"I thank you, MacGregor," said Appin, "that your brave blood has alone been shed here to-day. Farewell!--we go back to the braes of Appin. If I survive you, this hand shall lay the first stone of your cairn and bid it speak to future times." "To you, Appin, thanks! you must indeed survive me. The Red MacGregor is _red_ only in name now--his hair is white as the snows on Ben Lomond." This was his _last_ appearance in arms. Some time after this, in a trial of strength with Stewart of Ardsheil, finding his eyesight dim, his sword-arm weak, and that he was compelled to give ground, his cheek--a wrinkled cheek now--flushed red with shame; tears stood in his eyes, and he flung his old and faithful blade upon the heather. "Never have I drawn thee without honour," he exclaimed; "but alas! never shall I draw thee more!" Ardsheil, a generous and high-spirited gentleman, was deeply moved by the grief of the old warrior for his own decay of strength. Picking up the claymore, and presenting the hilt to Rob Roy, he politely raised his bonnet, and said,-- "Shame on me, shame that I should have drawn on years and bravery such as yours! But give me your hand, MacGregor--your hand, and henceforth let us be friends." "Alas!" said Rob, sadly; "I am too old now to be your enemy!" CHAPTER LVII. THE CLOSING SCENE. The health and strength of Rob Roy decayed rapidly after this, and the winter of 1734, with its unusual severity, sorely affected his shattered form. Helpless as a child, he was confined to bed at last by extreme old age rather than illness, at his house of Inverlochluvig. On an evening towards the end of December he sunk rapidly. Helen, then an aged woman, was his constant attendant, and he requested her to throw open the windows that he might take a last farewell of the sun, then setting in his ruddy splendour, and casting the purple shadows of Ben More far across the snowclad braes of Balquhidder. In the clear, frosty atmosphere of the winter eve he could hear the cattle lowing in the fold, and the laughter of the children ringing merrily from the adjacent clachan, and both were music to the old man's ear. "Death is at hand, Helen--close--close!" said he, sadly, to his wife; "I may at times have been harsh--sharp with you." "Oh, never--never to me, Rob," said she, sobbing heavily. "If ever so, forgive me!" "Forgive you, my poor old Rob!" she exclaimed, and threw her arms around him. "I have never asked forgiveness save from those I loved, and most of them have gone before us, Helen. The hands of my forefathers beckon me; I can see their dim forms amid the blue mist on the hill! Has the sun set, Helen?" "No--why?" "It is growing so dark--so very dark--open the window!" "It _is_ open," said Helen, in a broken voice.