While we were still in the northern counties rumours began to reach us that General Cope’s army had been cut to pieces by the Highlanders. The stories ran that not a single man had escaped, that the clans, twenty thousand strong, were headed for England, that they were burning and destroying as they advanced. Incredible reports of all kinds sprang out of the air, and the utmost alarm prevailed. The report of Cope’s defeat was soon verified. We met more than one redcoat speeding south on a foam-flecked weary steed, and it did not need the second sight to divine that the dispatches they carried spoke loudly of disaster fallen and of reinforcements needed.
After we had crossed the border parties of foraging Highlanders began to appear occasionally, but a word in the Gaelic from Hamish Gorm always served as a password for us. To make short, early in October we reached the Scottish capital, the formal relations which had been established between Miss Macleod and me continuing to the end of the journey.
There lived in Edinburgh an unmarried aunt of Aileen, a Miss Flora MacBean by name, and at her house I left the girl while I went to notify her brother of our arrival. I found him lodged in High Street near the old Flesh-market Close. Malcolm Macleod was a fine manly fellow of about three and thirty, lusty and well-proportioned, very tanned and ruddy. He had a quick lively eye and a firm good-humoured mouth. In brief, he was the very picture of a frank open-hearted Highland gentleman, and in the gay Macleod tartan looked as gallant a figure of a soldier as one would wish to see. He greeted me with charming friendliness and expressed himself as deeply gratified for my care of his sister, offering again and again to put himself at my service in any way I might desire.
We walked down the street together, and more than once a shot plumped at our feet, for the city was under fire from the Hanoverian garrison at the castle. Everywhere the clansmen were in evidence. Barefooted and barelegged Celts strutted about the city with their bonnets scrugged low on their heads, the hair hanging wild over their eyes and the matted beards covering their faces. For the most part they were very ragged, and tanned exceedingly wherever the flesh took a peep through their outworn plaids. They ran about the streets in groups, looking in shop windows like children and talking their outlandish gibberish; then presently their Highland pride would assert itself at the smile of some chance passer and would send them swinging proudly off as though they had better things at home.
Out of a tobacco shop came Captain Donald Roy singing blithely,
“‘Will ye play me fair,
Highland laddie, Highland laddie?’”
He was of course in the full Macdonald tartan regimentals—checkered kilt, sporran, plaid, a brace of pistols, a dirk in his stocking, and claymore. At sight of me his face lighted and he came running forward with both hands outstretched.
“And is it you at last, Kenn? Man, but I’ve been wearying for a sight of your honest face. I was whiles thinking you must have given us the go-by. Fegs, but it’s a braw day and a sight guid for sair een to see you, lad. You will have heard how we gave Johnnie Cope his kail through his reek.” He broke off to hum:—
“‘Now Johnnie, troth, ye werena blate,
to come wi’ the news o’ your ain,
And leave your men in sic a strait,
so early in the morning.’
“And did you bring my kinswoman back safe with you? I’se wad ye found the journey no’ ower lang;” and he cocked a merry eye at me.
I flushed, and introduced him to Major Macleod, who took occasion to thank him for his services to his sister. They fell into a liking for each other at once. When the major was called aside by one of his gillies a moment later, Macdonald expressed his trust of the other in the old Scotch saying,
“Yon’s a man to ride the water wi’, Kenneth.”
A curious sight illustrative of the Highland way of “lifting” what took their fancy occurred as we were all three walking toward the house of Macleod’s aunt. Three shag-headed gillies in the tattered Cameron tartan dragged an innkeeper from his taproom and set him down squat on the causeway. Without even a by-your-leave they took from his feet a pair of new shoes with silver buckles. He protested that he was a loyal Jacobite.
“Sae muckle ta better. She’ll no’ grumble to shange a progue for the Prince’s guid,” one of the caterans answered cheerfully by way of comfort.
To my surprise the two Highland gentlemen watched this high-handed proceeding with much amusement, enjoying not a little the ridiculous figure cut by the frightened, sputtering host. I asked them if they were not going to interfere.
“What for would we do that at all events?” asked the Macdonald. “Man, Montagu, but you whiles have unco queer notions for so wise a lad. It’s as natural for a Hielander to despoil a Southron as for a goose to gang barefit. What would Lochiel think gin we fashed wi’ his clansmen at their ploy? Na, na! I wad be sweir to be sae upsitten (impertinent). It wadna be tellin’ a Macdonald, I’m thinkin’.”
Aileen was so prettily glad to see her brother and so friendly with Donald Roy, so full of gay chatter and eager reminiscence, that I felt myself quite dashed by the note of reserve which crept into her voice and her manner whenever she found it incumbent to speak to me. Her laugh would be ringing clear as the echo of steel in frost, and when Donald lugged me into the talk she would fall mim as a schoolgirl under the eye of her governess. Faith, you would have thought me her dearest enemy, instead of the man that had risked life for her more than once. Here is a pretty gratitude, I would say to myself in a rage, hugging my anger with the baby thought that she would some day scourge herself for this after I were killed in battle. Here is a fine return for loyal service rendered, and the front of my offending is nothing more than the saluting an old playmate.
“Man, Kenneth, but you hae played the cuddie brawly,” was Donald’s comforting remark to me after we had left. “You maun hae made an awfu’ bauchle of it. When last I saw the lady she hoisted a fine colour when I daffed about you, and now she glowers at you in a no’ just friendly way.”
I admitted sadly that ’twas so and told him the reason, for Donald Roy had a wide observation of life and a varied experience with the sex that made him a valuable counsellor. The situation amused him hugely, but what he could find of humour in it was more than I could see.
“Deil hae’t, but yon quean Antoinette will be a geyan ettercap (madcap). Tony Creagh has been telling me about her; he’s just a wee thingie touched there himsel’.”
“Pardon me,” I interrupted a little stiffly, “but I think I did not give the name of the lady.”
The Highlander looked at me dryly with a pawky smile.
“Hoots, man! I ken that fine, but I’m no a fule. You named over the party and I picked the lady that suited the speceefications.” Then he began to chuckle: “I wad hae liked dooms weel to hae seen you stravaiging (wandering) through the grosset (gooseberry) bushes after the lass.”
I told him huffily that if that was all he could say I had better have kept the story to myself. I had come for advice, not to be laughed at. Donald flashed his winsome smile and linked an arm in mine.
“Well then, and here’s advice for you, man. Jouk (duck) and let the jaw (wave) go by. Gin it were me the colder she were the better I wad like it. Dinna you see that the lass rages because she likes you fine; and since she’s a Hieland maid brought up under the blue lift she hasna learnt to hate and smile in the same breath.”
“I make neither head nor tail of your riddles,” I told him impatiently. “By your way of it so far as I can make out she both likes and hates me. Now how can that be?”
Captain Macdonald’s droll eye appeared to pity me. “Kenneth, bairn, but you’re an awfu’ ignoramus. You ken naething ava about the lassies. I’m