rning had passed, and now his thoughts took a
darker turn. MacKay, no doubt, had told the truth, for he was not
capable of falsehood, but if those Englishmen were not agents of the
English government, did it follow that they were clear of suspicion?
There was some mystery about them, for if indeed they had been
Cavalier gentlemen who had abandoned the English service, would they
be so anxious to conceal themselves? Why should they refuse to let
their names be known? They had come from Livingstone's regiment. Was
it possible that they had been sent by him, and if so, for what end?
It is the penalty of once yielding to distrust that a person falls
into the habit of suspicion, and the latent jealousy of Livingstone
began to work like poison in Dundee's blood. Jean was innocent, he
would stake his life on that, but Livingstone--who knew whether the
attraction of those interviews was Dundee's cause or Dundee's wife? If
Livingstone had been in earnest, he had been with King James's men
that day; but he might be earnest enough in love, though halting
enough in loyalty. If her husband fell, he would have the freer
course in wooing the wife. What if he had arranged the assassination,
and not William's government; what if Jean, outraged by that
reflection upon her honor and infuriated by wounded pride, had
consented to this revenge? Her house had never been scrupulous, and
love changed to hate by an insult such as he had offered might be
satisfied with nothing less than blood. Stung by this venomous
thought, Dundee sprang to his feet, and looking at the westering sun,
cried to Grimond, who had been watching him with unobtrusive sympathy,
as if he read his thoughts, "Jock, the time for thinking is over, the
time for doing has come."

He rode along the line and gave his last directions to the army.
Riding from right to left, he placed himself at the head of the
cavalry, and gave the order to charge. That wild rush of Highlanders,
which swept before it, across the plain of Urrard, the thin and
panic-stricken line of regular troops, was not a battle. It was an
onslaught, a flight, a massacre, as when the rain breaks upon a
Highland mountain, and the river in the glen beneath, swollen with the
mountain water, dashes to the lowlands with irresistible devastation.
Grimond placed himself close behind his master for the charge, and
determined that if there was treachery in the ranks, the bullet that
was meant for Dundee must pass through