“He is of the line of our ancient monarchs. He and his race have ruled us a thousand years,” urged Balmerino. “They have had their faults perhaps——”
“Perhaps,” I smiled.
“Well, and if they have,” cried Donald Roy hotly in the impetuous Highland way. “Is this a time to be remembering them? For my part, I will be forgetting their past faults and minding only their present distresses.”
“It appears as easy for a Highlander to forget the faults of the Stuarts as it is for them to forget his services,” I told him.
“Oh, you harp on their faults. Have you none of your own?” cried Elphinstone impatiently. “I have seen and talked with the young Prince. He is one to follow to the death. I have never met the marrow of him.”
“I think of the thousands who will lose their lives for him.”
“Well, and that’s a driech subject, too, but Donald Roy would a hantle rather die with claymore in hand and the whiddering steel aboot his head than be always fearing to pay the piper,” said the young Highlander blithely.
“Your father was out for the King in the ’15,” said Balmerino gently.
Oh, Arthur Elphinstone had the guile for all his rough ways. I was moved more than I cared to own. Many a time I had sat at my father’s knee and listened to the tale of “the ’15.” The Highland blood in me raced the quicker through my veins. All the music of the heather hills and the wimpling burns wooed me to join my kinsmen in the North. My father’s example, his brother’s blood, loyalty to the traditions of my family, my empty purse, the friendship of Balmerino and Captain Macdonald, all tugged at my will; but none of them were so potent as the light that shone in the eyes of a Highland lassie I had never met till one short hour before. I tossed aside all my scruples and took the leap.
“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.
Chapter IV
Of Love and War
All day the rain had splashed down with an unusual persistence, but now there was a rising wind and a dash of clear sky over to the south which promised fairer weather. I was blithe to see it, for we had our night’s work cut out for us and a driving storm would not add to our comfort.
From my hat, from the elbows of my riding-coat, and from my boot-heels constant rivulets ran; but I took pains to keep the pistols under my doublet dry as toast. At the courtyard of the inn I flung myself from my horse and strode to the taproom where my companions awaited me. In truth they were making the best of their circumstances. A hot water jug steamed in front of the hearth where Creagh lolled in a big armchair. At the table Captain Macdonald was compounding a brew by the aid of lemons, spices, and brandy. They looked the picture of content, and I stood streaming in the doorway a moment to admire the scene.
“What luck, Montagu?” asked Creagh.
“They’re at ‘The Jolly Soldier’ all right en route for Epsom,” I told him. “Arrived a half hour before I left. Hamish Gorm is hanging about there to let us know when they start. Volney has given orders for a fresh relay of horses, so they are to continue their journey to-night.”
“And the lady?”
“The child looks like an angel of grief. She is quite out of hope. Faith, her despair took me by the heart.”
“My certes! I dare swear it,” returned Donald Roy dryly. “And did you make yourself known to her?”
“No, she went straight to her room. Volney has given it out that the lady is his wife and is demented. His man Watkins spreads the report broadcast to forestall any appeal she may make for help. I talked with the valet in the stables. He had much to say about how dearly his master and his mistress loved each other, and what a pity ’twas that the lady has lately fallen out of her mind by reason of illness. ’Twas the one thing that spoilt the life of Mr. Armitage, who fairly dotes on his sweet lady. Lud, yes! And one of her worst delusions is that he is not really her husband and that he wishes to harm her. Oh, they have contrived well their precious story to avoid outside interference.”
I found more than one cause to doubt the fortunate issue of the enterprise upon which we were engaged. Volney might take the other road; or he might postpone his journey on account of the foul weather. Still other contingencies rose to my mind, but Donald Roy and Creagh made light of them.
“Havers! If he is the man you have drawn for me he will never be letting a smirr of rain interfere with his plans; and as for the other road, it will be a river in spate by this time,” the Highlander reassured me.
“Sure, I’ll give you four to one in ponies the thing does not miscarry,” cried Creagh in his rollicking way. “After the King comes home I’ll dance at your wedding, me boy; and here’s to Mrs. Montagu that is to be, bedad!”
My wildest dreams had never carried me so far as this yet, and I flushed to my wig at his words; but the wild Irishman only laughed at my remonstrance.
“Faith man, ’tis you or I! ’Twould never do for three jolly blades like us to steal the lady from her lover and not offer another in exchange. No, no! Castle Creagh is crying for a mistress, and if you don’t spunk up to the lady Tony Creagh will.”
To his humour of daffing I succumbed, and fell into an extraordinary ease with the world. Here I sat in a snug little tavern with the two most taking comrades in the world drinking a hot punch brewed to a nicety, while outside the devil of a storm roared and screamed.
As for my companions, they were old campaigners, not to be ruffled by the slings
