ld do. My own mind had no idea save the one that we were bound
to keep in touch with the company whose prisoners we were, but M'Iver
hinted at an alternative scarce so honest--namely, a desertion and a
detour to the left that would maybe lead us to the Campbell army before
active hostilities began.

"You would surely not break parole?" said I, surprised, for he was
usually as honourable in such matters as any Highlander I ever met.

"Bah!" he cried, pretending contempt at hesitation, though I could
perceive by his voice he was somewhat ashamed of the policy he proposed.
"Who quitted the contract first? Was it not that Stewart gentleman on
your other side who broke it in a most dastardly way by aiming at your
life?"

"I'm thankful for the life you saved, John," said I, "little worth
though it seems at this time, but Montrose is not to be held responsible
for the sudden impulse of a private. We made our pact as between
gentleman and gentleman--let us be going."

"Oh, very well!" said he, shortly. "Let us be going. After all, we are
in a trap anyway we look at all; for half the Stewarts and Gainerons are
behind in the wood there, and our flank retreat among these hills might
be a tempting of Providence. But are you thinking of this Athole corp
and what his kin will be doing to his slayers?"

"I'll risk it," I said, shortly. "We may be out of their hands one way
or the other before they miss him."

On a sudden there rose away before us towards the mouth of the glen the
sound of a bagpipe. It came on the tranquil air with no break in its
uproar, and after a preparatory tuning it broke into an air called
"Cogadh no Sith"--an ancient braggart pibroch made by one Macruimen of
the Isle of Skye,--a tune that was commonly used by the Campbells as a
night-retreat or tattoo.

My heart filled with the strain. It gave me not only the simple illusion
that I saw again the regimentals of my native country--many a friend and
comrade among them in the shelter of the Castle of Inverlochy--but it
roused in me a spirit very antique, very religious and moving too, as
the music of his own land must in every honest Gael.

"_Cruachan_ for ever!" I said lightly to M'Iver, though my heart was
full.

He was as much touched by that homely lilt as myself. "The old days, the
old styles!" said he. "God! how that pibroch stings me to the core!" And
as the tune came more clearly in the second part, or _Crunluadh_ as we
call it, and the player m