“You did,” said M’Iver. “He broke his part of the parole, and is lying on the other side of you, I think with a hole in his breast. An ugly and a treacherous scamp! It’s lucky for us that Montrose or MacColkitto never saw the transaction between this clay and John M’Iver, or their clemency had hardly been so great ‘You can bide and see to your friend,’ was James Grahame’s last words, and that’s the reason I’m here.” M’Iver lifted me to my feet, and we stood a little to think what we should do. My own mind had no idea save the one that we were bound to keep in touch with the company whose prisoners we were, but M’Iver hinted at an alternative scarce so honest--namely, a desertion and a detour to the left that would maybe lead us to the Campbell army before active hostilities began. “You would surely not break parole?” said I, surprised, for he was usually as honourable in such matters as any Highlander I ever met. “Bah!” he cried, pretending contempt at hesitation, though I could perceive by his voice he was somewhat ashamed of the policy he proposed. “Who quitted the contract first? Was it not that Stewart gentleman on your other side who broke it in a most dastardly way by aiming at your life?” “I’m thankful for the life you saved, John,” said I, “little worth though it seems at this time, but Montrose is not to be held responsible for the sudden impulse of a private. We made our pact as between gentleman and gentleman--let us be going.” “Oh, very well!” said he, shortly. “Let us be going. After all, we are in a trap anyway we look at all; for half the Stewarts and Gainerons are behind in the wood there, and our flank retreat among these hills might be a tempting of Providence. But are you thinking of this Athole corp and what his kin will be doing to his slayers?” “I’ll risk it,” I said, shortly. “We may be out of their hands one way or the other before they miss him.” On a sudden there rose away before us towards the mouth of the glen the sound of a bagpipe. It came on the tranquil air with no break in its uproar, and after a preparatory tuning it broke into an air called “Cogadh no Sith”--an ancient braggart pibroch made by one Macruimen of the Isle of Skye,--a tune that was commonly used by the Campbells as a night-retreat or tattoo. My heart filled with the strain. It gave me not only the simple illusion that I saw again the regimentals of my native country--many a friend and comrade among them in the shelter of the Castle of Inverlochy--but it roused in me a spirit very antique, very religious and moving too, as the music of his own land must in every honest Gael. “_Cruachan_ for ever!” I said lightly to M’Iver, though my heart was full.