hem and gazed upon the
camp of Cope, covering also but a little space, so small were the
armies. His lips parted.

"Well, Old Steadfast, and what if you are there, waiting?..."

The sun sank. A faint red light diffused itself, then faded into brown
dusk. He rose and went down into the camp. In the brows of many there
might be read depression, uncertainty. But in open places fires had
been built, and about several of these Highlanders were dancing to the
screaming of their pipes. Rullock bent his steps to headquarters. An
officer whom he knew, coming forth, drew him aside in excitement.

"We've got it--we've got it, Rullock!"

"What? The plan?"

"The way through! Here has come to the Prince the man who owns the
marsh! He knows the firm ground. Cope does not know that it is there!
Cope thinks that it is all slough! This man swears that he can and
will take us across, one treading behind another. It's settled. When
sleep seems to wrap us, then we'll move!"

That was what was done, and done so perfectly, late at night, Sir John
Cope sleeping, thinking himself safe as in a castle. File after file
wound noiselessly, by the one way through the marsh, and upon the
farther side, so near to Cope, formed in the darkness into
battle-lines.... Ian Rullock, passing through the marsh, saw in
imagination Alexander lying with eyes closed.

The small force, the Stewart hope, prepared for onslaught. The dawn
was coming, there was a smell of it in the air, far away a cock
crowed. There stood, in the universal dimness, a first and strongest
line, a second and weaker, badly armed line. The mass of this army
were Highlanders, alert, strong, accustomed to dawn movements,
dreamlike in the heather, along the glen-sides, in the crooked pass.
They knew the tactics of surprise. They had claymores and targes, and
the most muskets. But the second line had inadequate provision of
weapons. Many here bore scythes fastened to staves. As they carried
these over their shoulders Ian, looking back, saw them against the
palest light like Death in replica.

The two lines hung motionless, on stout ground, now within the defense
to which Cope had trusted, very close to the latter's sleeping camp.
There were sentries, but the night was dark, the marsh believed to be
unpassable, the crossing carried out with stealthy skill. But now the
night was going.

In the most uncertain, the faintest light, there seemed to Cope's
watchers, looking that way, a line