"Yes; by tyrannical acts of Parliament, which I treat with the scorn they merit." "Well, sir; your terms?" "Are these,--Surrender your arms and ammunition; leave the Highland border, and begone to England or the Lowlands; let us see you no more in the country of the Clan Gregor." "The Lowlands," said Clifford, haughtily; "sir, we are quartered in the castle of Dumbarton." "Where you are quartered, captain, is nothing to me." "There will be a bloody reckoning for this," said Clifford through his clenched teeth, as he gazed sadly on the mangled body of his poor friend and comrade, Captain Dorrington. "Chief, have you no fear for the future?" "I fear nothing," replied Rob, haughtily; "moreover I am no chief, but a simple Highland gentleman, whom wrong and tyranny have driven to desperation. You have yet to learn, sir, that though the king may create a titled noble, Heaven alone can make a Highland chief." The English officer shrugged his shoulders, and gave a disdainful smile, for to his ears this sounded like mere rhodomontade. "To you, Captain Clifford," resumed Rob Roy, "I return your sword. The arms of your men I retain for the service of King James and the protection of my own people. I restore you all to liberty; but bear this message to the Saxon Governor of Dumbarton, to General Carpenter, or whoever sent you hither, that of the next band which on a hostile errand enters the country of Rob Roy, not one shall return alive if I can help it--_not one_, by the blessed God of my forefathers, and by St. Colme of Iona, for they shall be cut off root and branch, and the eagle of the hill shall alone tell their fate." He pressed his bare dirk to his lips as he spoke, and many of his men followed the example. "Go, sir; and may we never meet again. My foster-brother, with a hundred of my men, shall escort you so far as Bucklyvie to assist in bearing your wounded. After reaching that place you will be safe from all molestation. Farewell. Strike up, Alpine!" he said to the piper, while saluting the captain with one hand and sheathing his sword with the other. Then, as the disarmed band of soldiers, after getting, by Rob's orders, a good dram of whisky each, carrying or supporting their wounded, and escorted by MacAleister with a hundred picked men, proceeded in the shadowy gloaming down the dark and rugged pass of Aberfoyle, Alpine's great warpipe woke its many echoes with the triumphant pibroch of "Glenfruin." Only two MacGregors were killed, so instantaneous had been their onset; but ten redcoats lay dead in the pass; and these the MacGregors buried with reverence by the wayside, where their tomb may yet be seen.