Where,
indeed, was the true Scotland? Not in the little barren acres he had
left, the few thousands of city-folk, or the contentions of unlovely
creeds and vain philosophies. The elect of his race had ever been the
wanderers. No more than Hellas had his land a paltry local unity.
Wherever the English flag was planted anew, wherever men did their duty
faithfully and without hope of little reward--there was the fatherland
of the true patriot.
The time was passing, and still the world was quiet. The hour must be
close on midnight, and still there was no sign of men. For the first
time he dared to hope for success. Before, an hour's delay was all that
he had sought. To give the north time for a little preparation, to make
defence possible, had been his aim; now with the delay he seemed to see
a chance for victory. Bardur would be alarmed hours ago; men would be
on the watch all over Kashmir and the Punjab; the railways would be
guarded. The invader would find at the least no easy conquest. When
they had trodden his life out in the defile they would find stronger men
to bar their path, and he would not have died in vain. It was a slender
satisfaction for vanity, for what share would he have in the defence?
Unknown, unwept, he would perish utterly, and to others would be the
glory. He did not care, nay, he rejoiced in the brave obscurity.
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