The Estates of Scotland were considering the verdict of Tweeddale’s commission; the verdict pronouncing in measured language that a bloody murder had been committed three years ago upon the Macdonalds of Glencoe, and that the entire cause of this slaughter rested with the letters of the Master of Stair. Public excitement flamed high; the greatest gentleman in Scotland had been declared a murderer and as the details of his crime were discussed, there were many who hoped for the pleasure of seeing the unpopular minister hanged in the Grassmarket. The Parliament, clamored in strong debates, roused after the sluggish years, voted to a man that the King’s warrant did not authorize the slaughter of the Macdonalds. Then Lord Stair’s enemies, in the ascendant, triumphant carried against a feeble opposition that the Glencoe affair was murder. The feeling of the Estates passed almost beyond control; the Jacobites and the Presbyterians caused Lord Stair’s letters to be read aloud in the Parliament house; the statements of the witnesses: Ian Macdonald, Sandy, his brother, some of the surviving clansmen, Glenlyon, Keppoch and Glengarry, were discussed; the story of the entry of the Glen by treachery; the fortnight’s feasting and card playing, the Campbells’ rising one snowy night to slay their hosts in their beds and drive out the women and children to perish on the mountains, all the details of cowardice and cruelty that gave the story its horror were detailed, canvassed and made much of. Captain Hamilton was cited in vain at the city cross; at the first hint of the scandal, he had fled Edinburgh. Tales that in contraband, Jacobite pamphlets had circled for three years, were now on the lips of grave men; it was related how, with a generous hospitality, the Macdonalds had received the Campbells who had sworn that they came in friendliness, how they had been made welcome with simple pleasure; pathetic pictures were drawn of a pastoral people, virtuous and ingenuous, living in a state of idyllic innocence. Makian was described, venerable, beloved, trampling the snows to take the oath and returning to his clan at peace with himself and beaming with righteousness. The trust of these simple folk was dwelt upon; how they had taken the bare word of their ancient enemies and harbored them in perfect faith. How should they, in their simplicity, have suspected treachery behind the smile of the redcoats? Dramatic touches, too, were not lacking to this plausible tale; it was related how Sandy Macdonald, awaking one night, had overheard a couple of the soldiers in talk. “I do not like the work,” one said. “Give me an open fight—” Then Sandy Macdonald had gone to Glenlyon and asked, in his innocence, if anything was intended? Glenlyon had slapped him on the back, laughing. “Why, if there had been anything—don’t you think I should have given you a hint?”