a body of
dragoons at the gallop. Single fugitives he disarmed and dismounted,
sending the horses back to the Prince by the hands of country lads.
Once he had to discharge his pistol after a servant and pony, but for
the most part the terrified soldiers yielded at a word.

Entering the Netherbow, he galloped up the streets of Edinburgh
shouting, 'Victory! victory!' From every window in the High Street and
Luckenbows white caps looked out, while the streets were crowded with
eager citizens, and joyful hurrahs were heard on every side. At Lucky
Wilson's, in the Lawn Market, the young gentleman alighted, called for
breakfast, and sent for the magistrates to deliver his orders that the
gates were to be closed against any fugitive dragoons. Hat in hand, the
magistrates waited on the Prince's aide-de-camp, but at that moment the
cry arose that dragoons and soldiers were coming up the street. Up jumps
Mr. Oliphant and out into the street, faces eight or nine dragoons, and
commands them to dismount in the Prince's name. This the craven
Hanoverians were quite prepared to do. Only one presented his piece at
the young officer. Mr. Oliphant snapped his pistol at him, forgetting
that it was empty. Immediately half a dozen shots were fired at him, but
so wildly that none did him any harm beyond shattering his buckle, and
he retreated hastily up one of the dark steep lanes that led into a
close.

The commander of the Castle refused to admit the fugitives, threatened
even to fire on them as deserters, and they had to gallop out at the
West Port and on to Stirling. Another of the Prince's officers,
Colquhoun Grant, drove a party of dragoons before him all the way into
Edinburgh, and stuck his bloody dirk into the Castle gates as a
defiance.

Sadder was the fate of another Perthshire gentleman, as young and as
daring as Lawrence Oliphant. David Thriepland, with a couple of
servants, had followed the dragoons for two miles from the field; they
had fled before him, but, coming to a halt, they discovered that their
pursuers numbered no more than three. They turned on them and cut them
down with their swords. Many years afterwards, when the grass was rank
and green on Mr. Thriepland's grave, a child named Walter Scott, sitting
on it, heard the story from an old lady who had herself seen the death
of the young soldier.

The next day (Sunday) the Prince held his triumphant entry up the High
Street of Edinburgh. Clan after clan marched pas