A sullen day, full of chill gusts and drizzle, sinking into a wet misty night! Three hunted Jacobites, dragging themselves forward drearily, found the situation one of utter cheerlessness. For myself, misery spoke in every motion, and to say the same of Creagh and Macdonald is to speak by the card. Fatigue is not the name for our condition. Fagged out, dispirited, with legs moving automatically, we still slithered down cleughs, laboured through dingles and corries, clambered up craggy mountainsides all slippery with the wet heather, weariness tugging at our leaden feet like a convict's chain and ball. Our bones ached, our throats were limekilns, composts of sores were our ragged feet. On every side the redcoats had hemmed us in, and we knew not whether we tramped to a precarious safety or to death. Indeed, 'twas little we cared, for at last exhaustion had touched the limit of endurance. Not a word had passed the lips of any of us for hours, lest the irritation of our worn nerves should flame into open rupture. At length we stood on the summit of the ridge. Scarce a half mile from us a shieling was to be seen on the shoulder of the mount. "That looks like the cot where O'Sullivan and the Prince put up a month ago," said Creagh. Macdonald ruffled at the name like a turkeycock. Since Culloden the word had been to him as a red rag to a bull. "The devil take O'Sullivan and his race," burst out the Scotch Captain. "Gin it had not been for him the cause had not been lost." The Irishman's hot temper flared. "You forget the Macdonalds, sir," he retorted, tartly. "What ails you at the Macdonalds?" demanded the gentleman of that ilk, looking him over haughtily from head to foot. Creagh flung out his answer with an insolent laugh. "Culloden." The Macdonald's colour ebbed. "It will be a great peety that you hafe insulted me, for there will presently be a dead Irishman to stain the snow with hiss blood," he said deliberately, falling into more broken English as he always did when excited. Creagh shrugged. "That's on the knees of the gods. At the worst it leaves one less for the butcher to hang, Scotch or Irish." "It sticks in my mind that I hafe heard you are a pretty man with the steel--at the least I am thinking so," said Captain Roy, standing straight as an arrow, his blue eyes fixed steadily on his opponent. "Gadso! Betwixt and between, but I dare say my sword will serve to keep my head at all events whatefer," cried Creagh, mimicking scornfully the other's accent. Donald whipped his sword from its scabbard. "Fery well. That will make easy proving, sir." The quarrel had cropped out so quickly that hitherto I had found no time to interfere, but now I came between them and beat down the swords. "Are you mad, gentlemen? Put up your sword, Tony. Back, Macdonald, or on my soul I'll run you through," I cried. "Come on, the pair of ye. Captain Roy can fend for (look out for) himself," shouted the excited Highlander, thrusting at me.