tone.

"Whisht, man, whisht," he cried, "are ye weary of your life? Ye'll gie
_my_ service, Bailie Nicol Jarvie's service--a magistrate o' Glasgow, as
his father was before him--to the commanding officer, and tell him that
there are here a wheen honest men in sore trouble, and like to come to
mair. And tell him that the best thing he can do for the common good is
just to let Rob come his ways up the glen, and nae mair about it! There
has been some ill done already, but as it has lighted mostly on the
exciseman Morris it will not be muckle worth making a stir about!"

So young Hamish Mac-Gregor led Frank Osbaldistone across the mountains
to the place where his father's captors, the horsemen of the Lennox, had
taken up their position on a rocky eminence, where they would be safe
from any sudden attack of the mountaineers.

Before parting he made Frank promise not to reveal, either who had
guided him thither, or where he had parted from his conductor. Happily
Frank was not asked either of these questions. He and Andrew (who, in a
tattered cloak and with a pair of brogues on his feet, looked like a
Highland scarecrow) were soon perceived by the sentries and conducted to
the presence of the commanding officer, evidently a man of rank, in a
steel cuirass, crossed by the ribband of the Thistle, to whom the
others seemed to pay great deference. This proved to be no other than
his Grace the Duke of Montrose, who in person had come to conduct the
operations against his enemy, Rob Roy.

Frank's message was instantly listened to, and very clearly and
powerfully he pointed out what would occur if Rob Roy were not suffered
to depart. But the Duke bade him return to those who sent him, and tell
them that if they touched so much as a hair upon the heads of their
hostages, he would make their glens remember it for a hundred years. As
for Rob Roy, he must surely die!

But Frank Osbaldistone pointed out that to return with such a message
would be to go to certain death, and pleaded for some reply which might
save the lives of Captain Thornton, the Bailie, and the soldiers who
were captive in Helen Mac-Gregor's hands upon the hostile shores of Loch
Ard.

"Why, if you cannot go yourself, send your servant!" returned the Duke.
At which Andrew burst forth. He had had, he said, enough and to spare of
Highland hospitality.

"The deil be in my feet," quoth Andrew, "if I go the length of my toe
on such an errand. Do the folk think I have