The Jacobite Trilogy. D. K. Broster

lit sharply the uniforms of the men who, roughly enough, lifted Ardroy from the ground, and, staggering a little, for he was no light weight, disappeared with him round the corner of the miserable little dwelling. Biting his lip, Keith watched them go; and then Mackay brought up his horse, restive at the flames. The men came out again.

      “Well, Major, are ye no’ satisfied?” asked Guthrie, already back in the saddle.

      Satisfied? No. But he was on such dangerous ground; this man’s mercy, if so it could be called, was like a bog; at any moment there might be no more foothold. A little more pressing for better treatment, and he would have Ardroy shot out of mere spite; Keith was sure of it. But—left alone, scarcely breathing . . . and in what condition had Ewen been left in there?

      “I’ll ride after you in a moment, sir,” he said. “You see, I am under a sort of obligation to this young Cameron. I’ll just go in and leave him my brandy-flask.”

      Really Major Guthrie of Campbell’s regiment had the most unpleasant eyes he had ever encountered! “As ye will, sir,” he returned. “I doot he’ll no’ be able tae thank ye. But I advise ye no’ tae be ower lang wi’ him, for I canna wait, and ’tis for me tae warn ye this time that the Duke’ll no’ be verra pleased if ye lose the way tae Perth again.” He turned his horse; Keith took the flask out of his holster, said a word to Mackay, and went round to the door of the shieling.

      It was Neil MacMartin who lay shot not far from the entrance; Keith recognised him instantly. No doubt it was only over his dead body that they had been able to get at his wounded foster-brother. Inside the tiny place it was so dark that for a moment Keith could hardly see anything; then, by a sudden red glow from without, he distinguished Ewen’s body in the far corner, on a heap of something which proved to be dried fern and heather. The soldiers had flung him back there with little regard for his wounds or for the coming cold of night. But there was a plaid lying in a heap on the floor; Keith picked this up and spread it over him. Ardroy was still senseless, but when Keith tried to arrange him more comfortably he moaned, yet it was only the faintest trickle of brandy which the Englishman could get down his throat. He desisted finally, for fear of choking him, and closed his cold, nerveless hand round the flask instead. Looking about he saw not a trace of food nor even of water, though there was an overturned bowl on the floor; he hurried out with this to the burn which he had noticed, filled it and placed it within reach. But it seemed rather a mockery, now that the only hand which might have held it to Ewen Cameron’s lips was lifeless outside. Had he done Ardroy a kindness after all in saving him from the volley?

      Mackay was in the doorway. “The redcoats iss all gone, Major. I am not seeing them now.”

      Keith jumped up. His duty came before an enemy’s plight, whatever were his feelings towards that enemy. He could do no more.

      The leaping flames outside had died down to mere incandescence, and the dead man and the senseless were left in possession of the darkening hollow where the burn’s voice, babbling on in protest or unconcern, was now the only sound to break the silence.

      CHAPTER IV

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      “Weel, sir, and was yer frien’ able tae thank ye?” enquired Major Guthrie when the Englishman overtook him at the end of the little column as it wound along the mountain-side. Keith said No, that he had not yet recovered his senses.

      “ ’Tis tae be hoped he’ll hae gotten them again when I send for him,” commented the Lowlander. “He’ll no’ be o’ muckle use else. But are ye sure, Major, that he kens whaur Lochiel is the noo?”

      “How do I know what he knows? And use—of what use do you expect him to be?” asked Keith shortly.

      “What use?” Guthrie reined up. “Losh, man, dinna ye ken there’s a thousand punds on Lochiel’s heid, that he’s likely skulking somewhere round Achnacarry or Loch Arkaig, and that tae ken his hiding-place wad be half-way tae the apprehension o’ the man himsel’! Gin ye come frae Inverness ye canna be ignorant o’ that!—And why for else did ye lay sic a stress upon yon rebel bein’ sib tae Lochiel, if ye didna mean that he wad be o’ use tae us in that capacity?”

      Keith sat his horse like a statue, and stared at the speaker with feelings which slowly whitened his own cheek. “Is it possible you imagine that I thought Ewen Cameron, a Highlander and a gentleman, would turn informer against his own Chief?”

      “Then for what ither reason,” retorted Guthrie, “when ye came wi’ yer damned interference, did ye insist on his kinship wi’ Lochiel, and imply that he kenned o’ his whereaboots?”

      “I never implied such a thing!” burst out Keith indignantly. “Not for a moment! You must most strangely have mistaken me, Major Guthrie. And if Cameron of Ardroy did know, he would never dream of betraying his knowledge!”

      “Ah,” commented Guthrie, surveying him slowly. “Then it’s no’ worth the fash o’ sendin’ for him the morn.” And smiling crookedly he touched his horse with his heel, and moved on again after his men.

      But Keith Windham remained behind on the mountain path, almost stunned with disgust. That he should be thought capable of suggesting such a reason for sparing Ewen Cameron’s life! This then was the cause of Major Guthrie’s change of intention at the mention of Lochiel’s name, the meaning of his reference to the ‘good turn’ which Major Windham had done him! Keith’s impulse was to leave the very path which Guthrie’s horse had trodden. But he could not gratify this desire; he was dependent on Guthrie’s guidance. Besides, Ardroy lay helpless and utterly alone in the hut; he had not saved him yet. Great heavens, what line was he to take to that end now?

      He moved on slowly after the Lowlander, who took no notice of him. On the narrow path they were obliged to ride in single file, but soon the track, descending to a lower level, joined a wider one, and here the Major waited for him to come abreast.

      “Since your object in hinderin’ the execution a while syne wasna zeal for His Majesty’s sairvice, as I thocht,” he observed, “ye maun gie me leave to say, Major . . . I didna richtly get yer name—that I find yer conduct unco strange.”

      “I am fully prepared to answer to my superiors for my conduct, sir,” replied Keith very stiffly. “As I told you just now, I am under an obligation to that young Cameron such as any soldier may owe to an enemy without dishonour. He spared my life when it was his for the taking, and as his prisoner last year I received very different treatment from that which we are now giving to ours!”

      “Ah, sae ye were his prisoner?” repeated Guthrie, fixing his little ferret eyes upon him. “When micht that hae been?”

      “It was after the affair at High Bridge last summer,” answered Keith shortly.

      “High Bridge!” A light seemed to dawn on Guthrie’s face—not a pleasant light. “What, it’s you that lost the twa companies of Sinclair’s there, along wi’ Scott last August—ye’ll be Major Windrum then?”

      “Windham,” corrected Keith, still more shortly.

      “Ou aye, Windham. Tae think I didna ken the man I was gangin’ wi’, me that’s aye been ettlin’ tae meet ye, for I mind hearin’ ye were pit on Hawley’s staff after yon tuilzie—ha, ha! Aye, I mind hearin’ that verra weel.—Nae offence meant, Major Windham”—for Keith’s expression was distinctly stormy—“we all hae oor meelitary misfortunes, . . . but we dinna a’ get promoted for them!—And ye were sayin’ yon rebel made ye prisoner. What did he dae wi’ ye?”

      “He accepted my parole,” said the Englishman between his teeth.

      “And let ye gang?”

      “No. I was at his house for some days, and afterwards accompanied him to Glenfinnan.”

      “Ye seem tae hae been chief wi’ him! And whaur was this hoose of his, if ye