Just before our first visit to Scotland, Quandril had been reading Scott’s story of “Aunt Margaret’s Mirror,” the scenes of which romance are laid in Lady Stair’s house and “close.” Since that time Marjorie Bowen has put in fiction some of the salient incidents of the king’s life, and thus brought him to the notice of many tens of thousands of readers to whom he had been previously but a name. The novel entitled “The Master of Stair” treats of the Glencoe incident, with great detail and with wonderful vividness and great literary power. The title of the book is identical with that of the title of Sir James Dalrymple, first Viscount of Stair, who must bear the blame of the odious transaction, for he was undoubtedly the principal adviser of the king, and was perhaps personally responsible for the treachery and cruelty which accompanied the deed. It was he who urged this method of extirpation as an effective way of repressing rebellion in the Highlands. In spite of his great services to the State, this stain upon his name cannot be effaced. He is buried in the church of St. Giles in Edinburgh. As for Claverhouse, or “Claver’se,” as the common folks pronounce his name,--the “Bonnie Dundee” of Scott’s rollicking cavalry song,--he still bears with many the Gaelic name given him, which means “Dark John of the Battles.” How highly King William appreciated the military abilities of one whom he had known in the Belgic Netherlands as a soldier of fortune in the Dutch army, and who is said to have there, on one occasion, saved William’s life, is shown, when on hearing the news of the death, at Killiecrankie, of his friend, Claverhouse, the Viscount of Dundee, who had become his enemy, he remarked, “Dundee is slain. He would otherwise have been here to tell the news himself.” At Drumclog, near Loudon Hill, where the Covenanters obtained a temporary victory over Claverhouse, a stone has been erected to commemorate the triumph. For many years an annual sermon, on the 1st of June, was preached on the field. Perhaps this may even yet be the case, but, under the shadow of the great world-war of the twentieth century, it is probable that these local anniversaries suffer, are ignored, or their celebrations are postponed to a happier time. Happily for Scotland’s people, they have the gift of song, which lightens many labors. Even on the days we visited Glencoe’s dark ravine, we heard, toward the end of the afternoon, sounds of melody from the toilers in the grain-fields. It came like a burst of sunshine after a dark and cloudy day. This inborn love of music among the Highlanders was shown when the women reaped the grain and the men bound up the sheaves. The strokes of the sickle were timed by the modulations of the harvest song, by which all their voices were united. The sight and sound recalled the line in Campbell’s poem, “The Soldier’s Dream,” committed to memory in boyhood:--