As he did so he espied a young Highlander listening attentively with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. Here was a kindred spirit. The prince suddenly turned to him and said, “You, at least, will not forsake me.” “I will follow you to the death,” said the lad. “I would follow you to the death, even were there no other to draw a sword in your cause.” The lad’s speech had an excellent effect on his hearers. Their Highland pride was touched, their Highland chivalry was aroused. Most of them flung their caution to the winds and eagerly embraced his cause. Lochiel, however, had yet to be persuaded, and Charles, tired of pleading, tried reproach. “In a few days,” he said, “with the few friends that I have, I will erect the royal standard and proclaim to the people of Britain that Charles Stuart is come to claim the crown of his ancestors, and to win it or perish in the attempt. Lochiel can stay at home and learn from the newspapers the fate of his prince.” This was more than Lochiel could bear. “No,” he cried; “I’ll share the fate of my prince, come what may.” Forthwith arrangements were made for the meeting at Glenfinnan. You have already witnessed the gathering of the clansmen and the unfurling of the royal standard. On the very day that the prince’s banner first waved in the northern breeze, Sir John Cope, the commander of the royal forces in Scotland, moved towards the Highlands with three thousand men, mainly raw recruits, for well-nigh the whole British army was overseas in Flanders. Cope was a dull man of the stock-and-pipeclay school, and a thoroughly incompetent general. His object was to relieve the small garrisons of royal troops stationed at Fort William and Fort Augustus. When, however, he reached the rocky steeps of Corry Arrack he found the clansmen in possession of the pass. Rumours were rife that every zigzag path was commanded by big guns, and that every rock concealed an armed Highlander. Turning aside, he marched towards Inverness, and thus left the southern road open. With banners flying, bagpipes skirling, and drums beating, the Highland host, shaggy and unkempt as their own cattle, with a meagre equipment and a strange assortment of weapons, pushed on towards Perth. The prince rode at their head, and every day he grew in favour with his followers. His frank, manly air and his gallant bearing knit him to them with “hooks of steel,” and their spirits rose with every mile they marched. Opposition melted away before him. Leaving Perth, he marched on Stirling. The castle sent a few ineffective shots towards him as he crossed the Forth and proceeded towards Edinburgh. On the 17th September he was in possession of the Scottish capital without striking a blow.