Angus gave him such information as he had received of late, whereupon the Prince questioned us on both our families, calling them all properly by name—Scottos, Glengarry, Barisdale, and others—without a single mistake. "Do not be surprised I should know you all," he said, smiling; "His Majesty and I are never tired hearing of the names that are dear to us."
Then he questioned us somewhat—but not too closely—of ourselves, and we were able to answer without confusion, so gracious was his manner and so friendly his dark-brown eyes.
"Do you ever think," he said, changing suddenly, "what it means never to have known your own country? You are happier far than I, for some day you will return home to the land you love, and I, when I put my foot upon it, must do so as a stranger and an outcast, taking my life in my hand."
"Your Royal Highness," I said, "every loyal heart in the Highlands beats for you. and every true arm will draw for you whenever you come!" And the tears stood in my eyes so that I could hardly see him before me.
"God grant it," he answered, fervidly. Then, laying a hand on my shoulder, he said: "And now let me hear the Gaelic. I love the very sound of it!"
My Uncle Scottos' constant toast sprang at once to my lips: "'Soraidh do'n Bhata 'tha âir saille 'y d'on t-soirbheas a tha' scideadh agus do na cridheachan a tha' feitheamh teachd a' Phrionnsa!'"
"What is it?" he asked, eagerly.
"'Good luck to the boat that is at sea and to the breeze that is blowing, and to the hearts that are waiting for the Coming of the Prince!'" I answered, turning it into such English as I might.
"'The Coming of the Prince—the Coming of the Prince,'" he repeated over to himself. But here Mr. Murray ventured to cough, meaningly, and the Prince said, as if in answer, "Yes, yes; I must go," and, with the words that we would meet again, he shook hands with us all and withdrew.
I am an old man now, and have seen every hope of the Cause I once held dearer than life blasted beyond recovery; but no personal knowledge of the pitiable failure, no evil report of the heart-breaking degradation, the selfishness, and self-destruction of all that was noble and kinglike in that beautiful young life—God pity me I should write such words of one so dear!—have availed even to dim the Godlike presence that revealed itself before us so graciously on that November afternoon in the Palace of the Santi Apostoli.