While the Duke of Cumberland established himself in Fort Augustus, exercising to the full all those cruelties which made him deserve the name of butcher, while the most fortunate of his enemies escaped with great difficulty, Prince Charles Edward, as his grand-uncle, King Charles II., had formerly done after the battle of Worcester, wandered from hiding-place to hiding-place, exhausted, dying of hunger, a hundred times recognized, forced to trust to the poorest people, to the most powerless of his friends, yet everywhere served, assisted, defended, with a devotion which was proof against everything. He had taken refuge in the little archipelago which bears the name of Long Island. The English vessels cruised along the coasts; houses were incessantly searched; peasants were arrested; the danger was increasing every day. A young girl, Miss Flora Macdonald, who was on a visit in the Isle of Wight succeeded in procuring herself a passport for the Isle of Skye. She disguised the prince, and, taking him in her suite as a lady's maid, went for refuge to the house of her cousin, Sir Alexander Macdonald, who had been constantly adverse to Charles Edward's attempt, and had ended by actively opposing it. His wife, Lady Margaret, seconded Flora's efforts. The castle was filled with militia officers, but she succeeded in effecting the prince's escape. Some days later he crossed to the Isle of Rosay, almost at the moment when his deliverer, Flora Macdonald, was arrested and conducted to London, where her detention lasted about a year. Some people found fault with Lady Margaret's conduct, the Princess of Wales being of the number. "In such a case would you not have done as much?" said her husband, turning quickly upon her. "I hope so; I am sure of it." The persevering fidelity of the Jacobites endowed Flora Macdonald. After five months of perils and sufferings courageously endured, the fugitive prince at last set foot in France. He embarked on the 20th of September at Lochmanagh, almost at the same place where he had formerly landed full of the most joyous and brilliant hopes. {217} "Nothing troubled him, neither fatigues nor privations," said one of the temporary companions of his flight. "He alone should suffer," he said; but when he thought of all those who were in peril for his sake, his heart was strained and on the verge of losing courage. His name long dwelt in the popular songs of the highlands, which remained persistently faithful to the remembrance of common efforts and dangers. "I have had sons; I no longer have any. I have brought them up with difficulty, but I would be willing to bear them all again and to lose them for love of Charles."