“But the women and children, Sir John?” asked Argyll. “Ye can transport them to the colonies?”
“No,” said the Master of Stair, “no. It shall be fire and sword through Glencoe. I will not have one left alive. I am glad it is winter; now is the time to maul the wretches. Those who fly into the hills will this weather perish.”
Then fell a little silence, broken by Argyll.
“The world will call this a massacre, Sir John.”
“Maybe, my lord,” answered the Master of Stair.
“Do ye repent, cousin?” flashed Breadalbane.
“No,” answered Argyll uneasily. “These Macdonalds have been a plague-spot in our ands for lang enow—but—”
“We have done with ‘buts’!” cried Sir John. “I am resolved these thieves shall go and they go. The government is strong enough to bear the blame—and you shall have the King’s warrant, my Lord Argyll.”
He rose and touched the bell.
“I will show you the plan I have made of Glencoe,” he continued, “whereby—securing the pass of Rannoch—we cut off every retreat.”