Among the fugitives were some of the men of Lancashire who had ridden out to join the Prince at Langton; and these foregathered, by some clan instinct of their own, in a little wood five miles away from the trouble of Culloden Moor. Sir Jasper was there, and Rupert, and Maurice, all carrying wounds of one sort or another. Demaine’s bailiff was there, untouched and full of grumbles as of old. But Squire Demaine himself was missing, and young Hunter of Hunterscliff; and Maurice told how he had seen them die, close beside him, at the ditch that lay fifty paces from Culloden Bridge. “God rest them!” said Sir Jasper, not halting for the sorrow that would come by and by. “They’ve done with trouble, friends, but we have not.” Half that night they rested in the sodden wood, with a chill wind for blanket; but they were afoot again long before dawn, and overtook the Prince’s company at Ruthven. A council was held just after their arrival, and the Prince--who, before ever Culloden battle found him in the thick of it, had not slept for eight-and-forty hours--was still solicitous touching the welfare of his friends. He bade the native-born make for their own homes, the English choose the likeliest road to safety that offered; for himself, he would keep a few friends about him, and would take his chance among the hills. And when his gentlemen demurred, wishing to remain, he faced them with the pleasant humour that no adversary could kill. “I was not permitted to command when we were in advance,” he said; “but, gentlemen, we’re in retreat--and surely I may claim the privilege?” When they had gone their separate ways in little companies--reluctantly, and looked backward at the Stuart, who was meat, and wine, and song to them--the Prince himself was left with ten gentlemen about him. Nine of them were Scotsmen, but the tenth was Rupert, who had a surprising gift these days for claiming the post of direst hazard. And through that sick retreat the scattered companies were aware of the qualities that disaster brings out more clearly than any victory can do. Oliphant of Muirhouse, dead for the Cause and happy in the end he craved, had asked Sir Jasper long ago at Windyhough if Will Underwood, brave in the open hunt, were strong enough to stand a siege; and these fugitives, going east and west and north--hopeless and spurred forward only by the pursuit behind, the homesickness ahead--were aware, each one of the them, what Oliphant had meant.