The Princess passed the night in a state of the utmost excitement. Instead of retiring to rest, she paced to and fro until daylight began to dawn; and it was only at Tom’s urgent entreaty that she then consented to repair to her boudoir and lie down for a few hours. She had talked of attempting to raise the country side, and of going to the railway station at the head of her kilted and armed retainers, to welcome her nephew; but Father M‘Fillan’s more sensible counsel prevailed. He pointed out that nothing could be gained by undue haste, and that any ill-advised display of force would probably end in the speedy collapse of the movement long ere it could ripen and bear good fruit. The fact is that, but for the common-sense of the chaplain, the Princess would have done a thousand rash deeds. Fortunately, he had constituted himself her temporal as well as spiritual adviser; and being a man of extraordinary kindness and goodness, he had easily won the Princess’s confidence. He regarded her as a harmless maniac, and believed that there would be no danger in humouring her within due bounds; nor did he conceal his opinions from Tom Checkstone, who, while professing to coincide with them, fully made up his mind to carry on the game until it should bring some decided advantage to himself and his friend Charles Stuart. The Princess, accompanied by Father M‘Fillan, and by Tom, who rode, drove to Aberdumble Station without the retinue of armed tenants; and, punctual to the appointed hour, the king’s train arrived. The Princess would have respectfully kissed His Majesty’s hand; but Charlie, with right royal condescension, embraced his aunt and kissed her upon both cheeks. Then, having graciously shaken hands with Tom and the priest, he entered the carriage, which was driven rapidly back to Balquhalloch. A few children followed it for a short distance, but they were soon left behind, and it was not until the castle was well in sight that any further signs of excitement and expectation became visible. The first loyal greeting came from Daft Andy M‘Gregor, an old fellow of eighty-seven. He had heard from his grandfather of the great doings of the ’45; and fully believing that patriotism required it of him, he stood at his cottage door waving a rusty claymore, and flang his bonnet into the air as the carriage rolled quickly by. A more formal welcome awaited the king at the gateway of the castle. The porter’s eldest son, in his Sunday clothes, walked gravely forward, bearing on a cushion the castle keys, and, with profound obeisance, presented them to Charlie, who as gravely received them and gave them into Tom’s custody. At that moment the four pipers struck up; and the carriage, as it passed through the gateway, was saluted by a boom from the old brass gun. Tears stood in the Princess’s eyes, as, giving her hand to Father M‘Fillan, she alighted. ‘Thank heaven for this day!’ she exclaimed devoutly; while in a louder voice she added: ‘God save the king!’