Pringle conveyed him to his own tent, for he knew well that the Mousquetaires were all men of no ordinary rank, and there he supplied him with wine and other comforts. As yet, he had not spoken; but as he gathered strength, he began to mutter and talk to himself in a strange language.
"Assuredly this man is not a Frenchman!" said Pringle, kneeling down to listen.
The Mousquetaire Gris was praying in the Erse tongue!
"What—are you a Scotchman?" exclaimed the astonished major.
"A Highlander," sighed the other.
"I recognised your Gaëlic at once."
"Likely enough," responded the other, in a low voice; "the Gaelic was the first language I heard, and, please God, it shall be my last! I spoke but the tongue I learned at my mother's breast!"
"And you are a Mousquetaire Gris?"
"Yes—that grey uniform is all the inheritance which the dark day of Culloden has left me."
"Poor fellow!" said Major Pringle, with commiseration; "and you are—"