He and his followers (he had four armed men with him, clad in Highland dresses of the MacKenzie tartan) wore in their bonnets the white cockade, the forbidden badge of the House of Stuart; consequently they were received with acclamations by the MacGregors, though one of the visitors was no other than the redoubtable Duncan nan Creagh, now somewhat bent and older than when we first introduced him to the reader, but active, fierce, and resolute as ever. On this occasion he acted as guide to Sir James Livingstone, the mounted man in trews. "Welcome, Sir James," said Rob Roy; "I trust you bring us good tidings of the king and his adherents." "Would to heaven I could do so," replied the baronet, with unconcealed dejection. "How?" asked the other, with alarm. "The fleet, with all the Spanish troops and munitions of war, set sail from San Sebastian for Scotland; but Heaven itself seems against this most unlucky House of Stuart." "Sir James Livingstone!" "It is so; for Fortune and the elements are alike their enemies!" exclaimed the other, bitterly. "Speak quickly, Sir James," said MacGregor, stamping his foot on the heather; "I am in no mode either for parables or riddles, after marching all this distance, and leaving my family and my country all but open to the enemy; and I know the tricks that Montrose and Killearn are capable of playing me. The fleet, you say, has sailed?" "But encountered a dreadful gale off Cape Finisterre----" "I know not where that may be." "'Tis a headland off the coast of Brittany--where, it matters not; but the storm lasted two entire days, and drove the armament back, dismasted and battered, to the Spanish coast, thus disconcerting all the plans of the Duke of Ormond and the friendly schemes of Philip V." "Then we have marched here in vain!" Sir James nodded his head sadly in assent. "Has not a single vessel reached the Western Isles?" "Yes; two frigates--only two--under the Spanish flag are now anchored at Stornoway, in the Lewis, where they have landed the Marquis of Tullybardine----" "Tullybardine!" repeated Rob, with knitted brow. "I remember him, a fair-haired youth, at the castle of Blair, when his father, Duke John of Athole, laid a black snare for me." "Think not of that now, MacGregor," said Livingstone, earnestly; "he is young and brave, and steadfast to our king." "Who more?" "The Lords Seaforth and Marischal, with some arms." "How many?" "Two thousand stands of muskets, and five thousand pistols. And there are three hundred Spanish soldiers." "Any money?" asked Rob, quickly. "Yes, some treasure in care of Don José de Santarem, a Knight of Malta." "Dioul!" said Rob, waving his bonnet; "matters are not so bad after all. We are in for it now, and must play out the game. We cannot disperse without fighting somebody, were it but to save from distress the strangers who have come so far to serve our exiled king."