"

"I'm thinking," said Alan, "these'll be what they call the Torran
Rocks."

"Are there many of them?" says the captain.

"Truly, sir, I am nae pilot," said Alan; "but it sticks in my mind there
are ten miles of them."

Mr. Riach and the captain looked at each other.

"There's a way through them, I suppose?" said the captain.

"Doubtless," said Alan, "but where? But it somehow runs in my mind once
more that it is clearer under the land."

"So?" said Hoseason. "We'll have to haul our wind then, Mr. Riach; we'll
have to come as near in about the end of Mull as we can take her, sir;
and even then we'll have the land to kep the wind off us, and that
stoneyard on our lee. Well, we're in for it now, and may as well crack
on."

With that he gave an order to the steersman, and sent Riach to the
foretop. There were only five men on deck, counting the officers; these
being all that were fit (or, at least, both fit and willing) for their
work. So, as I say, it fell to Mr. Riach to go aloft, and he sat there
looking out and hailing the deck with news of all he saw.

"The sea to the south is thick," he cried; and then, after a while, "it
does seem clearer in by the land."

"Well, sir," said Hoseason to Alan, "we'll try your way of it. But I
think I might as well trust to a blind fiddler. Pray God you're right."

"Pray God I am!" says Alan to me. "But where did I hear it? Well, well,
it will be as it must."

As we got nearer to the turn of the land the reefs began to be sown here
and there on our very path; and Mr. Riach sometimes cried down to us to
change the course. Sometimes, indeed, none too soon; for one reef was
so close on the brig's weather board that when a sea burst upon it the
lighter sprays fell upon her deck and wetted us like rain.

The brightness of the night showed us these perils as clearly as by day,
which was, perhaps, the more alarming. It showed me, too, the face of
the captain as he stood by the steersman, now on one foot, now on the
other, and sometimes blowing in his hands, but still listening and
looking and as steady as steel. Neither he nor Mr. Riach had shown
well in the fighting; but I saw they were brave in their own trade, and
admired them all the more because I found Alan very white.

"Ochone, David," says he, "this is no the kind of death I fancy!"

"What, Alan!" I cried, "you're not afraid?"

"No," said he, wetting his lips, "but you'll allow, yourself, it's a
cold ending."

By this time, now and then sheering to one side or the other to avoid a
reef, but still hugging the wind and the land, we had got round Iona and
begun to come alongside Mull. The tide at the tail of the land ran very
strong, and threw the brig about. Two hands were put to the helm, and
Hoseason himself would sometimes lend a help; and it was strange to
see three strong men throw their weight upon the tiller, and it (like a
living thing) struggle against and drive them back. This would have
been the greater danger had not the sea been for some while free of
obstacles. Mr. Riach, besides, announced from the top that he saw clear
water ahead.

"Ye were right," said Hoseason to Alan. "Ye have saved the brig, sir.
I'll mind that when we come to clear accounts." And I believe he not
only meant what he said, but would have done it; so high a place did the
Covenant hold in his affections.

But this is matter only for conjecture, things having gone otherwise
than he forecast.

"Keep her away a point," sings out Mr. Riach. "Reef to windward!"

And just at the same time the tide caught the brig, and threw the wind
out of her sails. She came round into the wind like a top, and the next
moment struck the reef with such a dunch as threw us all flat upon the
deck, and came near to shake Mr. Riach from his place upon the mast.

I was on my feet in a minute. The reef on which we had struck was close
in under the southwest end of Mull, off a little isle they call Earraid,
which lay low and black upon the larboard. Sometimes the swell broke
clean over us; sometimes it only ground the poor brig upon the reef, so
that we could hear her beat herself to pieces; and what with the great
noise of the sails, and the singing of the wind, and the flying of the
spray in the moonlight, and the sense of danger, I think my head must
have been partly turned, for I could scarcely understand the things I
saw.

Presently I observed Mr. Riach and the seamen busy round the skiff, and,
still in the same blank, ran over to assist them; and as soon as I set
my hand to work, my mind came clear again. It was no very easy task, for
the skiff lay amidships and was full of hamper, and the breaking of the
heavier seas continually forced us to give over and hold on; but we all
wrought like horses while we could.

Meanwhile such of the wounded as could move came clambering out of the
fore-scuttle and began to help; while the rest that lay helpless in
their bunks harrowed me with screaming and begging to be saved.

The captain took no part. It seemed he was struck stupid. He stood
holding by the shrouds, talking to himself and groaning out aloud
whenever the ship hammered on the rock. His brig was like wife and
child to him; he had looked on, day by day, at the mishandling of poor
Ransome; but when it came to the brig, he seemed to suffer along with
her.

All the time of our working at the boat, I remember only one other
thing: that I asked Alan, looking across at the shore, what country it
was; and he answered, it was the worst possible for him, for it was a
land of the Campbells.

We had one of the wounded men told off to keep a watch upon the seas and
cry us warning. Well, we had the boat about ready to be launched, when
this man sang out pretty shrill: "For God's sake, hold on!" We knew
by his tone that it was something more than ordinary; and sure enough,
there followed a sea so huge that it lifted the brig right up and canted
her over on her beam. Whether the cry came too late, or my hold was too
weak, I know not; but at the sudden tilting of the ship I was cast clean
over the bulwarks into the sea.

I went down, and drank my fill, and then came up, and got a blink of the
moon, and then down again. They say a man sinks a third time for good. I
cannot be made like other folk, then; for I would not like to write how
often I went down, or how often I came up again. All the while, I was
being hurled along, and beaten upon and choked, and then swallowed
whole; and the thing was so distracting to my wits, that I was neither
sorry nor afraid.

Presently, I found I was holding to a spar, which helped me somewhat.
And then all of a sudden I was in quiet water, and began to come to
myself.

It was the spare yard I had got hold of, and I was amazed to see how far
I had travelled from the brig. I hailed her, indeed; but it was plain
she was already out of cry. She was still holding together; but whether
or not they had yet launched the boat, I was too far off and too low
down to see.

While I was hailing the brig, I spied a tract of water lying between
us where no great waves came, but which yet boiled white all over and
bristled in the moon with rings and bubbles. Sometimes the whole tract
swung to one side, like the tail of a live serpent; sometimes, for a
glimpse, it would all disappear and then boil up again. What it was I
had no guess, which for the time increased my fear of it; but I now know
it must have been the roost or tide race, which had carried me away so
fast and tumbled me about so cruelly, and at last, as if tired of that
play, had flung out me and the spare yard upon its landward margin.

I now lay quite becalmed, and began to feel that a man can die of cold
as well as of drowning. The shores of Earraid were close in; I could see
in the moonlight the dots of heather and the sparkling of the mica in
the rocks.

"Well," thought I to myself, "if I cannot get as far as that, it's
strange!"

I had no skill of swimming, Essen Water being small in our
neighbourhood; but when I laid hold upon the yard with both arms, and
kicked out with both feet, I soon begun to find that I was moving. Hard
work it was, and mortally slow; but in about an hour of kicking
and splashing, I had got well in between the points of a sandy bay
surrounded by low hills.

The sea was here quite quiet; there was no sound of any surf; the moon
shone clear; and I thought in my heart I had never seen a place so
desert and desolate. But it was dry land; and when at last it grew so
shallow that I could leave the yard and wade ashore upon my feet, I
cannot tell if I was more tired or more grateful. Both, at least, I was:
tired as I never was before that night; and grateful to God as I trust I
have been often, though never with more cause.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: It's late at night and Captain Hoseason comes into the round-house. Hoseason asks Alan if he can steer a boat. Alan is suspicious, but Hoseason assures Alan that he is just worried about the safety of his boat. Alan and Davie both leave the roundhouse. The ship is currently off Scotland's west coast island of Mull. The weather's not so bad and the Covenant seems to be doing fine, so Davie's not sure what's got Hoseason worried. Just then, though, there's a wave that hits something in the middle of the sea and sends up a fountain of water. It's a hidden reef, an underwater shelf of high ground that could sink the ship if it ran into it. Alan tells Hoseason that it's probably the Torran Rocks. Hoseason asks how long these rocks go on. Alan says for ten miles. He suggests that Hoseason keep closer to the land, which is supposed to be a safer route for ships - though he doesn't sound too sure of himself. Hoseason orders Riach to lower the sails and keep going. Riach takes the watch and occasionally calls out to change course to avoid the rocks he can see. This is all happening at night, but the Covenant is still far enough north that, since it's summer, the sky remains pretty light even in the evening. Davie admits that he admires the courage of Riach and Hoseason in the face of this danger, especially since Alan goes very pale and says that drowning is "a cold ending" . Finally, it looks like the Covenant is out of danger. Hoseason compliments Alan for getting them through this and says he'll remember Alan's help "when come to clear accounts" . Just then, though, Riach calls out that he can see a reef on the side of the ship that's facing the wind. The Covenant gets caught in the tide and can't navigate away from the rock. The Covenant strikes the reef so hard that everyone is thrown to the ground. The crew starts preparing the lifeboat and tries to help the wounded. Hoseason doesn't help: he loves his ship so much that seeing it destroyed against a rock leaves him paralyzed and unable to function. Davie also remembers that the land they're next to is the land of Alan's enemy clan, the Campbells. A big swell of the sea tips the Covenant over even further, and Davie is thrown overboard. Davie sinks and rises over and over again, until he manages to catch something to hold onto. He has somehow managed to get too far away from the boat to be heard when he calls out. It's the fault of what he calls a "roost or tide race" , which we might call a rip tide: a violent current of water that can carry you out to sea really quickly. Davie sees the shores of Earraid and starts to paddle his way over. He clings to a yard, which is a long, thin piece of wood used to support a sail outwards from a mast . After about an hour of swimming, Davie finally makes it to dry land. He collapses on the beach.


prompt:
Chapter: With my stepping ashore I began the most unhappy part of my adventures.
It was half-past twelve in the morning, and though the wind was broken
by the land, it was a cold night. I dared not sit down (for I thought
I should have frozen), but took off my shoes and walked to and fro upon
the sand, bare-foot, and beating my breast with infinite weariness.
There was no sound of man or cattle; not a cock crew, though it was
about the hour of their first waking; only the surf broke outside in the
distance, which put me in mind of my perils and those of my friend.
To walk by the sea at that hour of the morning, and in a place so
desert-like and lonesome, struck me with a kind of fear.

As soon as the day began to break I put on my shoes and climbed a
hill--the ruggedest scramble I ever undertook--falling, the whole way,
between big blocks of granite, or leaping from one to another. When I
got to the top the dawn was come. There was no sign of the brig, which
must have lifted from the reef and sunk. The boat, too, was nowhere to
be seen. There was never a sail upon the ocean; and in what I could see
of the land was neither house nor man.

I was afraid to think what had befallen my shipmates, and afraid to look
longer at so empty a scene. What with my wet clothes and weariness, and
my belly that now began to ache with hunger, I had enough to trouble
me without that. So I set off eastward along the south coast, hoping to
find a house where I might warm myself, and perhaps get news of those I
had lost. And at the worst, I considered the sun would soon rise and dry
my clothes.

After a little, my way was stopped by a creek or inlet of the sea, which
seemed to run pretty deep into the land; and as I had no means to get
across, I must needs change my direction to go about the end of it. It
was still the roughest kind of walking; indeed the whole, not only of
Earraid, but of the neighbouring part of Mull (which they call the Ross)
is nothing but a jumble of granite rocks with heather in among. At first
the creek kept narrowing as I had looked to see; but presently to my
surprise it began to widen out again. At this I scratched my head,
but had still no notion of the truth: until at last I came to a rising
ground, and it burst upon me all in a moment that I was cast upon a
little barren isle, and cut off on every side by the salt seas.

Instead of the sun rising to dry me, it came on to rain, with a thick
mist; so that my case was lamentable.

I stood in the rain, and shivered, and wondered what to do, till it
occurred to me that perhaps the creek was fordable. Back I went to the
narrowest point and waded in. But not three yards from shore, I plumped
in head over ears; and if ever I was heard of more, it was rather by
God's grace than my own prudence. I was no wetter (for that could hardly
be), but I was all the colder for this mishap; and having lost another
hope was the more unhappy.

And now, all at once, the yard came in my head. What had carried me
through the roost would surely serve me to cross this little quiet creek
in safety. With that I set off, undaunted, across the top of the isle,
to fetch and carry it back. It was a weary tramp in all ways, and if
hope had not buoyed me up, I must have cast myself down and given up.
Whether with the sea salt, or because I was growing fevered, I was
distressed with thirst, and had to stop, as I went, and drink the peaty
water out of the hags.

I came to the bay at last, more dead than alive; and at the first
glance, I thought the yard was something farther out than when I left
it. In I went, for the third time, into the sea. The sand was smooth
and firm, and shelved gradually down, so that I could wade out till the
water was almost to my neck and the little waves splashed into my face.
But at that depth my feet began to leave me, and I durst venture in no
farther. As for the yard, I saw it bobbing very quietly some twenty feet
beyond.

I had borne up well until this last disappointment; but at that I came
ashore, and flung myself down upon the sands and wept.

The time I spent upon the island is still so horrible a thought to me,
that I must pass it lightly over. In all the books I have read of people
cast away, they had either their pockets full of tools, or a chest of
things would be thrown upon the beach along with them, as if on purpose.
My case was very different. I had nothing in my pockets but money and
Alan's silver button; and being inland bred, I was as much short of
knowledge as of means.

I knew indeed that shell-fish were counted good to eat; and among the
rocks of the isle I found a great plenty of limpets, which at first I
could scarcely strike from their places, not knowing quickness to be
needful. There were, besides, some of the little shells that we call
buckies; I think periwinkle is the English name. Of these two I made my
whole diet, devouring them cold and raw as I found them; and so hungry
was I, that at first they seemed to me delicious.

Perhaps they were out of season, or perhaps there was something wrong
in the sea about my island. But at least I had no sooner eaten my first
meal than I was seized with giddiness and retching, and lay for a long
time no better than dead. A second trial of the same food (indeed I had
no other) did better with me, and revived my strength. But as long as
I was on the island, I never knew what to expect when I had eaten;
sometimes all was well, and sometimes I was thrown into a miserable
sickness; nor could I ever distinguish what particular fish it was that
hurt me.

All day it streamed rain; the island ran like a sop, there was no dry
spot to be found; and when I lay down that night, between two boulders
that made a kind of roof, my feet were in a bog.

The second day I crossed the island to all sides. There was no one part
of it better than another; it was all desolate and rocky; nothing living
on it but game birds which I lacked the means to kill, and the gulls
which haunted the outlying rocks in a prodigious number. But the creek,
or strait, that cut off the isle from the main-land of the Ross, opened
out on the north into a bay, and the bay again opened into the Sound of
Iona; and it was the neighbourhood of this place that I chose to be my
home; though if I had thought upon the very name of home in such a spot,
I must have burst out weeping.

I had good reasons for my choice. There was in this part of the isle a
little hut of a house like a pig's hut, where fishers used to sleep when
they came there upon their business; but the turf roof of it had fallen
entirely in; so that the hut was of no use to me, and gave me less
shelter than my rocks. What was more important, the shell-fish on which
I lived grew there in great plenty; when the tide was out I could gather
a peck at a time: and this was doubtless a convenience. But the other
reason went deeper. I had become in no way used to the horrid solitude
of the isle, but still looked round me on all sides (like a man that
was hunted), between fear and hope that I might see some human creature
coming. Now, from a little up the hillside over the bay, I could catch a
sight of the great, ancient church and the roofs of the people's houses
in Iona. And on the other hand, over the low country of the Ross, I saw
smoke go up, morning and evening, as if from a homestead in a hollow of
the land.

I used to watch this smoke, when I was wet and cold, and had my head
half turned with loneliness; and think of the fireside and the
company, till my heart burned. It was the same with the roofs of Iona.
Altogether, this sight I had of men's homes and comfortable lives,
although it put a point on my own sufferings, yet it kept hope alive,
and helped me to eat my raw shell-fish (which had soon grown to be a
disgust), and saved me from the sense of horror I had whenever I was
quite alone with dead rocks, and fowls, and the rain, and the cold sea.

I say it kept hope alive; and indeed it seemed impossible that I should
be left to die on the shores of my own country, and within view of a
church-tower and the smoke of men's houses. But the second day passed;
and though as long as the light lasted I kept a bright look-out for
boats on the Sound or men passing on the Ross, no help came near me. It
still rained, and I turned in to sleep, as wet as ever, and with a cruel
sore throat, but a little comforted, perhaps, by having said good-night
to my next neighbours, the people of Iona.

Charles the Second declared a man could stay outdoors more days in the
year in the climate of England than in any other. This was very like a
king, with a palace at his back and changes of dry clothes. But he must
have had better luck on his flight from Worcester than I had on that
miserable isle. It was the height of the summer; yet it rained for more
than twenty-four hours, and did not clear until the afternoon of the
third day.

This was the day of incidents. In the morning I saw a red deer, a buck
with a fine spread of antlers, standing in the rain on the top of the
island; but he had scarce seen me rise from under my rock, before
he trotted off upon the other side. I supposed he must have swum the
strait; though what should bring any creature to Earraid, was more than
I could fancy.

A little after, as I was jumping about after my limpets, I was startled
by a guinea-piece, which fell upon a rock in front of me and glanced off
into the sea. When the sailors gave me my money again, they kept back
not only about a third of the whole sum, but my father's leather purse;
so that from that day out, I carried my gold loose in a pocket with a
button. I now saw there must be a hole, and clapped my hand to the place
in a great hurry. But this was to lock the stable door after the steed
was stolen. I had left the shore at Queensferry with near on fifty
pounds; now I found no more than two guinea-pieces and a silver
shilling.

It is true I picked up a third guinea a little after, where it lay
shining on a piece of turf. That made a fortune of three pounds and four
shillings, English money, for a lad, the rightful heir of an estate, and
now starving on an isle at the extreme end of the wild Highlands.

This state of my affairs dashed me still further; and, indeed my plight
on that third morning was truly pitiful. My clothes were beginning to
rot; my stockings in particular were quite worn through, so that my
shanks went naked; my hands had grown quite soft with the continual
soaking; my throat was very sore, my strength had much abated, and my
heart so turned against the horrid stuff I was condemned to eat, that
the very sight of it came near to sicken me.

And yet the worst was not yet come.

There is a pretty high rock on the northwest of Earraid, which (because
it had a flat top and overlooked the Sound) I was much in the habit of
frequenting; not that ever I stayed in one place, save when asleep, my
misery giving me no rest. Indeed, I wore myself down with continual and
aimless goings and comings in the rain.

As soon, however, as the sun came out, I lay down on the top of that
rock to dry myself. The comfort of the sunshine is a thing I cannot
tell. It set me thinking hopefully of my deliverance, of which I had
begun to despair; and I scanned the sea and the Ross with a fresh
interest. On the south of my rock, a part of the island jutted out and
hid the open ocean, so that a boat could thus come quite near me upon
that side, and I be none the wiser.

Well, all of a sudden, a coble with a brown sail and a pair of fishers
aboard of it, came flying round that corner of the isle, bound for Iona.
I shouted out, and then fell on my knees on the rock and reached up my
hands and prayed to them. They were near enough to hear--I could even
see the colour of their hair; and there was no doubt but they observed
me, for they cried out in the Gaelic tongue, and laughed. But the boat
never turned aside, and flew on, right before my eyes, for Iona.

I could not believe such wickedness, and ran along the shore from rock
to rock, crying on them piteously even after they were out of reach
of my voice, I still cried and waved to them; and when they were quite
gone, I thought my heart would have burst. All the time of my troubles
I wept only twice. Once, when I could not reach the yard, and now, the
second time, when these fishers turned a deaf ear to my cries. But this
time I wept and roared like a wicked child, tearing up the turf with
my nails, and grinding my face in the earth. If a wish would kill men,
those two fishers would never have seen morning, and I should likely
have died upon my island.

When I was a little over my anger, I must eat again, but with such
loathing of the mess as I could now scarce control. Sure enough, I
should have done as well to fast, for my fishes poisoned me again. I had
all my first pains; my throat was so sore I could scarce swallow; I had
a fit of strong shuddering, which clucked my teeth together; and there
came on me that dreadful sense of illness, which we have no name for
either in Scotch or English. I thought I should have died, and made my
peace with God, forgiving all men, even my uncle and the fishers; and as
soon as I had thus made up my mind to the worst, clearness came upon me;
I observed the night was falling dry; my clothes were dried a good deal;
truly, I was in a better case than ever before, since I had landed on
the isle; and so I got to sleep at last, with a thought of gratitude.

The next day (which was the fourth of this horrible life of mine) I
found my bodily strength run very low. But the sun shone, the air was
sweet, and what I managed to eat of the shell-fish agreed well with me
and revived my courage.

I was scarce back on my rock (where I went always the first thing after
I had eaten) before I observed a boat coming down the Sound, and with
her head, as I thought, in my direction.

I began at once to hope and fear exceedingly; for I thought these men
might have thought better of their cruelty and be coming back to my
assistance. But another disappointment, such as yesterday's, was more
than I could bear. I turned my back, accordingly, upon the sea, and
did not look again till I had counted many hundreds. The boat was still
heading for the island. The next time I counted the full thousand, as
slowly as I could, my heart beating so as to hurt me. And then it was
out of all question. She was coming straight to Earraid!

I could no longer hold myself back, but ran to the seaside and out,
from one rock to another, as far as I could go. It is a marvel I was not
drowned; for when I was brought to a stand at last, my legs shook under
me, and my mouth was so dry, I must wet it with the sea-water before I
was able to shout.

All this time the boat was coming on; and now I was able to perceive
it was the same boat and the same two men as yesterday. This I knew by
their hair, which the one had of a bright yellow and the other black.
But now there was a third man along with them, who looked to be of a
better class.

As soon as they were come within easy speech, they let down their sail
and lay quiet. In spite of my supplications, they drew no nearer in, and
what frightened me most of all, the new man tee-hee'd with laughter as
he talked and looked at me.

Then he stood up in the boat and addressed me a long while, speaking
fast and with many wavings of his hand. I told him I had no Gaelic; and
at this he became very angry, and I began to suspect he thought he was
talking English. Listening very close, I caught the word "whateffer"
several times; but all the rest was Gaelic and might have been Greek and
Hebrew for me.

"Whatever," said I, to show him I had caught a word.

"Yes, yes--yes, yes," says he, and then he looked at the other men, as
much as to say, "I told you I spoke English," and began again as hard as
ever in the Gaelic.

This time I picked out another word, "tide." Then I had a flash of hope.
I remembered he was always waving his hand towards the mainland of the
Ross.

"Do you mean when the tide is out--?" I cried, and could not finish.

"Yes, yes," said he. "Tide."

At that I turned tail upon their boat (where my adviser had once more
begun to tee-hee with laughter), leaped back the way I had come, from
one stone to another, and set off running across the isle as I had never
run before. In about half an hour I came out upon the shores of the
creek; and, sure enough, it was shrunk into a little trickle of water,
through which I dashed, not above my knees, and landed with a shout on
the main island.

A sea-bred boy would not have stayed a day on Earraid; which is only
what they call a tidal islet, and except in the bottom of the neaps, can
be entered and left twice in every twenty-four hours, either dry-shod,
or at the most by wading. Even I, who had the tide going out and in
before me in the bay, and even watched for the ebbs, the better to get
my shellfish--even I (I say) if I had sat down to think, instead of
raging at my fate, must have soon guessed the secret, and got free. It
was no wonder the fishers had not understood me. The wonder was rather
that they had ever guessed my pitiful illusion, and taken the trouble to
come back. I had starved with cold and hunger on that island for close
upon one hundred hours. But for the fishers, I might have left my bones
there, in pure folly. And even as it was, I had paid for it pretty dear,
not only in past sufferings, but in my present case; being clothed like
a beggar-man, scarce able to walk, and in great pain of my sore throat.

I have seen wicked men and fools, a great many of both; and I believe
they both get paid in the end; but the fools first.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Davie informs us that this next part is the worst thing that will happen to him during the course of his story. He's shipwrecked and wet, on a cold night, on a seemingly completely deserted island. When dawn comes, Davie climbs a nearby hill to see if he can spot the ship, but he can't. The Covenant has sunk. Davie sets out to look for a house to get help. It starts to rain, making the chill he had already been feeling even worse. Davie tries to cross a creek that has cut him off from the island of Mull. It's deep enough that Davie can't get across without help, so he goes back to the beach to grab the piece of wood he used to swim to shore. He hopes to be able to use it as a bridge. This trip back to the beach is awful. Davie is intensely thirsty from having swallowed so much salt water, so he keeps having to drink nasty water from the nearby peat bogs . Davie gets to the beach, only to find that the yard has been carried back out to sea by the tide. Davie is so disappointed that he lies down on the beach and weeps. His situation by now is dire: he's got nothing at all to eat. He remembers that shellfish are supposed to be tasty, so he decides to tackle some limpets and periwinkles, both of which are a kind of snail. Yum! Well, that's a pretty bad idea on Davie's part: the first bout of raw snails makes him really sick. He keeps going back to them, though, because he's got nothing else. Sometimes the snails make Davie puke and sometimes they don't - it's like Russian roulette with shellfish. As a backdrop to this food-related horror, it keeps raining and raining and raining. Davie is never dry. He walks all around the island and can't find any place better than the boulders he's been sheltering near. There's a little hut that fishermen probably once used, but the roof is gone and it provides even less protection than the boulders. Even though Davie is shivering and hungry, he does have some hope of being saved. From the highest hillside over the bay, Davie can see the roofs of people's houses on the island of Iona and the smoke from people's fires from the island of Mull . He can't believe that he could go unrescued when there is human settlement so close to him . Despite this hope, no one notices Davie's troubles for the first few days of his stay on Earraid. It doesn't even stop raining until he's been there for three days. On that third day, Davie sees a red deer, which bounds away from him. Where did he come from? Davie can't say. Then Davie discovers that an unnoticed hole in his pants has caused him to lose a ton of money. He left Queensferry with those fifty pounds from Ebenezer, and even after the sailors stole a bit when he first came aboard the Covenant, he still had about a third of his coins. Now he's got exactly three guinea pieces and a silver shilling: roughly a tenth of what he started with. This is a serious emotional blow: no money, he's been wet for three days, he's feeling sick, and his clothes have started to rot off his back. How could things possibly get worse? Then the sun finally comes out, and Davie dries up a bit. He's lying on a rock watching the sea when he sees a small boat full of fishermen. He shouts and gestures to them and he knows they hear him, because they yell back in Gaelic and laugh. But they don't stop for him, the fiends! Davie's really torn up over this. So close to rescue, and these jerks have left him behind! He weeps and wails and wishes they were dead. Davie tries to choke down some shellfish, but they make him sick again, and he's now absolutely certain that he's going to die. Davie forgives God, his uncle, and even the fellows who ignored his cries for help. This seems to bring about a change in his mood, because suddenly he feels much better about life in general. At least it's stopped raining, right? The next morning , Davie is feeling weak, but he manages to eat some shellfish, and the sun is still shining. He goes out to the rock he likes to watch the sea from. Davie sees a small boat, which appears to be aiming straight for him. He tries not to get his hopes up, but eventually he can't deny that the boat really does seem to be coming for him. He gestures and calls to the fishermen. It's the same guys who left him behind the day before, with one addition, a new fellow who speaks to him in Gaelic and who also keeps laughing at Davie. The man seems to be sort of trying to speak English, but he keeps lapsing back into Gaelic. Davie finally works out what it is that he's trying to tell him. You remember that deep creek that has been cutting off Davie from the island of Mull? Well, when the tide goes out, the creek dries out and is totally possible to cross. So Davie's just spent four days needlessly on Earraid thanks to his complete ignorance of the sea. Davie acknowledges that he's an idiot. He's now clad in rags, barely able to walk, with a raging sore throat, all because he couldn't put two and two together.


prompt:
Chapter: The Ross of Mull, which I had now got upon, was rugged and trackless,
like the isle I had just left; being all bog, and brier, and big stone.
There may be roads for them that know that country well; but for my part
I had no better guide than my own nose, and no other landmark than Ben
More.

I aimed as well as I could for the smoke I had seen so often from the
island; and with all my great weariness and the difficulty of the way
came upon the house in the bottom of a little hollow about five or
six at night. It was low and longish, roofed with turf and built of
unmortared stones; and on a mound in front of it, an old gentleman sat
smoking his pipe in the sun.

With what little English he had, he gave me to understand that my
shipmates had got safe ashore, and had broken bread in that very house
on the day after.

"Was there one," I asked, "dressed like a gentleman?"

He said they all wore rough great-coats; but to be sure, the first of
them, the one that came alone, wore breeches and stockings, while the
rest had sailors' trousers.

"Ah," said I, "and he would have a feathered hat?"

He told me, no, that he was bareheaded like myself.

At first I thought Alan might have lost his hat; and then the rain came
in my mind, and I judged it more likely he had it out of harm's way
under his great-coat. This set me smiling, partly because my friend was
safe, partly to think of his vanity in dress.

And then the old gentleman clapped his hand to his brow, and cried out
that I must be the lad with the silver button.

"Why, yes!" said I, in some wonder.

"Well, then," said the old gentleman, "I have a word for you, that you
are to follow your friend to his country, by Torosay."

He then asked me how I had fared, and I told him my tale. A
south-country man would certainly have laughed; but this old gentleman
(I call him so because of his manners, for his clothes were dropping off
his back) heard me all through with nothing but gravity and pity. When I
had done, he took me by the hand, led me into his hut (it was no better)
and presented me before his wife, as if she had been the Queen and I a
duke.

The good woman set oat-bread before me and a cold grouse, patting my
shoulder and smiling to me all the time, for she had no English; and the
old gentleman (not to be behind) brewed me a strong punch out of their
country spirit. All the while I was eating, and after that when I was
drinking the punch, I could scarce come to believe in my good fortune;
and the house, though it was thick with the peat-smoke and as full of
holes as a colander, seemed like a palace.

The punch threw me in a strong sweat and a deep slumber; the good people
let me lie; and it was near noon of the next day before I took the road,
my throat already easier and my spirits quite restored by good fare and
good news. The old gentleman, although I pressed him hard, would take no
money, and gave me an old bonnet for my head; though I am free to own I
was no sooner out of view of the house than I very jealously washed this
gift of his in a wayside fountain.

Thought I to myself: "If these are the wild Highlanders, I could wish my
own folk wilder."

I not only started late, but I must have wandered nearly half the time.
True, I met plenty of people, grubbing in little miserable fields that
would not keep a cat, or herding little kine about the bigness of asses.
The Highland dress being forbidden by law since the rebellion, and the
people condemned to the Lowland habit, which they much disliked, it was
strange to see the variety of their array. Some went bare, only for a
hanging cloak or great-coat, and carried their trousers on their backs
like a useless burthen: some had made an imitation of the tartan with
little parti-coloured stripes patched together like an old wife's quilt;
others, again, still wore the Highland philabeg, but by putting a few
stitches between the legs transformed it into a pair of trousers like
a Dutchman's. All those makeshifts were condemned and punished, for the
law was harshly applied, in hopes to break up the clan spirit; but in
that out-of-the-way, sea-bound isle, there were few to make remarks and
fewer to tell tales.

They seemed in great poverty; which was no doubt natural, now that
rapine was put down, and the chiefs kept no longer an open house;
and the roads (even such a wandering, country by-track as the one
I followed) were infested with beggars. And here again I marked
a difference from my own part of the country. For our Lowland
beggars--even the gownsmen themselves, who beg by patent--had a louting,
flattering way with them, and if you gave them a plaek and asked change,
would very civilly return you a boddle. But these Highland beggars stood
on their dignity, asked alms only to buy snuff (by their account) and
would give no change.

To be sure, this was no concern of mine, except in so far as it
entertained me by the way. What was much more to the purpose, few had
any English, and these few (unless they were of the brotherhood of
beggars) not very anxious to place it at my service. I knew Torosay
to be my destination, and repeated the name to them and pointed; but
instead of simply pointing in reply, they would give me a screed of the
Gaelic that set me foolish; so it was small wonder if I went out of my
road as often as I stayed in it.

At last, about eight at night, and already very weary, I came to a lone
house, where I asked admittance, and was refused, until I bethought
me of the power of money in so poor a country, and held up one of my
guineas in my finger and thumb. Thereupon, the man of the house, who had
hitherto pretended to have no English, and driven me from his door by
signals, suddenly began to speak as clearly as was needful, and agreed
for five shillings to give me a night's lodging and guide me the next
day to Torosay.

I slept uneasily that night, fearing I should be robbed; but I might
have spared myself the pain; for my host was no robber, only miserably
poor and a great cheat. He was not alone in his poverty; for the next
morning, we must go five miles about to the house of what he called a
rich man to have one of my guineas changed. This was perhaps a rich man
for Mull; he would have scarce been thought so in the south; for it
took all he had--the whole house was turned upside down, and a neighbour
brought under contribution, before he could scrape together twenty
shillings in silver. The odd shilling he kept for himself, protesting he
could ill afford to have so great a sum of money lying "locked up." For
all that he was very courteous and well spoken, made us both sit down
with his family to dinner, and brewed punch in a fine china bowl, over
which my rascal guide grew so merry that he refused to start.

I was for getting angry, and appealed to the rich man (Hector Maclean
was his name), who had been a witness to our bargain and to my payment
of the five shillings. But Maclean had taken his share of the punch,
and vowed that no gentleman should leave his table after the bowl was
brewed; so there was nothing for it but to sit and hear Jacobite toasts
and Gaelic songs, till all were tipsy and staggered off to the bed or
the barn for their night's rest.

Next day (the fourth of my travels) we were up before five upon the
clock; but my rascal guide got to the bottle at once, and it was three
hours before I had him clear of the house, and then (as you shall hear)
only for a worse disappointment.

As long as we went down a heathery valley that lay before Mr. Maclean's
house, all went well; only my guide looked constantly over his shoulder,
and when I asked him the cause, only grinned at me. No sooner, however,
had we crossed the back of a hill, and got out of sight of the house
windows, than he told me Torosay lay right in front, and that a hill-top
(which he pointed out) was my best landmark.

"I care very little for that," said I, "since you are going with me."

The impudent cheat answered me in the Gaelic that he had no English.

"My fine fellow," I said, "I know very well your English comes and goes.
Tell me what will bring it back? Is it more money you wish?"

"Five shillings mair," said he, "and hersel' will bring ye there."

I reflected awhile and then offered him two, which he accepted greedily,
and insisted on having in his hands at once "for luck," as he said, but
I think it was rather for my misfortune.

The two shillings carried him not quite as many miles; at the end of
which distance, he sat down upon the wayside and took off his brogues
from his feet, like a man about to rest.

I was now red-hot. "Ha!" said I, "have you no more English?"

He said impudently, "No."

At that I boiled over, and lifted my hand to strike him; and he, drawing
a knife from his rags, squatted back and grinned at me like a wildcat.
At that, forgetting everything but my anger, I ran in upon him, put
aside his knife with my left, and struck him in the mouth with the
right. I was a strong lad and very angry, and he but a little man; and
he went down before me heavily. By good luck, his knife flew out of his
hand as he fell.

I picked up both that and his brogues, wished him a good morning, and
set off upon my way, leaving him barefoot and disarmed. I chuckled to
myself as I went, being sure I was done with that rogue, for a variety
of reasons. First, he knew he could have no more of my money; next, the
brogues were worth in that country only a few pence; and, lastly, the
knife, which was really a dagger, it was against the law for him to
carry.

In about half an hour of walk, I overtook a great, ragged man, moving
pretty fast but feeling before him with a staff. He was quite blind, and
told me he was a catechist, which should have put me at my ease. But
his face went against me; it seemed dark and dangerous and secret; and
presently, as we began to go on alongside, I saw the steel butt of a
pistol sticking from under the flap of his coat-pocket. To carry such a
thing meant a fine of fifteen pounds sterling upon a first offence, and
transportation to the colonies upon a second. Nor could I quite see why
a religious teacher should go armed, or what a blind man could be doing
with a pistol.

I told him about my guide, for I was proud of what I had done, and my
vanity for once got the heels of my prudence. At the mention of the
five shillings he cried out so loud that I made up my mind I should say
nothing of the other two, and was glad he could not see my blushes.

"Was it too much?" I asked, a little faltering.

"Too much!" cries he. "Why, I will guide you to Torosay myself for a
dram of brandy. And give you the great pleasure of my company (me that
is a man of some learning) in the bargain."

I said I did not see how a blind man could be a guide; but at that he
laughed aloud, and said his stick was eyes enough for an eagle.

"In the Isle of Mull, at least," says he, "where I know every stone and
heather-bush by mark of head. See, now," he said, striking right and
left, as if to make sure, "down there a burn is running; and at the head
of it there stands a bit of a small hill with a stone cocked upon the
top of that; and it's hard at the foot of the hill, that the way runs by
to Torosay; and the way here, being for droves, is plainly trodden, and
will show grassy through the heather."

I had to own he was right in every feature, and told my wonder.

"Ha!" says he, "that's nothing. Would ye believe me now, that before
the Act came out, and when there were weepons in this country, I could
shoot? Ay, could I!" cries he, and then with a leer: "If ye had such a
thing as a pistol here to try with, I would show ye how it's done."

I told him I had nothing of the sort, and gave him a wider berth. If
he had known, his pistol stuck at that time quite plainly out of his
pocket, and I could see the sun twinkle on the steel of the butt. But
by the better luck for me, he knew nothing, thought all was covered, and
lied on in the dark.

He then began to question me cunningly, where I came from, whether I
was rich, whether I could change a five-shilling piece for him (which
he declared he had that moment in his sporran), and all the time he kept
edging up to me and I avoiding him. We were now upon a sort of green
cattle-track which crossed the hills towards Torosay, and we kept
changing sides upon that like dancers in a reel. I had so plainly the
upper-hand that my spirits rose, and indeed I took a pleasure in this
game of blindman's buff; but the catechist grew angrier and angrier,
and at last began to swear in Gaelic and to strike for my legs with his
staff.

Then I told him that, sure enough, I had a pistol in my pocket as well
as he, and if he did not strike across the hill due south I would even
blow his brains out.

He became at once very polite, and after trying to soften me for some
time, but quite in vain, he cursed me once more in Gaelic and took
himself off. I watched him striding along, through bog and brier,
tapping with his stick, until he turned the end of a hill and
disappeared in the next hollow. Then I struck on again for Torosay, much
better pleased to be alone than to travel with that man of learning.
This was an unlucky day; and these two, of whom I had just rid myself,
one after the other, were the two worst men I met with in the Highlands.

At Torosay, on the Sound of Mull and looking over to the mainland
of Morven, there was an inn with an innkeeper, who was a Maclean, it
appeared, of a very high family; for to keep an inn is thought even more
genteel in the Highlands than it is with us, perhaps as partaking of
hospitality, or perhaps because the trade is idle and drunken. He spoke
good English, and finding me to be something of a scholar, tried me
first in French, where he easily beat me, and then in the Latin, in
which I don't know which of us did best. This pleasant rivalry put us at
once upon friendly terms; and I sat up and drank punch with him (or to
be more correct, sat up and watched him drink it), until he was so tipsy
that he wept upon my shoulder.

I tried him, as if by accident, with a sight of Alan's button; but it
was plain he had never seen or heard of it. Indeed, he bore some grudge
against the family and friends of Ardshiel, and before he was drunk
he read me a lampoon, in very good Latin, but with a very ill meaning,
which he had made in elegiac verses upon a person of that house.

When I told him of my catechist, he shook his head, and said I was lucky
to have got clear off. "That is a very dangerous man," he said; "Duncan
Mackiegh is his name; he can shoot by the ear at several yards, and has
been often accused of highway robberies, and once of murder."

"The cream of it is," says I, "that he called himself a catechist."

"And why should he not?" says he, "when that is what he is. It was
Maclean of Duart gave it to him because he was blind. But perhaps it was
a peety," says my host, "for he is always on the road, going from
one place to another to hear the young folk say their religion; and,
doubtless, that is a great temptation to the poor man."

At last, when my landlord could drink no more, he showed me to a bed,
and I lay down in very good spirits; having travelled the greater part
of that big and crooked Island of Mull, from Earraid to Torosay, fifty
miles as the crow flies, and (with my wanderings) much nearer a hundred,
in four days and with little fatigue. Indeed I was by far in better
heart and health of body at the end of that long tramp than I had been
at the beginning.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: A "ross" is a peninsula , and the Ross of Mull is a specific southwestern part of the island of Mull . This is where Davie winds up when he crosses the dried-up creek. It's not an area he's at all familiar with - the only landmark he knows is the hill called Ben More. Davie walks towards the line of smoke he saw from Earraid. This leads him to a house where an elderly man is sitting outside. Davie finds out that the crew of the Covenant also made it to this very house the day before, and that one of them was wearing breeches and stockings . This gentleman - Alan Breck, reasons Davie - has left a message for Davie ). The message is that Davie should follow Alan to his country by way of the town of Torosay. Davie then finally gets a good meal and some strong spirits that cure his sore throat. He reflects on the elderly man's great manners, thinking that "if these are the wild Highlanders, I could wish my own folk wilder" . As Davie walks out to follow Alan, he observes the habits of the people around him. Remember, this is all in the wake of the Jacobite rebellion, which was also an uprising of the Highland clans against the current English king. To clamp down on their patriotic feelings, the English government has forbidden these people from wearing kilts or any kind of traditional clan markers. The people Davie passes handle this law from their conquerors by either not really wearing clothes at all or by wearing a philabeg and stitching it down the middle so that it's a kind of skort instead of a proper skirt. They're very poor, but proud too, and they speak little or no English. Davie does manage to find a guide who'll take him to Torosay. The guide's a bit of a cheat, and Davie has a hard time getting him to stay sober and alert enough to make the journey. The guide keeps pretending to forget his English just long enough to force Davie to part with a little more of his money. Davie finally loses his temper, and they get into a physical fight. The guide gets out a knife, and Davie manages to steal both the guide's knife and shoes. Davie continues alone along the way for half an hour, until he runs into a blind man. The blind man claims to be a "catechist" - a lay religious teacher. Davie finds this hard to believe, since the guy's face seems so secretive and dishonest. Another thing that's weird about the blind man is that he's carrying a pistol, which is currently illegal in the Highlands, seems odd for a religious man, and appears really impractical for a person who can't see. Still, Davie agrees to let the man guide him to Torosay in exchange for a bottle of brandy. The blind man says that he knows every rock of Mull well enough to get around with just his stick as a guide. The blind man also tells Davie that, before it became illegal to carry a pistol, he was a great shot, even though he can't see. The blind man appears unaware that Davie can see the man's pistol butt sticking out of his pocket, and Davie's getting more concerned by the minute at his new companion's apparent violent tendencies. The blind man clearly starts feeling Davie out to see how much money he has, and Davie finally gets so creeped out by his obvious intent to rob him that he tells the blind man he's got a pistol of his own and will blow his brains out if he doesn't go away. The blind man curses Davie in Gaelic and eventually goes off on his own across a bog. These two men, the guide and the blind man, are the worst Davie meets in the Highlands. At Torosay, Davie finds an inn kept by a gentleman of the Maclean family, who speaks great English, excellent French, and okay Latin. He doesn't know Alan and doesn't think much of Ardshiel's clan in general. But he does like Davie. The innkeeper tells Davie that he got off lucky with the blind man, whose name is Duncan Mackiegh. He's a well-known highway robber who has even committed murder. Davie finally goes to sleep, feeling pretty good about himself. He's travelled nearly a hundred miles of road in the past four days, and he's in great physical shape.


prompt:
Chapter: There is a regular ferry from Torosay to Kinlochaline on the mainland.
Both shores of the Sound are in the country of the strong clan of the
Macleans, and the people that passed the ferry with me were almost all
of that clan. The skipper of the boat, on the other hand, was called
Neil Roy Macrob; and since Macrob was one of the names of Alan's
clansmen, and Alan himself had sent me to that ferry, I was eager to
come to private speech of Neil Roy.

In the crowded boat this was of course impossible, and the passage was
a very slow affair. There was no wind, and as the boat was wretchedly
equipped, we could pull but two oars on one side, and one on the other.
The men gave way, however, with a good will, the passengers taking
spells to help them, and the whole company giving the time in
Gaelic boat-songs. And what with the songs, and the sea-air, and the
good-nature and spirit of all concerned, and the bright weather, the
passage was a pretty thing to have seen.

But there was one melancholy part. In the mouth of Loch Aline we found
a great sea-going ship at anchor; and this I supposed at first to be one
of the King's cruisers which were kept along that coast, both summer
and winter, to prevent communication with the French. As we got a little
nearer, it became plain she was a ship of merchandise; and what still
more puzzled me, not only her decks, but the sea-beach also, were quite
black with people, and skiffs were continually plying to and fro between
them. Yet nearer, and there began to come to our ears a great sound
of mourning, the people on board and those on the shore crying and
lamenting one to another so as to pierce the heart.

Then I understood this was an emigrant ship bound for the American
colonies.

We put the ferry-boat alongside, and the exiles leaned over the
bulwarks, weeping and reaching out their hands to my fellow-passengers,
among whom they counted some near friends. How long this might have gone
on I do not know, for they seemed to have no sense of time: but at last
the captain of the ship, who seemed near beside himself (and no great
wonder) in the midst of this crying and confusion, came to the side and
begged us to depart.

Thereupon Neil sheered off; and the chief singer in our boat struck into
a melancholy air, which was presently taken up both by the emigrants and
their friends upon the beach, so that it sounded from all sides like a
lament for the dying. I saw the tears run down the cheeks of the men and
women in the boat, even as they bent at the oars; and the circumstances
and the music of the song (which is one called "Lochaber no more") were
highly affecting even to myself.

At Kinlochaline I got Neil Roy upon one side on the beach, and said I
made sure he was one of Appin's men.

"And what for no?" said he.

"I am seeking somebody," said I; "and it comes in my mind that you will
have news of him. Alan Breck Stewart is his name." And very foolishly,
instead of showing him the button, I sought to pass a shilling in his
hand.

At this he drew back. "I am very much affronted," he said; "and this is
not the way that one shentleman should behave to another at all. The man
you ask for is in France; but if he was in my sporran," says he, "and
your belly full of shillings, I would not hurt a hair upon his body."

I saw I had gone the wrong way to work, and without wasting time upon
apologies, showed him the button lying in the hollow of my palm.

"Aweel, aweel," said Neil; "and I think ye might have begun with that
end of the stick, whatever! But if ye are the lad with the silver
button, all is well, and I have the word to see that ye come safe. But
if ye will pardon me to speak plainly," says he, "there is a name that
you should never take into your mouth, and that is the name of Alan
Breck; and there is a thing that ye would never do, and that is to offer
your dirty money to a Hieland shentleman."

It was not very easy to apologise; for I could scarce tell him (what was
the truth) that I had never dreamed he would set up to be a gentleman
until he told me so. Neil on his part had no wish to prolong his
dealings with me, only to fulfil his orders and be done with it; and
he made haste to give me my route. This was to lie the night in
Kinlochaline in the public inn; to cross Morven the next day to Ardgour,
and lie the night in the house of one John of the Claymore, who was
warned that I might come; the third day, to be set across one loch at
Corran and another at Balachulish, and then ask my way to the house of
James of the Glens, at Aucharn in Duror of Appin. There was a good deal
of ferrying, as you hear; the sea in all this part running deep into the
mountains and winding about their roots. It makes the country strong to
hold and difficult to travel, but full of prodigious wild and dreadful
prospects.

I had some other advice from Neil: to speak with no one by the way, to
avoid Whigs, Campbells, and the "red-soldiers;" to leave the road and
lie in a bush if I saw any of the latter coming, "for it was never
chancy to meet in with them;" and in brief, to conduct myself like a
robber or a Jacobite agent, as perhaps Neil thought me.

The inn at Kinlochaline was the most beggarly vile place that ever pigs
were styed in, full of smoke, vermin, and silent Highlanders. I was not
only discontented with my lodging, but with myself for my mismanagement
of Neil, and thought I could hardly be worse off. But very wrongly, as I
was soon to see; for I had not been half an hour at the inn (standing in
the door most of the time, to ease my eyes from the peat smoke) when a
thunderstorm came close by, the springs broke in a little hill on which
the inn stood, and one end of the house became a running water. Places
of public entertainment were bad enough all over Scotland in those days;
yet it was a wonder to myself, when I had to go from the fireside to the
bed in which I slept, wading over the shoes.

Early in my next day's journey I overtook a little, stout, solemn man,
walking very slowly with his toes turned out, sometimes reading in
a book and sometimes marking the place with his finger, and dressed
decently and plainly in something of a clerical style.

This I found to be another catechist, but of a different order from the
blind man of Mull: being indeed one of those sent out by the Edinburgh
Society for Propagating Christian Knowledge, to evangelise the more
savage places of the Highlands. His name was Henderland; he spoke with
the broad south-country tongue, which I was beginning to weary for the
sound of; and besides common countryship, we soon found we had a
more particular bond of interest. For my good friend, the minister of
Essendean, had translated into the Gaelic in his by-time a number of
hymns and pious books which Henderland used in his work, and held in
great esteem. Indeed, it was one of these he was carrying and reading
when we met.

We fell in company at once, our ways lying together as far as to
Kingairloch. As we went, he stopped and spoke with all the wayfarers
and workers that we met or passed; and though of course I could not tell
what they discoursed about, yet I judged Mr. Henderland must be well
liked in the countryside, for I observed many of them to bring out their
mulls and share a pinch of snuff with him.

I told him as far in my affairs as I judged wise; as far, that is,
as they were none of Alan's; and gave Balachulish as the place I was
travelling to, to meet a friend; for I thought Aucharn, or even Duror,
would be too particular, and might put him on the scent.

On his part, he told me much of his work and the people he worked among,
the hiding priests and Jacobites, the Disarming Act, the dress, and many
other curiosities of the time and place. He seemed moderate; blaming
Parliament in several points, and especially because they had framed the
Act more severely against those who wore the dress than against those
who carried weapons.

This moderation put it in my mind to question him of the Red Fox and the
Appin tenants; questions which, I thought, would seem natural enough in
the mouth of one travelling to that country.

He said it was a bad business. "It's wonderful," said he, "where the
tenants find the money, for their life is mere starvation. (Ye don't
carry such a thing as snuff, do ye, Mr. Balfour? No. Well, I'm better
wanting it.) But these tenants (as I was saying) are doubtless partly
driven to it. James Stewart in Duror (that's him they call James of the
Glens) is half-brother to Ardshiel, the captain of the clan; and he is
a man much looked up to, and drives very hard. And then there's one they
call Alan Breck--"

"Ah!" I cried, "what of him?"

"What of the wind that bloweth where it listeth?" said Henderland. "He's
here and awa; here to-day and gone to-morrow: a fair heather-cat. He
might be glowering at the two of us out of yon whin-bush, and I wouldnae
wonder! Ye'll no carry such a thing as snuff, will ye?"

I told him no, and that he had asked the same thing more than once.

"It's highly possible," said he, sighing. "But it seems strange ye
shouldnae carry it. However, as I was saying, this Alan Breck is a bold,
desperate customer, and well kent to be James's right hand. His life
is forfeit already; he would boggle at naething; and maybe, if a
tenant-body was to hang back he would get a dirk in his wame."

"You make a poor story of it all, Mr. Henderland," said I. "If it is all
fear upon both sides, I care to hear no more of it."

"Na," said Mr. Henderland, "but there's love too, and self-denial that
should put the like of you and me to shame. There's something fine about
it; no perhaps Christian, but humanly fine. Even Alan Breck, by all that
I hear, is a chield to be respected. There's many a lying sneck-draw
sits close in kirk in our own part of the country, and stands well in
the world's eye, and maybe is a far worse man, Mr. Balfour, than yon
misguided shedder of man's blood. Ay, ay, we might take a lesson by
them.--Ye'll perhaps think I've been too long in the Hielands?" he
added, smiling to me.

I told him not at all; that I had seen much to admire among the
Highlanders; and if he came to that, Mr. Campbell himself was a
Highlander.

"Ay," said he, "that's true. It's a fine blood."

"And what is the King's agent about?" I asked.

"Colin Campbell?" says Henderland. "Putting his head in a bees' byke!"

"He is to turn the tenants out by force, I hear?" said I.

"Yes," says he, "but the business has gone back and forth, as folk say.
First, James of the Glens rode to Edinburgh, and got some lawyer (a
Stewart, nae doubt--they all hing together like bats in a steeple) and
had the proceedings stayed. And then Colin Campbell cam' in again, and
had the upper-hand before the Barons of Exchequer. And now they tell me
the first of the tenants are to flit to-morrow. It's to begin at Duror
under James's very windows, which doesnae seem wise by my humble way of
it."

"Do you think they'll fight?" I asked.

"Well," says Henderland, "they're disarmed--or supposed to be--for
there's still a good deal of cold iron lying by in quiet places. And
then Colin Campbell has the sogers coming. But for all that, if I was
his lady wife, I wouldnae be well pleased till I got him home again.
They're queer customers, the Appin Stewarts."

I asked if they were worse than their neighbours.

"No they," said he. "And that's the worst part of it. For if Colin Roy
can get his business done in Appin, he has it all to begin again in the
next country, which they call Mamore, and which is one of the countries
of the Camerons. He's King's Factor upon both, and from both he has to
drive out the tenants; and indeed, Mr. Balfour (to be open with ye),
it's my belief that if he escapes the one lot, he'll get his death by
the other."

So we continued talking and walking the great part of the day; until
at last, Mr. Henderland after expressing his delight in my company, and
satisfaction at meeting with a friend of Mr. Campbell's ("whom," says
he, "I will make bold to call that sweet singer of our covenanted
Zion"), proposed that I should make a short stage, and lie the night in
his house a little beyond Kingairloch. To say truth, I was overjoyed;
for I had no great desire for John of the Claymore, and since my double
misadventure, first with the guide and next with the gentleman skipper,
I stood in some fear of any Highland stranger. Accordingly we shook
hands upon the bargain, and came in the afternoon to a small house,
standing alone by the shore of the Linnhe Loch. The sun was already gone
from the desert mountains of Ardgour upon the hither side, but shone on
those of Appin on the farther; the loch lay as still as a lake, only
the gulls were crying round the sides of it; and the whole place seemed
solemn and uncouth.

We had no sooner come to the door of Mr. Henderland's dwelling, than to
my great surprise (for I was now used to the politeness of Highlanders)
he burst rudely past me, dashed into the room, caught up a jar and
a small horn-spoon, and began ladling snuff into his nose in most
excessive quantities. Then he had a hearty fit of sneezing, and looked
round upon me with a rather silly smile.

"It's a vow I took," says he. "I took a vow upon me that I wouldnae
carry it. Doubtless it's a great privation; but when I think upon
the martyrs, not only to the Scottish Covenant but to other points of
Christianity, I think shame to mind it."

As soon as we had eaten (and porridge and whey was the best of the good
man's diet) he took a grave face and said he had a duty to perform by
Mr. Campbell, and that was to inquire into my state of mind towards God.
I was inclined to smile at him since the business of the snuff; but he
had not spoken long before he brought the tears into my eyes. There are
two things that men should never weary of, goodness and humility; we get
none too much of them in this rough world among cold, proud people; but
Mr. Henderland had their very speech upon his tongue. And though I was a
good deal puffed up with my adventures and with having come off, as the
saying is, with flying colours; yet he soon had me on my knees beside a
simple, poor old man, and both proud and glad to be there.

Before we went to bed he offered me sixpence to help me on my way, out
of a scanty store he kept in the turf wall of his house; at which excess
of goodness I knew not what to do. But at last he was so earnest with me
that I thought it the more mannerly part to let him have his way, and so
left him poorer than myself.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: We're still following Davie's travels. This map continues to be a really helpful guide to where the heck Davie actually is at any given time. Right now he's at Torosay, which is across a "strait" that connects to Kinlochaline on the Scottish mainland. Davie wants to catch the ferry across this strait, which is steered by Neil Roy Macrob. The Macrobs are allies of Alan's clan, and Alan did send Davie directly to this Torosay ferry, so Davie is eager to talk to Neil Roy. There's a big ship anchored at the harbor of Loch Aline. or a sea inlet, like the Firth of Forth or this Loch Aline.) The ship is carrying people bound for the American colonies, and it's surrounded by weeping family members watching their loved ones being forced to leave Scotland. .) Passing this sorry sight leaves Davie in sad spirits. When his ferry from Torosay reaches Kinlochaline, Davie manages to talk to Neil Roy. He asks Neil if he is one of Appin's men . Davie tells Neil that he's looking for one Alan Breck Stewart, and he offers him money for any information he can give. Neil thinks Davie means to turn Alan in to the English authorities. Davie explains that, no, he's a friend of Alan's, and shows Neil the silver button Alan gave him. Neil recognizes Davie as the "lad with the silver button" and promises to look after him. But he also scolds Davie for mentioning Alan's name out in the open like that, and for offering "dirty money" to a "Hieland shentleman" . Neil tells Davie to spend the night in Kinlochaline. He is to go the next day to Ardgour, to the house of John of the Claymore, and spend the night there. The following day, he is to head to the house of James of the Glens at Aucharn in Appin. Davie follows Neil's instructions: he spends the night at an inn in Kinlochaline , then heads across Morven in the direction of Ardgour the next day. He overtakes a man dressed like a priest, who is a real catechist , unlike Duncan Mackeigh in Mull. This catechist is a member of the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge who also happens to be acquainted with Mr. Campbell, the minister way back in Davie's home of Essendean. The catechist's name is Mr. Henderland, and the two hit it off really well. Davie tells Henderland of his adventures , and Henderland talks about his work with the Highlanders. As a member of the Church of England, he is an English sympathizer, but he seems politically moderate, and he criticizes some of the English acts regulating Highland clothes and weapons and so on. Davie asks Henderland about this whole Red Fox/Appin tenant thing Alan was mentioning in Chapter Twelve. Henderland agrees that it's a bad situation, because the tenants are on the verge of starvation. He also points out that the whole story about the tenants coming up with a second rent for Ardshiel out of loyalty is partly a lie. Their arms have been twisted by James Stewart , who's Ardshiel's half brother - and by Alan Breck. Alan's a desperate customer, and James's right-hand man, says Henderland. Davie perks up upon hearing Alan's name, and says that if it's fear and extortion that's making the tenants pay these rents, he doesn't want to hear anything more. Henderland says it's not just fear: there's real love of Ardshiel, and self-sacrifice on the part of the tenants. Davie then asks about the king's agent, Colin Campbell . Henderland says that Campbell's putting "his head in a bees' byke!" In other words, Colin Campbell is really opening a can of worms. Colin Campbell is trying to run the legal tenants off the land, says Henderland, but there's been a lot of escalation thanks to resistance from James Stewart. Another problem is that, even if Colin Campbell does manage to get rid of the Appin Stewarts, the next land over, he'll have the same problem with the Camerons. In other words, each individual parcel of land has its own loyal clan attached to it, and Colin Campbell has to be tough enough to deal with all of them. For his part, Henderland seems to think Colin Campbell is heading for assassination. Even though, according to Alan's plan, Davie is supposed to spend the night with John of the Claymore, he accepts Henderland's invitation to spend the night at his place. As soon as they get through Henderland's door, he immediately makes a run for his supply of snuff . Here's a guy who could use a nicotine patch: he's spent nearly the whole walk with Davie asking for snuff! Afterward, Henderland starts talking to Davie about God. And while Davie is secretly laughing at Henderland about the snuff habit, he is really moved by Henderland's preaching and his goodness.