“Athol,” said the prince, as he beheld the crowd becoming pale and horror-struck at the broadswords of his Highland troops, “sheath your weapons.”
“Where?” asked the fiery duke. “Where, my prince? In their cowardly carcasses, and thus let out their base and craven souls? The English say that those of our nation are cold and heartless. They should know that the mountain breezes carry on their wings, fire to the soul. Well, if we are cold, we are keen; aye, as these our good and true weapons, which they have, at times, tried, if I mistake not.”
“They belie you, and that they know full well. My Scottish troops—gaze upon them—are furious: a word will fire them, and a thousand will fail to extinguish the flame. Nay,” he added gently but firmly, “sheath your swords in their scabbards,—in their scabbards. The inhabitants are loyal.”
The last words, accompanied as they were by the sudden sinking of the swords into their scabbards, called forth a long and loud shout from the gazing multitude, though they perceived that at the sound of the bagpipe, the soldiers often placed their hands upon the hilt of their swords, as if they could, with difficulty, refrain from drawing them. The streets were all lined with spectators, the most of whom seemed to have forgotten their loyalty to the reigning sovereign. The Chevalier dismounted from his steed, and marched on foot. Many a fair dame threw pitying looks upon his form, and, struck with admiration, silently implored a blessing, and full success upon his romantic endeavours; and as the band played merrily, “the King shall have his own again,” they chorused and encored it, with fond eyes, and waving handkerchiefs. He gallantly bowed to them as he passed on; and thus sent many a beautiful creature home, to dream of him, and when she awoke, in the intervals, to wet her pillow with tears, and pray for his safety. Roses were thrown upon him, from some of the terraces; he stooped to pick them up, but they were faded, for they were summer flowers, and had been gathered under the setting sun, many months before, and he sighed as he thought of his own fortunes. But this did not prevent him from kissing his hand in return, to those who had showered them down, and they, of course, thought that they were much sweeter roses themselves; and perhaps they were. The crowd enthusiastically cheered him all the way.
“Athol, will they be as ready to give me assistance by money, as they are to proffer their cheers?” asked the prince.
“We give our blood,” replied the duke. “We place our heads as your stepping stones to the throne, which is your rightful seat; and shall not Englishmen give their money? Appoint a few of the brave men under my command, as beggars, and trust me, that swords and dirks in their hands, will levy something considerable. Steel can find its way through coffers, and, without much ceremony, enter pockets. Can it not?” and the chieftain smiled darkly.
“A freebooter still, Athol, although you have left your native glen and castle. When shall I be able to make thee a courtier?”
“When I shall assist to make thee a king. Nay, noble prince, frown not upon thy humble and trusty subject. I am a little chafed. Nevertheless, is it not my duty to assist in making thee a king?”
“Thou hast, indeed, a true heart,” answered the Chevalier, “though thy manners are not exactly so faultless, and may, with much advantage, be reformed and amended. Nay, frown not in turn. Montrose, are we yet within sight of our palace?”
The marquess, thus addressed, stepped forward, and having paid his marks of reverence, replied,—