"So Huntly is in arms," said the young chieftain, with a kindling eye; "and is ready to sweep from Scottish ground the accursed brood of Knox and Calvin."
"Nay, my bairn," replied the old priest; "'tis Argyle who is in arms, with the Campbells, the Grants, and McGregors, 12,000 strong, and these are about to pour like a torrent down upon the Catholic lords. Thus, if all to whom the cross and the cause of Heaven are dear, delay to join Lord Huntly, the church of our fathers will sink even lower than Knox and Wishart levelled it."
"Halbert," said his mother, whose fierce spirit—for she was a Borderer—snuffed blood from afar; "in three hours ye will have twenty horsemen in their harness, and prepared to march."
"'Tis well," he replied through his clenched teeth, as he selected a sword and carbine from among the many that hung upon the wall; "but one word, good Father Ogilvie, where is the Lord Huntly's trysting-place?"
"His castle of Strathbogie, in the Garioch."
"In three hours then, mother, I will ride, to conquer or die with our chief and our kinsmen."
There was a ghastly smile on Halbert's lips, and a deep and dire intent was visible in his dark eyes, as he proceeded with the utmost care to fix a match in his carbine, and hummed the while a surly song—
"'When the Grole o' the Garioch
Meet the bowmen of Lord Mar;
Upon the hill of Bennochie,
The Grole shall win the war!'
Ha—ha! mother, does not the old song say so?"
"My brave boy, I see there is determination on your brow," said the stern matron, as she kissed her haughty son.