His bloodstained buff coat, his sword and helmet, lay near him on a chair, and around the couch were Dunbarton, Finland, the great Sir Evan of Locheil, Glengarry, Clanronald, Grant of Glenmorriston, and other leaders, who leaned on their swords, conversed in low whispers, and watched with unfeigned sorrow the ebbing life of the only man who could lead them like Montrose.
The whole of his dying energies were now directed to one object, a despatch to his exiled king, containing an account of the glories he had gained in his cause, and the long career of service he had sealed with his own gallant blood. Though every muscle of his face was contracted at times with the agony he endured, when stretching from bed to write at the low table beside it, supported by his brother David Grahame, who was sheathed in steel, à la Cuirassier, he finished this memorable and disputed letter with singular coolness, appended his name, and instantly falling back, closed his eyes and lay motionless, as if in death.
"He is gone," whispered the agitated Earl of Dunbarton to the stern Locheil. "There lies the strongest pillar of the good old cause."
"Hereditary right will face the rocks!" replied the chieftain in Gaelic, as he grasped his dirk; "cursed be the green scarf that wrought this evil work to Scotland and to us!"
Their voices seemed to call back the fleeting spirit; and, controlling the painful trembling of his limbs, Dundee opened his bloodshot eyes, and looked slowly round him.
"Do not persist," said he to the surgeon, who approached. "I know that all is over—let me die in peace. Approach, Mr. Fenton—unfurl that standard;" and his wild dark eyes flashed with their old energy at the sight of the Stadtholder's banner. "You will, at all risks, bear this despatch and that trophy to the hands of King James, and say they are the last—the best—the dying bequest of Dundee."
Walter's heart was full; he could only lay his hand upon his breast, and bow a grateful assent.
"To Colonel Cannon I bequeath my baton and authority; let him use them well in the King's service, if he would wish to die in peace when he comes to lie here."
"Colonel Cannon!" muttered the Highland chiefs, as they drew themselves up, exchanged glances of hauteur, and twisted their mustachios.
"Be merciful to our prisoners," continued the sufferer in a voice more weak and quavering, and stopping often to take breath; "be merciful to them, for they are our countrymen. Release and bid them return to their homes in peace; say that such was the last wish of Dundee. Many have styled me merciless in my time, sirs, and bitterly will they speak of my spirit when it is far beyond the reach of mortal malevolence. I have done fierce and stern things, but I have been hurried to do them by an irrevocable destiny, and a tide of circumstances incident to these our troubled times. Every iota of what I have done was fore-ordained—hah! do not your Presbyterians tell us so? But grateful—deeply grateful is the conviction to my passing spirit, that my friends will ever remember my name with honour, and my foes with fear. I feel more bitterness in dying after a victory than I could have endured by a defeat; for it would have made life worthless, and death welcome. Oh, may this day's great achievement be an omen of future success, and a second Restoration! Go, my comrades; continue in that path of earthly glory which I must quit for ever; and let ye who survive to behold our beloved King fail not to tell him—that—that John Grahame of Claverhouse—with his last breath blessed him—and—died."