The Grey Mousquetaire was a tall and handsome man, bronzed by the weather and scarred by battle. On the breast of his grey uniform glittered those decorations which few of the corps were without--the golden crosses of St. Louis and St. Lazare. Pringle conveyed him to his own tent, for he knew well that the Mousquetaires were all men of no ordinary rank, and there he supplied him with wine and other comforts. As yet, he had not spoken; but as he gathered strength, he began to mutter and talk to himself in a strange language. "Assuredly this man is not a Frenchman!" said Pringle, kneeling down to listen. The Mousquetaire Gris was praying in the Erse tongue! "What--are you a Scotchman?" exclaimed the astonished major. "A Highlander," sighed the other. "I recognised your Gaëlic at once." "Likely enough," responded the other, in a low voice; "the Gaelic was the first language I heard, and, please God, it shall be my _last_! I spoke but the tongue I learned at my mother's breast!" "And you are a Mousquetaire Gris?" "Yes--that grey uniform is all the inheritance which the dark day of Culloden has left me." "Poor fellow!" said Major Pringle, with commiseration; "and you are--" "Allan Robertson, of the house of Struan, who, thirteen years ago, was a captain in the Athole Regiment under his Royal Highness Prince Charles, whom God long preserve!" "Hush--hush!" said Pringle, hurriedly; "remember that you are in the British camp." "I care not," replied the other, with flashing eyes; "I have shouted his name at Preston, Falkirk and Culloden, and why should I shrink from naming him here?" Major Pringle kept the Jacobite officer in his quarters, and in a few days he was able to sit up in a camp bed, and converse with ease and coherence; and many Scottish gentlemen of the army whose political sympathies were with the exiled race, frequented the tent, and supplied him with whatever he required and their own necessities could spare. He asked particularly about the wounds on the breast of his dead colonel, the Vicomte de Chateaunoir, and on being informed that they must have been done with a dagger, he became dreadfully excited, and exclaimed, "Jules de Coeurdefer has murdered him!" "Who?" exclaimed Major Pringle and several officers who were present. "A wretch most justly named Coeurdefer, who serves in the French army, to its disgrace; a noble and an outlaw--a soldier and a robber! a ribaud, with whom the Mousquetaires Gris et Rouges have had more than one sword-in-hand encounter." Among the mass of papers and regimental memoranda, from which these legends are gleaned and prepared, I find this Chevalier Jules de Coeurdefer frequently mentioned us a prominent character during the early part of the Seven Years' War; and some of Robertson's adventures with him during his service in the Grey Mousquetaires were very remarkable. His narrative was as follows. ----------