“Even so, MacCailein; I’m a plain man,” said M’Iver, “though of a good family, brought up roughly among men, with more regard to my strength and skill of arm than to book-learning; but I think I can say that here and in this crisis I am a man more fit, express, and appropriate than yourself. In the common passions of life, in hate, in love, it is the simple and confident act that quicker achieves its purpose than the cunning ingenuity. A man in a swither is a man half absent, as poor a fighter as he is indifferent a lover; the enemy and the girl will escape him ere he has throttled the doubt at his heart There’s one test to my mind for all the enterprises of man--are they well contrived and carried to a good conclusion? There may be some unco quirks to be performed, and some sore hearts to confer at the doing of them, but Heaven itself, for all its puissance, must shorten the pigeon’s wing that the gled of the wood may have food to live on.” “Upon my word, M’Iver,” said Argile, “you beat me at my own trade of debate, and--have you ever heard of a fellow Machiavelli?” “I kent a man of that name in a corps we forgathered with at Mentz--a ‘provient schriever,’ as they called him. A rogue, with a hand in the sporran of every soldier he helped pay wage to.” “This was a different person; but no matter. Let us back to the beginning of our argument--why did you favour my leaving for Dunbarton when Montrose came down the Glen?” The blood swept to M’Iver’s face, and his eye quailed. “I favoured no such impolitic act,” said he, slowly. “I saw you were bent on going, and I but backed you up, to leave you some rags of illusion to cover your naked sin.” “I thought no less,” said Argile, sadly, “and yet, do you know, Iain, you did me a bad turn yonder. You made mention of my family’s safety, and it was the last straw that broke the back of my resolution. One word of honest duty from you at that time had kept me in Inner-aora though Abijah’s array and Jeroboam’s horse and foot were coming down the glens.” For a little M’Iver gave no answer, but sat in a chair of torture. “I am sorry for it,” he said at last, in a voice that was scarce his own; “I’m in an agony for it now; and your horse was not round Strone before I could have bit out the tongue that flattered your folly.” MacCailein smiled with a solemn pity that sat oddly on the sinister face that was a mask to a complex and pliable soul. “I have no doubt,” said he, “and that’s why I said you were a devil’s counsellor. Man, cousin! have we not played together as boys on the shore, and looked at each other on many a night across a candid bowl? I know you like the open book; you and your kind are the weak, strong men of our Highland race. The soft tongue and the dour heart; the good man at most things but at your word!” CHAPTER XVI.--OUR MARCH FOR LOCHABER.