Then in the gray breaking of the day Malcolm turned to confess what I had already suspected, that he had lost the way in the darkness. We were at present shut in a sea of fog, a smirr of mist and rain, but when that lifted he could not promise that we would not be close on the campfires of the dragoons. His fine face was a picture of misery, and bitterly he reproached himself for the danger into which he had led the Prince. The Young Chevalier told him gently that no blame was attaching to him; rather to us all for having made the attempt in such a night.
For another hour we sat on the dripping heather opposite the corp-white face of the Macleod waiting for the mist to lift. The wanderer exerted himself to keep us in spirits, now whistling a spring of Clanranald’s march, now retailing to us the story of how he had walked through the redcoats as Miss Macdonald’s Betty Burke. It may be conceived with what anxiety we waited while the cloud of moisture settled from the mountain tops into the valleys.
“By Heaven, sir, we have a chance,” cried Malcolm suddenly, and began to lead the way at a great pace up the steep slope. For a half hour we scudded along, higher and higher, always bearing to the right and at such a burst of speed that I judged we must be in desperate danger. The Prince hung close to the heels of Malcolm, but I was a sorry laggard ready to die of exhaustion. When the mist sank we began to go more cautiously, for the valley whence we had just emerged was dotted at intervals with the campfires of the soldiers. Cautiously we now edged our way along the slippery incline, keeping in the shadow of great rocks and broom wherever it was possible. ’Tis not in nature to walk unmoved across an open where every bush may hide a sentinel who will let fly at one as gladly as at a fat buck—yes, and be sure of thirty thousand pounds if he hit the right mark. I longed for eyes in the back of my head, and every moment could feel the lead pinging its way between my shoulder blades.
Major Macleod had from his youth stalked the wary stag, and every saugh and birch and alder in our course was made to yield us its cover. Once a muircock whirred from my very feet and brought my heart to my mouth. Presently we topped the bluff and disappeared over its crest. Another hour of steady tramping down hill and the blue waters of the sound stretched before us. ’Twas time. My teeth chattered and my bones ached. I was sick—sick—sick.
“And here we are at the last,” cried the Major with a deep breath of relief. “I played the gomeral brawly, but in the darkness we blundered ram-stam through the Sassenach lines.”
“‘Fortuna favet fatuis,’” quoted the Young Chevalier. “Luck for fools! The usurper’s dragoons will have to wait another day for their thirty thousand pounds. Eh, Montagu?” he asked me blithely; then stopped to stare at me staggering down the beach. “What ails you, man?”
I was reeling blindly like a drunkard, and our Prince put an arm around my waist. I resisted feebly, but he would have none of it; the arm of a king’s son (de jure) supported me to the boat.
We found as boatmen not only Murdoch Macleod but his older brother Young Raasay, the only one of the family that had not been “out” with our army. He had been kept away from the rebellion to save the family estates, but his heart was none the less with us.
“And what folly is this, Ronald?” cried Malcolm when he saw the head of the house on the links. “Murdoch and I are already as black as we can be, but you were to keep clean of the Prince’s affairs. It wad be a geyan ill outcome gin we lost the estates after all. The red cock will aiblins craw at Raasay for this.”
“I wass threepin’ so already, but he wass dooms thrang to come. He’ll maybe get his craig raxed (neck twisted) for his ploy,” said Murdoch composedly.