That night he bade a sad adieu to his comrades, and, mounted on one of the Mareschal's horses, departed from Courtray.
His brave companions in glory and exile he saw no more. After all their services and their sufferings, their achievements and their chivalry, the few survivors of the war, sixteen in number, were, by a striking example of French ingratitude, disbanded at the peace of Ryswick, on the upper part of the Rhine, far from their native land—without money or any provision to save them from starvation and death. Of these sixteen only four survived to return to Scotland in extreme old age, when all fears of the Jacobites had passed away for ever.
Again the unclouded moon was shining over Steinkirke when Walter passed it, and vividly on his mind came back the fierce memories of that impetuous hour. The great plain was deserted, the full eared corn was waving heavily, and not a sound disturbed the silence of the moonlit scenery save the deep bay of a household dog or the croak of a passing stork.
Thickly on every hand lay the graves of the faithful dead. In some instances he saw great burial mounds; in others there was but one solitary grave secluded among the long grass and reeds, and his horse started instinctively as he passed them.
Fragments of clothing, accoutrements, and other relics, lay among the rank weeds by the side of the fields, under the green hedge-rows, in the wet ditches; and even fleshless bones, bare scalps, fingers and toes, protruded from the soil, imparting an aspect of horror to the moonlighted plain where the battle had been fought.
The abbatis still lay there, but the foliage of the trees that formed it had long since faded and decayed. A great tumulus, on which the young grass was sprouting, lay within it.
"Poor Finland!" muttered Walter, and with a moistened eye and heavy heart he plunged his horse into the Senne and swam to the opposite bank. The cottage where he had found shelter had now disappeared; its foundations, scorched and blackened by fire, alone marked the place where it stood. He thought of the poor Ursuline and her story, and sighed that he could learn nothing more of her fate; he sighed, too, at the memory of the beautiful Margaret Mackay, and felt the keenest remorse for having slain her father.
Of the recluse he never heard more; but the daughter of Mackay reached the camp of William in safety, and in after years became the wife of her kinsman and chief, George, third Lord Reay of Farre.