"Well—and who will toll it?"
"How can I say, Captain Rollo—the fiend, perhaps; but this, I know, that it is no mortal hand that stirs its iron tongue. It tolls whenever a M'Alpine dies, and this night Red Angus will fall."
"Hush, Phadrig!" said I, impressed by his Highland solemnity of manner, "at such a time as this do not think of such things."
"I cannot help it. Last night I lay on guard at the Frankendör. My head was rolled in my plaid, and the cold earth was my bed, but I slept as sound as if my resting-place had been on the soft heather of Cairneilar or my dear mother's hut in Strathdee, and I had a dream between the passing night and the grey morning. I saw M'Alpine and M'Coll, even as you may see them now, each marching at the head of his company, like a stately Highland gentleman; but high upon the breast of each there was—a shroud—to mark that death was near. The hands of Mary and her Son be over them, for they are both gallant men! Red Angus is strong as Cuchullin, and M'Coll is unerring as Conloch; but if they escape the black work of to-night, I will never trust more in dreams, though my father was a Taischatr, and the Taisch runs in the blood."
"Hush—hush!" said Sir Donald; "silence in the ranks."
"The soldiers of the quartermaster-general are Spaniards," said M'Alpine, in a whisper; "who commands them?"
"Hector M'Lean, a gentleman of Mull."
"M'Lean of Lochdon?" asked Angus, becoming pale.
"The same," replied the colonel; "a desperate and determined fellow."
Angus sighed through his clenched teeth; his hazel eyes filled with fire, and with a darkened brow he strode on at the head of his company.