The mind of the man with the want was, of course, a vacant tablet, washed clean of every recollection by the copious tears he had wept in his silliness since ever the shock of the battle came on him; Stewart was so much of an unscrupulous liar that no word of his could be trusted; and the minister alone could give us any idea of what had been the sentiment in the army when the men of Montrose (who were really the men of Sir Alas-dair, his major-general) came on them. But, for reasons every true Gael need not even have a hint of, we were averse from querying this dour, sour, Lowland cleric on points affecting a Highland retreat. So it was, I say, that the deliberations of M’Iver and myself were without any outside light in somewhat dark quarters: we had to guide us only yon momentary glimpse of the stricken field with its flying men, seen in a stupid blur of the senses,--as one lying by a dark hill tarn at night, waiting for mallard or teal, sees the birds wheeling above the water ere he has appreciated the whirr of their presence, lets bang his piece at the midst of them, and is in a dense stillness again before he comprehends that what he has waited for in the cold night has happened. “The plan of old Gustavus did it, I’ll wager my share of the silver-mine,” would John insist; “and who in heaven’s name would think Alasdair _mosach_ knew the trick of it? I saw his horsemen fire one pistol-shot and fall on at full speed. That’s old Gustavus for you, isn’t it? And yet,” he would continue, reflecting, “Auchin-breac knew the Swedish tactics too. He had his musketeers and pikemen separate, as the later laws demand; he had even a hint from myself of the due proportion of two pikes to three muskets.” “But never a platoon fired a volley,” I recalled. “It was steel and targe from the onset.” And then I would add, “What’s to be said for MacCailein?” On this John Splendid would ruffle up wrothily with blame for my harping on that incident, as if it were a crime to hint at any weakness in his chief. “You are very much afraid of a waff of wind blowing on your cousin’s name,” I would cry. “My chief, Elrigmore, my chief. I make no claim to consideration for a cousin, but I’ll stand up for Argile’s name so long as the gyrony of eight and the galley for Lorn are in his coat of arms.”