Murray’s face was hard as ever, but he was moved at last. This Lancashire squire, whose strength could not be bought, or tamed, or killed by ridicule, had found a way through all defences of prudence and arithmetic. It was the moment, had they known it, when the whole fate of the Rising was at issue; for the great councils are shaped often by those haphazard meetings in the streets that sway men’s moods beforehand. And, as it chanced, Lochiel came swinging down the street, on his way to join the Council--Lochiel, with his lean, upright body, his gaiety, not lightly won, that made sunshine between the mean, grey house-fronts--Lochiel, his wet kilt swinging round his knees, and in his face the strong, tender light that is bred of the big hills and the big, northern storms. Murray glanced up the street, saw Lochiel. All finer impulses were killed, as if a blight had fallen on them; for Murray was ridden by the meanest of the sins, and was an abject slave to jealousy. Lochiel halted, and the three of them passed the time of day together, guardedly, knowing what was in the issue, and reticent. “You come in a good hour, Lochiel” said Murray, with the disdain that had never served him well. “Sir Jasper here has been talking moonshine and high Faith. You’ll be agreed.” Lochiel stood, just himself, schooled by hardship to a chivalry that few men learn. “I think on most points we’re agreed, Sir Jasper and I. It is a privilege to meet these gentlemen of Lancashire; they know their mind and speak it. They’ll not be bought, Murray, not even by Dame Prudence, whose lap you sit in.” So then Murray’s chilliness took fire. There was need, even in his sluggish veins, to set the troubles of this venture right by casual quarrels. “When we find leisure, I shall seek satisfaction, Lochiel; you’ll not deny it me.” And Lochiel laughed gently. “Dear Murray, I ask nothing better. The only trouble is that we’ll be dead, the two of us, long before the promised meeting, if you have your way with the Council that is going to end old England or to mend her.” “I shall have my way,” growled the other, and passed down the street. Lochiel put his arm on Sir Jasper’s shoulder. He had no gaiety now; his heart was aching, and he spoke as friend to friend. “I believe him,” he said quietly. “Murray had always the gift of rallying doubters round him. The Duke of Perth is staunch. Elcho is staunch, and a few others. For the rest, they’ve been tempted by this glib talk of strategy. Murray has persuaded them that we’ve marched to Derby simply to retreat in good order; that we shall do better to fall back on some imaginary host of friends who happened to be late for the Rising, and who are eager now to join us.” “Retreat?” snapped Sir Jasper. “The devil coined that word, Lochiel. Murray’s shrewd and a Scotsman and no coward; he should know that the good way lies forward always.”