"Yes, Andrew," replied the knight, with one hand upon the boy's shoulder, but extending the other to Gilbert, who knelt, despite his exhaustion, before his late guest, in a sudden awe and amazement that even the morning's terrible experiences could not check. "Yes, Andrew, I am here, dearest lad—I, your friend; and, some day, please Heaven!—your King!"
CHAPTER XI.
UNDER THE OAK.
Yes, so it was! The pursued refugee, for whose sake Windlestrae lay a ruin, for whose sake its owner and his son were sheltered with him in the hidden stronghold of the Seven Men of Glenmoriston, might be no better able to make amends for such calamities, nor defend himself and them from further mischiefs. But under the veil of Lord Geoffry Armitage, Charles Stewart, the adored Prince of Scotland, had seen fit to hide himself in Windlestrae; and if it was the man that Andrew and his father had learned to love, it was also their sovereign whom they had entertained unawares.
"Forgive me, Boyd," cried the Pretender, raising Gilbert tenderly and insisting that, because of his extreme faintness, he should recline on a pallet already improvised; "forgive me! It was not that I feared to trust you or Andrew with your king's identity. I deferred doing so from an idle freak, when we met, until I was ashamed—and then came the hope of better days, when I might enjoy your surprise at recognizing me in gayer surroundings. Alas, alas! I looked not for such a meeting as this. Tell me at once, Andrew, for the love of Heaven, the worst those miscreants have done to you."
"Danforth arrived, my lord—I mean, Your Majesty," Andrew began, falteringly.
"Nay, I like the old title best. By the ring that I gave thee, call me by it," interrupted Prince Charles, smiling. He was in haste to hear the outlines of the story, for he was secretly shocked at Boyd's appearance. A refugee surgeon, who was addressed by the sympathizing group as MacCullom, was dressing the pistol-wound, with a solicitous face, and administering spirits. Extracting the ball he found was impossible.
"The escape had just been discovered. They sought to know more. Danforth was there, too. My father and I kept back what we could, until they wrung from us your being at Windlestrae and flying with the outlaw. They fettered my father—beat me—have burnt Windlestrae. We were being borne to Neith by them."
"O God!" cried Prince Charles, raising his eyes to the blue sky above, and then casting them in grief and pity on the father and son; "what misery do I bring upon men wherever I set my foot! Reward such faithful hearts, O Lord, for all the sorrow I breed among them! Hear ye that, Patrick Grant—hear ye that, John Macdonnell? If ever we again can lift hand against them, woe be to them and their children!"
"It shall—it shall! Woe be to them!" rose the hoarse reply from those standing by.
"Your Majesty, the wounded gentleman would fain speak with you," said the surgeon MacCollum. He added, in a whisper, something else, as Charles turned apologetically to Boyd's resting-place, that made the Prince exclaim, in a shocked tone, "What? No, no! It cannot be, MacCollum, it must not be."