“Come!” I cried. “Lend yourselves to me on a mission of some danger for one night and I will pledge myself a partner in your enterprise. I can promise you that the help I ask of you may be honourably given. A fair exchange is no robbery. What say you?”
“Gad’s life, I cry agreed. You’re cheap at the price, Mr. Montagu. I’m yours, Rip me, if you want me to help rum-pad a bishop’s coach,” exclaimed the Irishman.
“Mr. Creagh has just taken the words out of my mouth,” cried Donald Roy. “If you’re wanting to lift a lassie or to carry the war to a foe I’ll be blithe to stand at your back. You may trust Red Donald for that whatever.”
“You put your finger on my ambitions, Captain Macdonald. I’m wanting to do just those two things. You come to scratch so readily that I hope you have had some practice of your own,” I laughed.
There was wine on the table and I filled the glasses.
“If no other sword leaves scabbard mine shall,” I cried in a flame of new-born enthusiasm. “Gentlemen, I give you the King over the water.”
“King James! God bless him,” echoed Balmerino and Creagh.
“Deoch slaint an Righ! (The King’s Drink). And win or lose, we shall have a beautiful time of it whatever,” cried Donald gaily.
An hour later Kenneth Montagu, Jacobite, walked home arm in arm with Anthony Creagh and Donald Roy Macdonald. He was setting forth to them a tale of an imprisoned maid and a plan for the rescue of that same lady.