When he reached the landing the door of the Prince’s bedchamber opened, and Lord George Murray and Ker of Graden came out together, the latter looking very grim, Lord George plainly in a rage. They went down the stairs to the encumbered hall, Lord George calling for his aides-de-camp. The door meanwhile had been left ajar; loud voices came through it, and Ewen had a glimpse of the Prince, sitting on the edge of his bed, still booted, with Sir Thomas Sheridan, his old tutor, beside him. He was speaking, not to him, but to someone invisible.
“I tell you,” his voice came sharply, edged with fatigue and obstinacy, “I tell you the English will be seized with panic when they come to close quarters. They cannot face my Highlanders in the charge; ’twill be again as it was at Gladsmuir and——”
Then the door shut behind Lochiel, coming slowly out. He did not see the young man waiting for him, and on his tired, unguarded face Ewen could read the most profound discouragement.
As he crossed the landing Ewen took a couple of strides after him, laying hold of his plaid, and the Chief stopped.
“Is it true, Donald?”
“I suppose so,” answered Lochiel quietly. “At any rate we must take up our positions at once.”
“Over the water of Nairn, then, I hope?”
“No. The Prince is immovable on that point. We are to take our stand on our old positions of yesterday on the moor.”
“When you and Lord George disapprove!—It’s the doing, no doubt, of the same men who were for it yesterday, those who have nothing to lose, the French and Irish officers!”
Lochiel glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t speak so loud, Ewen. But you are right—may God forgive them!”