“Well, my lass,” said he, “I’m off. I’ve joined the army for the north, and now I’ll be on the track of the rebels. If I meet your Highland lover, there’ll be blows, and the end will be that you’ll have no difficulty to make a choice between us. If I live, I’ll come back to claim you. One kiss now, and then good-bye.”
Without waiting to see if the girl would give consent, he drew her to him in a grasp that would admit of no resistance, and kissed her. Then without another word he left the inn, and went swinging on his way.
The weeks passed, and the grey dawn broke upon the heath near Culloden, where the English and the Scottish armies lay. With the dawn the Duke of Cumberland set out on his march, and shortly after mid-day the roar of the English artillery told that the battle had begun. All the world knows the history of that fight, how the fierce Highlanders, rendered desperate by the play of the cannon upon their ranks, burst into that wild and ill-fated charge which met with a bloody repulse; but there are personal details of the conflict that the world knows nothing of.
When the Highland line darted forward, there moved in the front rank a “braw” young Scot, whom one at least of the Royal troops welcomed with a shout of joy. For an instant the weight of the Scottish column caused the English regiment to waver before the impetus of the charge. But there was one man who never gave ground an inch—the Longdendale Loyalist—Robin Shaw. He had seen among the charging host the form of the soldier who had tampered with his love in distant Longdendale, and with a shout he set himself in front of his foe.
“Now, my merry rebel,” he cried; “we meet again. We will settle old scores.”
“Thou art welcome,” cried the Highlander, crossing blades. “We fight for the love of a lass and—King James.”
“For the love of a lass, and King George,” said honest Robin Shaw.
And with that the fight began.
Now, Robin was no match for his foe save in strength. In skill of sword play, the Scot was greatly the superior of the two, and the result was not long in doubt. Before he knew where he was, Robin’s blade was dashed from his grasp, and the sword of the Highlander thrust him through. Robin grew sick, and a mist rose before his eyes, but in the mist he could still make out the triumphant face of his foe. With teeth firmly set, he pulled himself together, and sprang at the throat of the Scot. In vain the latter drew back. Before he could draw his dirk, the Longdendale lad had him by the throat, gripping him like a vice. The men fell to the ground, rolling over and over in the struggle, but the grip of Robin never slackened, and at length both lay still. Another moment and the beaten wave of the Highlanders swept over them, and the victorious English charged past in pursuit. The battle of Culloden was fought and won; Charles Edward was beaten, and the Stuart cause for ever lost.
When the burial parties passed over the battlefield, they found two corpses firmly locked together—an Englishman run through the body by the other’s sword—a Scotchman strangled to death by the grip of his foe. The dead man’s grip might not be loosened, and they buried the bodies in one common grave.