And alike from him, fourth earl of his line, representative peer of Scotland and royal aide-de-camp, and from the defiant, ragged young man on the seat before him, with his French training and his natural courtesy (which an Englishman had not long ago thought almost excessive), there slipped for a moment the whole cloak of eighteenth-century civilisation, and they were merely two Highlanders, heirs of an age-long feud, waiting to spring at each other, dirk in hand, amongst the heather. The metamorphosis lasted but a second or two, and they were themselves again, but John Campbell had had his answer; he knew better now the temper with which he had to deal than to expect an appeal for mercy, much less the revelation he coveted.
“I am only sorry that your future is not likely to allow of your giving me satisfaction for that insult, Mr. Cameron,” he said grimly, and turned his back upon him. “Captain Greening, you will have the prisoner removed from this room to some securer place of confinement. But bear in mind, if you please, that he is not to be ill-treated.” And, without another look behind him, he left the room. Nor was his going devoid of dignity.
As the hated Diarmaid tartan vanished Ewen’s whole body relaxed against the wall. But he soon became aware that Captain Greening had stayed behind, and was standing there in Loudoun’s place addressing him, his delicate features contorted with rage.
“If I had only guessed, you dirty cattle-thief, that you had fooled me after all! It would not have taken a fortnight to get the real name out of you somehow!” His teeth ground together. “Perhaps in the dungeons you’ll learn at least to keep a civil tongue in your head, as long as it is on your shoulders.” He flung away towards the door, then turned again. “Yes, smile while you can! ‘Not to be ill-treated’, eh? We’ll see about that when the Earl is gone, my fine Highlander!”
As the door slammed behind his guardian the contemptuous smile died off Ewen’s face, and, lowering himself with some difficulty from the stone bench, he lay down on the pallet below and pulled his plaid over his head. Now that the clash of the interview was over he felt shaken and sick. A great consolation had indeed emerged from it, but even that consolation could do little for him against the immediate anguish of knowing that the hounds were on the trail at last, and the quarry perhaps unsuspecting. How could Lochiel escape so large a force? He and his few hundreds would be surrounded as in a net; he would be killed or captured even if he did not take to the cave on Beinn Bhreac. And, if he did, chance might always lead the pursuers straight to it. Could Ewen in that hour have sent a message to Lochiel he would willingly have bought the privilege not merely by his own death—that went without saying—but by a death in any manner protracted and horrible. Yet no suffering could buy that chance; there was nothing to do but lie there helpless, at the lowest ebb of dejection, and hear from the camp the drums and bugles of departure.
At last came evening, and Mullins with food and water.
“Is there any news, Sergeant?” asked Ewen, raising himself.
“Yes, sir, His Royal Highness the Duke’s expected here to-morrow with nine regiments of foot and some horse. And Captain Greening ain’t in charge of prisoners no longer; his Lordship saw to that before he left—seems he was annoyed with the Captain about something or other. I can’t say as I’m sorry. But I’m afraid, Mr. Cameron, you’re going to be moved from here to-morrow, and put in one of them nasty places they call the dungeons, though they ain’t scarcely that, so to speak, and——”
Ewen cut short this bulletin. “You can put me in my grave for all I care at present! It’s the expedition to Loch Arkaig I want news of. Is there none?”
“No, sir, how could there be, so soon?—Bless me, how wild you look! Have you kin in those parts?”