The Jacobite Trilogy. D. K. Broster

that I am afraid I cannot tell you,” replied Keith sourly. “I was never at Achnacarry, and I have no knowledge of the neighbourhood. I am not a Scotsman.”

      “Fine I ken that! But e’en a Southron has lugs tae his heid, and ye maun hae heard tell the name o’ the district whaur yon rebel’s hoose was situate? If ye canna tell me that I’ll be forced tae think——” He broke off with a grin.

      “And what, pray, will you be forced to think?” demanded Keith, surveying him from under his lids.

      “Aweel, I suld think ye could jalouse that,” was Guthrie’s reply. “Come noo, Major, ye can surely mind some landmark or ither?”

      It was no use fencing any more. “Mr. Cameron’s house was near a little lake called the Eagle’s Lake, in the mountains some way to the north of Loch Arkaig.”

      “Ah, thank ye, Major Windham, for the effort,” said Guthrie with another grin. “I hae a map in the camp. . . . And syne ye couldna be pairted frae yer rebel frien’, but gaed wi’ him to Glenfinnan tae see the ploy there?”

      “Do you suppose I went willingly? I have told you that I was his prisoner.”

      “But ye were at Glenfinnan wi’ him, and that’s o’ moment too, for nae doot ye’d see him an’ Lochiel the-gither. Did ye no’?”

      “Once or twice.”

      “And hoo did they seem—on intimate terrms wi’ ane anither?”

      “I was not concerned to spy upon them,” retorted Keith, who had an instant picture of the Chief as he had once seen him, with an affectionate hand on Ewen’s shoulder, a picture he was not going to pass on. “I have told you that they were cousins.”

      “Aye, ye tellt me that. But ilka Highlander is cousin tae twenty mair.” They rode on for perhaps a moment in silence, and then Guthrie began again. “See here, Major Windham, what the de’il’s the gude o’ tellin’ me the Cameron’s this and that, and syne, when ye’ve hindered me frae shootin’ him as he desairves, tae begin makin’ oot he’s naething o’ the sort? I suppose ye’ll say noo he wasna aide-de-camp tae the Pretender’s son neither?”

      “I am not in the habit of telling lies,” replied Keith. “He was aide-de-camp to the Pretender’s son, at least when the Highland army occupied Edinburgh, and that, as I said, and say still, is an excellent reason for not shooting him out of hand.”

      “Ye met him in Enbra, then?”

      “I did.”

      “As an enemy or a frien’?”

      “As an enemy, of course.” Keith was having to keep a tight hold of himself. “Yet there again he put me under an obligation.” And at Guthrie’s expression he was unable to resist adding, “But I dare warrant the recognition of an obligation is no part of your creed, sir.”

      Guthrie met this thrust instantly. “And me that gleg the noo tae allow mine tae ye! Fie, Major! But as a plain soldier I’m thinkin’ there’s ower muckle obleegation atween you and yer Cameron; ye’re gey frien’ly wi’ him for an enemy, rinnin’ in like that when ye micht hae gotten a ball in yer ain wame. But since ye assure me he’ll no’ tell what he kens aboot Lochiel, he maun e’en bide in yon shieling and rot there, for it’s no’ worth a brass bodle tae bring him in.”

      Keith’s heart sank at these words. Yet he could not bring himself to assert that Ardroy would impart his knowledge (if he had any), for he was certain that he would rather die than do such a thing. Yet somehow he must be got out of that desolate place.

      He summoned up all his own powers of dissimulation.

      “You are quite mistaken, Major Guthrie,” he said carelessly. “I am not a friend of Mr. Cameron’s in the sense that you imply, and I should be as glad as anyone to hear of Lochiel’s capture—if it would advance His Majesty’s affairs in this kingdom.” He added this qualifying clause to salve his own conscience, since Lochiel’s capture was about the last he would rejoice at. But he had to say something worse than this, and he did it with loathing, and a hesitation which perhaps served him better than he knew, fidgeting meanwhile with his horse’s reins. “You know, sir, that although I am sure Mr. Cameron would never answer a direct question, he might perhaps drop . . . inadvertently drop . . . some hint or other—and I presume you have a certain measure of knowledge and might find a hint valuable—I mean that it might, by good luck, complete your information. At least I should think that it would be worth your while to bring him into camp on the chance of it.”

      It sounded to him so desperately feeble a bait that it was surely to no purpose that he had soiled his lips with its utterance. Yet Guthrie appeared to respond to the suggestion with surprising alacrity.

      “Drap a hint,” he said meditatively, rubbing his chin. “Aye, maybe. Thank ye for the notion, Major; I’ll e’en think it ower. I could aiblins drap a hint mysel’.” And they rode on in silence for a few minutes after that, Keith not knowing whether he more detested himself or the man beside him.

      But by the time that they came in sight of the little river Tarff, which they must ford before they could get up to the Corryarrick road, Major Guthrie was busy weaving what he evidently considered a highly diverting explanation of his companion’s interest in ‘yon rebel’, which he now refused to attribute to the alleged ‘obligation’ under which Major Windham professed to labour. “I see it a’,” he chuckled; “he had a bonny sister, and she was kind tae ye, Major—kind as yon ither lass of a Cameron was kind to the Pretender’s son. Or a wife maybe? Oot wi’ it, ye sly dog——” And for a moment or two he gave rein to a fancy so coarse that Keith, no Puritan himself, yet innately fastidious, longed to shut his mouth.

      “And that’s how ye repaid his hospitality, Major,” finished the humorist as they splashed through the Tarff. “ ’Tis a guilty conscience, not gratitude, garred ye save him!”

      After that he reverted to the subject of his companion’s staff appointment, which seemed to possess a sort of fascination for him, and tapped a very galling and indeed insulting vein of pleasantry in regard to it. And Keith, who would not have endured a quarter of this insolence from anyone else in the world, no, not from the Duke of Cumberland himself, swallowed it because he knew that Ewen Cameron’s life hung on this man’s pleasure. First of all his companion supposed that General Hawley did not know what a viper he was cherishing in his bosom, in the shape of an officer who possessed a weakness for rebels which could certainly not be attributed to that commander himself; of this Keith took no notice, so Major Guthrie passed on to affect to find something mightily amusing in the distinction of staff rank having been bestowed on a man who had run away at the first shot of the campaign. He actually used the expression, but at once safeguarded himself by adding, with a laugh, “Nae offence, my dear Major! I ken weel the twa companies o’ Sinclair’s just spat and gied ower, and you and Scott could dae nae less but gang wi’ them—’twas yer duty.” But after a moment he added with a chuckle, “Forbye ye rinned farther than the rest, I’ve heard!”

      Ardroy or no Ardroy, this was too much. Keith reined up. Yet, since it seemed deliberate provocation, he kept surprisingly cool. “Major Guthrie, I’d have you know I do not take such insinuations from any man alive! If you know so much about me, you must know also that Captain Scott sent me back to fetch reinforcements from Fort Augustus.”

      Guthrie, pulling up too, smote himself upon the thigh. “Aye, I micht ha’ kent it! Forgie me, Major Windham—yon was a pleasantry. I aye likit ma joke!”

      “Allow me to say, then, that I do not share your taste,” riposted Keith, with a brow like thunder. “If we were not both on active service at the moment——”

      “Ye’d gar me draw, eh? Dinna be that hot, man! ’Twas an ill joke, I confess, and I ask yer pardon for it,” said Guthrie with complete good-humour. “See, yonder’s the camp, and ye’re gaun tae sup wi’ me.”

      Keith wished with all his heart that he were not. But he felt, rightly or wrongly, that