Lord Stair turned slowly to the speaker.
“A tale springing from the Jacks,” he said scornfully. “Will any believe it? It does not trouble me. I have not even heard their version.”
“Ye are ower sure, Lord Stair—the work has been slow but certain—the tale is in every mouth.”
“What tale, my lord?”
“The tale o’ what they call the massacre o’ Glencoe.”
“What do they say?” asked Lord Stair with a disdainful smile.
“They say that the Macdonalds were murdered by your orders—they say that the soldiers entered the Glen by black treachery, feigning friendship, that they lived there ower a fortnicht, feasting and drinking, that they rose one nicht and murdered the clan in their beds, butchered them, men, women and children, with every cruelty—that is the tale they tell, Lord Stair.”
“It is a lie.”
“Yea—it is a lee—but ye canna, I ken, prove it a lee. The inquiry will be behind closed doors—it will be conducted by your enemies; ye hae all Scotland believing this lee—and against ye.”
Lord Stair spoke impatiently.