“I’m sorry to lose your company, gentlemen,” said he, “even for a day; but this is a delicate embassy, and I can fancy no one better able to carry it through successfully than the two gentlemen who have done more delicate and dangerous work in the ranks of the honourable Scots Brigade.”
“I can say for myself,” said John, “that there’s not a man in Keppoch could guess my nativity or my politics if I had on another tartan than that of the Diarmaid.”
“Ah! you have the tongue, no doubt of it,” said Argile, smiling; “and if a change of colour would make your task less hazardous, why not effect it? I’m sure we could accommodate you with some neutral fabric for kilt and plaid.”
“For the humour of the thing,” said John, “I would like to try it; but I have no notion of getting hanged for a spy. James Grahame of Montrose has enough knowledge of the polite arts of war to know the difference between a spy in his camp in a false uniform and a scout taking all the risks of the road by wearing his own colours. In the one case he would hang us offhand, in the other there’s a hair’s-breadth of chance that he might keep us as hostages.”
“But in any tartan, cousin, you’re not going to let yourself be caught,” said Argile. “We have too much need for you here. Indeed, if I thought you were not certain to get through all right, I would send cheaper men in your place.”
John laughed.
“There’s no more cure,” said he, “for death in a common herd than for the same murrain in an ensign of foot.”
“A scholar’s sentiment!” cried Argile. “Are you taking to the philosophies?”
“It’s the sentiment, or something like it, of your chaplain, Master Gordon,” said John; “he reproved me with it on Dunchuach. But to do myself justice, I was never one who would run another into any danger I was unwilling to face myself.”
The Marquis said no more, so we set about preparing for the journey.