There was an interesting melancholy upon the otherwise gay expression of his countenance, which suited well with the fallen fortunes of his family. He was of slight and graceful form, and, but for the noble enthusiasm beaming in his full blue eye, and the firmness and decision compressing his thin lips, he might have been mistaken for one who was better qualified to do honour to the gaieties of a court, in the song and the dance, than the bloody field of strife. His dress served to display, to advantage, the beautiful proportions of his frame. His locks, of a light auburn hue, fell in ringlets beneath the blue bonnet, mounted with a white rose in front; and the snowy whiteness of his almost feminine neck was but partially concealed by a plaid passing loosely over his breastplate, and held fast by a blue-coloured sash. His finely-polished limbs moving in all the elastic play and nerve of youth, and in perfect ease, were attired in the Highland kilt; and so small and beautifully formed was his foot, that no lady would have refused her fair hand as a stirrup to the young Chevalier. His dress was indeed plain for one who was now to strive for the crown of Great Britain, but none could gaze upon the kingly form which it enveloped, without almost wishing that soon he might be invested with the purple robe of rule and empire. His companion, the Duke of Athol, with whom he seemed frequently to converse as a familiar friend, was tall and muscular. Broad and commanding was his forehead, seen occasionally as he raised his bonnet, when the prince mildly gave forth his orders. Long dark whiskers added to the sternness and fierceness of his countenance, and large over-hanging eyebrows only seemed to arch in the fiery keenness of his restless glance, and concentrate it still more deadly. “Athol,” said the prince, as he beheld the crowd becoming pale and horror-struck at the broadswords of his Highland troops, “sheath your weapons.” “Where?” asked the fiery duke. “Where, my prince? In their cowardly carcasses, and thus let out their base and craven souls? The English say that those of our nation are cold and heartless. They should know that the mountain breezes carry on their wings, fire to the soul. Well, if we are cold, we are keen; aye, as these our good and true weapons, which they have, at times, tried, if I mistake not.” “They belie you, and that they know full well. My Scottish troops--gaze upon them--are furious: a word will fire them, and a thousand will fail to extinguish the flame. Nay,” he added gently but firmly, “sheath your swords in their scabbards,--in their scabbards. The inhabitants are loyal.”