With his troop of faithful cavaliers Dundee continued to wander from place to place in the Highlands until the beginning of May, 1689, when he appeared at the head of about two thousand clansmen led by Sir Donald Macdonald, the chiefs of Glengarry, Maclean, Locheil, and Clanronald--all names which shall ever be associated with the purest ideas of chivalry, generosity, and valour. He had only about 120 horse, but they were composed entirely of gentlemen, and were commanded by a Sir William Wallace, a brave cavalier; Walter Fenton was his cornet, and carried the standard. Lieutenant-General Hugh Mackay, of Scoury, now commander-in-chief of the Scottish forces, Colonel-Commandant of the Scottish Brigade, and Privy Councillor of Scotland, marched against him at the head of nearly five thousand foot, and with two regiments of cavalry. Neither the fall of Edinburgh Castle (which Sir John Lanier demolished), nor the disappointment of assistance from Ireland which James had promised him, could damp the ardour of the brave Dundee. Deficiency of provisions had compelled him to shift his quarters frequently, and his devoted followers had endured the most severe privations; but under these they disdained to complain, when they knew that Dundee shared them all. Like Montrose, he was eminently calculated for a Highland leader. In his buff coat and headpiece he marched on foot, now by the side of one clan, and anon by the ranks of another, addressing the soldiers in their native Gaelic, flattering their long genealogies, and animating the fierce rivalry of clanship by reciting the deeds of their forefathers, and the sonorous verses of their ancient bards. "It has ever been my maxim, Mr. Fenton," said he to our friend on one occasion, "that no general should command an irregular army in the field without becoming acquainted with every man under his baton." On the 17th June, 1689, he marched to the Pass of Killycrankie, where one of the most decisive battles in Scottish history was bravely fought and fruitlessly won. Dawn was brightening on the hills of Athole; and Walter, who, quite exhausted by a long series of hardships, cold, starvation, and a pistol-shot wound, was sleeping under his horse's legs, was aroused by the sonorous and guttural cry of a sentinel, who screamed out in Gaelic-- "Hoigh, Mhic Alastair Mhor! Hark to the war-drum of the Saxon!"