And then, before he guessed their purpose, some of his gentlemen rode close about him, clutched his reins, compelled him to desert the field. “All’s lost, your Highness--except your safety,” said one. He struggled to get free of them. “My pleasure,” he said hotly, “is to die as poorer friends are doing.” They would not listen. Their love of him--whether it took a misguided form or no--compelled them to use force, to disregard commands, entreaties. His vision, maybe, was clearer than their own. They were concerned with his immediate welfare, could not look into the years ahead that were to be a lingering, heart-broken death, instead of the pleasant end he craved. They got him to a place of safety, and he glanced at them with a reproof so sad and desolate that for the first time they doubted their own wisdom. “Gentlemen, it was not well done,” he said, “but one day, if God wills, I shall forgive you.” Below them, the Duke of Cumberland had his way with the broken Highlanders. Across the moor, and back again, his troopers swept, till the field was like a shambles. The Highlanders disdained to ask for quarter; the others were too drunk with lust of slaughter to think of it; and the roll-call of the dead that day among the clans was a tribute to the Stuart and their honour. There were near a quarter wounded; but these were outnumbered by the dead. And yet the Duke had not supped well enough. In his face, as he rode up and down the field, was a light not good for any man to see--the light that had touched it dimly when he laid siege to Carlisle and talked of whetting his appetite by slaughter of its garrison. He was unsatisfied, though the wind came down from the moor and sobbed across the desolation he had made. He checked his horse, pointed to the wounded. “Dispatch these rebels, gentlemen,” he said to the officers about him. And then, as at Carlisle, the English among his following withdrew from the uncleanness of the man. “We are officers, your Highness,” said one. “Aye, and gentlemen. I know your ladylike speech. For my part, I’m a soldier----” “A butcher, by your leave,” snapped the other. The Duke turned savagely on him; but the English closed round their comrade, and their meaning was plain enough to be read. “Must I do the work myself?” he snarled. “It would seem so, if it must be done.” And afterwards the gloaming, sad and restless, crept down from the grey hills, shrouding the dead and wounded. It found Cumberland master of the field; but he was surfeited, and the true luck of the battle was with those who had died in faith, or with those others of the Prince’s army who were seeking cover among the northern hills. For it is not gain or loss that matters, but the cleanly heart men bring to acceptance of the day’s fortune.