And then Lochiel, because he was so heart-sick and so tired of strategy, fell into that light mood which touches men at times when they’re in danger of breaking under stress of feeling. “I can only think of one case where your gospel fails,” he said, with the quick, boyish smile that sat oddly on his harassed face. “Retreat in good order, sir, has been known to carry honour with it.” “I know of none, Lochiel,” insisted the other, in his downright way. “Oh, Potiphar’s wife, perhaps. And, there, Sir Jasper, you think me flippant; and I tell you that my heart is as near to breaking as any Hielandman’s in Derby. It is a queer, disastrous pain, this heartbreak.” Lochiel’s shoulders drooped a little. The wind came raving down the street and made him shiver as with ague. Then his weakness passed, and he lifted his trim, buoyant head to any hardship that was coming. “Fools’ hearts may break,” he said sharply. “For me, I’ll see this trouble through. I’ll find a glimpse of blue sky somewhere; aye, Sir Jasper, though Murray sets the darkness of the pit about us.” The two men looked gravely at each other, as comrades do. They were of the like unalterable faith; they were chilled by this constant drag upon a march that, left to the leader of it, would have gone forward blithely. Most of all, perhaps, they felt the weakness that was the keystone of their whole position. The Highlanders were eager for the Prince, would have laid down their lives for him, wished only for the forward march and the battle against odds; but, deep in those hidden places of the soul where the far-back fathers have planted legacies, they were obedient to the tradition that a Highlandman follows his own chief, though the King himself bids him choose a happier and more pleasant road. Lochiel knew this, as a country squire knows the staunch virtues, whims, and failings of his tenantry; and because his knowledge was so sure, he feared the issue of this Council. Murray could never have won the rank and file; but he had captured the most part of the chiefs, who had been leading too easy lives these late days and had softened to the call of prudence. And the Council, in its view of it, had come already to a decision shameful and disastrous. “Sir Jasper,” said Lochiel suddenly, “we go pitying ourselves, and that is always waste of time. What of the Prince? I cannot tell you the love--the love proven to the hilt--I have for him. We give our little to this rising; but he, brave soul, gives all. No detail of our men’s comfort in this evil weather, no cheery word when the world goes very ill with us, has been neglected. And, above the detail--oh, above the detail that frets his nerves to fiddle-strings--he keeps the single goal ahead. He keeps the bridge of faith, Sir Jasper, with a gallantry that makes me weak about my mother’s knees again, as if--as if I did not need to be ashamed of tears.”