On the same rock where, perhaps, the Bruce's head was pillowed, Rob Roy dropped into a profound sleep, and the morning sun was shining brightly on the woods of silver birch and sombre pine, and on the green isles of Loch Lomond, when he awoke to find Oina seated near him, with a little basket by her side, and a red plaid drawn over her head, patiently watching him, and waiting the moment when he would be stirring. In one hand she had a hunting-bottle of usquebaugh, and in the other a little quaich formed of juniper and birch staves alternately, smoothly polished, and hooped with silver.
The little girl, with the thick brown tresses described in the first chapter of our story, was now a tall matron, with her dark hair gathered under a curchie. Her brow was thoughtful and severe, for many a time since the day on which her boy companion, Colin Bane, had been slain by Duncan nan Creagh, had she looked death in the face amid flashing swords and flaming rafters; and she was now, as stated, the wife of Alaster Roy MacGregor.
"You have come at last, Oina," said Rob Roy.
"Say not that as a taunt," said she, "for I could not leave the fort of Inversnaid before the gates were opened at daybreak."
"I did not say it tauntingly, Oina," replied Rob, patting her shoulder; "but what of my poor boy Ronald?"
"He is still in a cell, where I cannot have speech with him."
"A cell! How his free Highland soul must abhor such confinement! Patience yet awhile, my boy, for the blades are on the grindstone that ere long shall free you. But do they keep surer watch than usual at Inversnaid?"
"I cannot say; but more of the red soldiers arrived yesterday."
"More?" repeated Rob, starting.
"Yes."