Now, the long-handled Lochaber axe is a formidable weapon, and even Chester Royde, who after the Chieftain himself was the member of the garrison most intoxicated by the fighting spirit, looked doubtful about the effect of using it against the hikers. Fortunately, however, something happened to make it unnecessary to disturb the merely decorative existence in which the Lochaber axes had spent nearly two centuries. That something was the sound of the pipes still a long way off, but coming nearer all the time.

“These must be your Scottish … your fellows from Glasgow, Carrie,” said Ben Nevis.

And then suddenly his brow clouded and the veins in his eagle’s beak seemed to run with ink as he cupped an ear to listen.

“Kilwhillie! Macmillan! Iain!” he gasped. “Am I going mad or are those pipers playing The Campbells are Coming?”

The Cameron, the Macmillan and the young MacDonald scowled in unison.

“What on earth are James Buchanan and Robert Menzies thinking of?” the poet exclaimed angrily.

“Angus! Angus!” Ben Nevis bellowed. “Tell the pipers to play Clan Donald is Here full blast. Full blast, do you hear, Angus? The Campbells are coming, are they? Great Scott, I’d sooner hear in my country that ghastly song those hiker brutes were singing last night.”

When the strains of Clan Donald is Here died down there was no answering skirl from without, and at that moment the full force of the hikers charged for the front door.

“It’ll never hold, never!” Toker was heard to declare. “No door could,” he added loyally.

And sure enough at that moment it cracked; but even as it cracked into the courtyard charged the kilted members of the Scottish Brotherhood of Action, like a tartan catalogue come to life.

“Outside, and at ’em!” shouted Ben Nevis when the front door gave way.

“Where’s that guy with the chin?” cried Chester Royde, following Ben Nevis as another Chester once followed Marmior.

But at the last moment he was baulked of his heart’s desire. He was almost in reach of Percy Buckham when Percy Buckham waved a white handkerchief.

“The yellow-livered coyote,” Chester gasped in utter disgust. “He’s thrown in the towel.”

But it was not respect for his own skin or his own chin which had made a poltroon of Percy Buckham. It was the sight of the Earl of Buntingdon in the hands of the kilted horde whose arrival had snatched victory from his grasp. The person of the President of the N.U.H. was more precious than even its honour.

“It was a mistake, Mr Buckham, to send me that telegram,” said Lord Buntingdon when they were driving back to Fort William that afternoon after peace had been signed.