‘And how could men hope to restore a cause thus contaminated and stained?’ cried he, somewhat louder.
‘That’s what Kinloch said,’ burst in Kelly; ‘you remember the song—
‘The Prince he swore, on his broad claymore,
That he ‘d sit in his father’s chair,
But there wasn’t a man, outside his clan,
That wanted to see him there, boys,
That wanted to see him there.’
‘A black falsehood, as black as ever a traitor uttered!’ cried Gerald, whose passion burst all bounds.
‘Here’s to the traitors—hip, hip! To the traitors, for it was—
‘The traitors all in St. Cannes’s hall,
They feasted merrily there,
While the wearied men sought the bleak, wild glen,
And tasted but sorry fare, boys,
Tasted but sorry fare.
‘Oh, if I ‘d a voice, and could have my choice,
I know with whom I ‘d be,
Not the hungry lads, with their threadbare plaids,
But the lords of high degree, boys,
The lords of high degree.’
‘And so thought the Prince too, cried he out fiercely, and in a tone meant for an insolent taunt. ‘He liked the easy life and the soft couch of St. Germains far better than the long march and the heather-bed in the Highlands.’
‘How long must I endure this fellow’s insolence?’ whispered Gerald to Marietta, in a voice trembling with passion.
‘For my sake, Gherardi,’ she began; but the Fra overheard the words, and with a drunken laugh broke in—
‘If you have a drop of Stuart blood in you, you ‘ll yield to the woman, whatever it is she asks.’