"Unless we drive back Loudon we are like rats in a trap," went on Murray ignoring the words.
"You forget Prestonpans, my lord."
The other shook his head fretfully.
"The men are tired and wearied of it all," he replied, "they want to go home—they are not regular soldiers...."
"What would you say to talk like this?" said the Prince, turning of a sudden upon Muckle John.
"Sir," he answered, "your troops are exhausted. But in the mountains you could resist the enemy until they recovered their strength."
"But there is no money—no sign of men nor arms. What of France—what of the English Jacobites?"
"What indeed?" said a low voice from the doorway.
Looking down upon them all stood a young man of about thirty—a thin, slight, anxious-looking man dressed in black, carefully tended clothes. It was Mr. Secretary Murray, or, to give him his full name, John Murray of Broughton.
"May the English Jacobites not escape their just punishment," he said gravely, "should disaster await us," and he sighed and stared out across the street.