CHAPTER XV.—CONFESSIONS OF A MARQUIS.
In a few hours, as it were, the news that the enemy had left the country was put about the shire, and people returned to pick up the loose ends of the threads of family and affairs. Next day my lord the Marquis came round Lochlong and Glencroe in a huge chariot with four wheels, the first we had ever seen in these parts, a manner of travel incumbent upon him because of a raxed shoulder he had met with at Dunbarton. He came back to a poor reception: the vestiges of his country’s most bitter extremity were on every hand, and, what was bound to be embarrassing to any nobleman of spirit, there was that in the looks and comportment of his clansmen that must have given MacCailein some unpleasant thought.
Behind his lordship came eleven hundred Lowland levies that had been with Baillie in England, and to command them came his cousin, Sir Duncan Campbell of Auchinbreac, luckily new over from Ireland, and in the spirit for campaigning. A fiery cross was sent round the clan, that in better times should easily have mustered five thousand of the prettiest lads ever trod heather, but it brought only a remnant of a thousand, and the very best that would have been welcome under the galley flag were too far afield for the summons to reach them in time. But every well-affected branch of Clan Campbell sent its gentlemen to officer our brigade.
A parley of war held in the castle determined on immediate pursuit of Montrose to Lochaber, keeping within easy distance, but without attacking till he was checked in front by troops that had gone up to flank him by way of Stirling. I was at the council, but had little to do with its decision, though the word of M’Iver and myself (as was due to cavaliers of experience) was invited with respect.
We were to march in two days; and as I had neither house nor ha’ to shelter me, seeing the old place up the glen was even more of a ruin than in Donald Gorm’s troubles, when the very roof-tree was thrown in Dhuloch, I shared quarters with M’Iver in the castle, where every available corner was occupied by his lordship’s guests.
When these other guests were bedded, and the house in all our wing of it was still, my comrade and I sat down to a tasse of brandy in our chamber, almost blythe, as you would say, at the prospect of coming to blows with our country’s spoilers. We were in the midst of a most genial crack when came a faint rap at the door, and in steps the goodman, as solemn as a thunder-cloud, in spite of the wan smile he fixed upon his countenance. He bore his arm out of his sleeve in a sling, and his hair was un-trim, and for once a most fastidious nobleman was anything but perjink.
“I cry pardon, gentlemen!” he said in Gaelic, “for breaking in on my guests’ privacy; but I’m in no humour for sleeping, and I thought you might have a spare glass for a friend.”
“It’s your welcome, Argile,” said I, putting a wand chair to the front for him. He sat himself down in it with a sigh of utter weariness, and nervously poking the logs on the fire with a purring-iron, looked sadly about the chamber.
It was his wife’s tiring-room, or closet, or something of that nature, fitted up hastily for our accommodation, and there were signs of a woman’s dainty hand and occupation about it The floor was carpeted, the wall was hung with arras; a varnish ‘scrutoire, some sweet-wood boxes, two little statues of marble, two raised silver candlesticks with snuffers conform, broidery-work unfinished, and my lord’s picture, in a little gilded frame hanging over a dressing-table, were among its womanly plenishing.