“I wish their faith were justified,” said the other, with the bitterness that always tortured him when he heard that men had died on his behalf. “Your pardon,” he added by and by. “I should thank you for the news--and yet I cannot.” The next day they climbed the brae and went down the long, heathery slope that took them to Glenmoriston; and nowhere was there ambush or pursuit, as Rupert had foretold--only crying of the birds on hilly pastures, and warmth of the July sun as it ripened the ling to full bloom, and humming of the bees among the early bell-heather. They came to the glen at last, and ahead of them, a half-mile away, there was blue smoke rising from the chimney of a low, ill-thatched farmstead. And the Prince touched Rupert’s arm as they moved forward. “Lord, how hunger drums at a man’s ribs!” he said, with a tired laugh. “If there were all the Duke’s army lying in wait for us yonder, we should still go on, I think. There may be collops there, and eggs--all the good cheer that Mrs. MacDonald thought scanty when we came to the laird’s house at Kingsborough.” “By your leave,” said Rupert gravely, “it does not bear speaking of. I begin to understand how Esau felt when he sold his birthright for a mess of pottage.” They reached the house, and they found there six outlaws of the hills, ready with the welcome Rupert had made secure before he led the Prince here. They had entrenched themselves in this wild glen, had ridden abroad, robbing with discretion, but never hurting a man who was too poor to pay tribute. Their name was a byword for cattle-lifting, and they lived for plunder. Yet, somehow, when the Stuart came among them, with thirty thousand pounds easy in the gaining, they disdained blood-money. For all that, another hope of the Prince’s crumbled and went by him, after he had greeted his new hosts. There were neither eggs nor collops in the house--only a dish of oatmeal, without milk to ease its roughness. The Glenmoriston men explained that Cumberland’s soldiery had been about the glen, had raided their cattle and sheep, had laid bare the countryside. “For all that,” said the Prince, unconquerable in disaster, “I thank you for your oatmeal. As God sees me, you have stilled a little of the ache I had.” And the Glenmoriston men liked the way of him. And when, next day, he and Rupert went up the hills and stalked a deer, and brought it home for the cooking, their loyalty was doubled. Through the days that followed the outlaws found leisure to prove the guests they harboured. In the hill countries a man’s reputation stands, not on station or fair words, but on the knowledgable, quiet outlook his neighbours bring to bear on him. And ever a little more the outlaws liked these two, who were lean and hard and weather-bitten as themselves.