Within a little wainscotted apartment, lighted by four long candles, that flared in a brazen branch, stretched upon a low canopied bed lay the great and terrible Dundee. On his proud heart of fierce impulses and high aspirations, the hand of the grim monarch was now laid surely and heavily. His fine features were sharpened, pale and ghastly, by agony and approaching death. He breathed slowly. His Monmouth wig was laid aside, and his own raven hair, which formed a strong contrast with the whiteness of his skin, flowed over the pillow like the tresses of a woman. "Can this be Claverhouse?" thought Walter. His bloodstained buff coat, his sword and helmet, lay near him on a chair, and around the couch were Dunbarton, Finland, the great Sir Evan of Locheil, Glengarry, Clanronald, Grant of Glenmorriston, and other leaders, who leaned on their swords, conversed in low whispers, and watched with unfeigned sorrow the ebbing life of the only man who could lead them like Montrose. The whole of his dying energies were now directed to one object, a despatch to his exiled king, containing an account of the glories he had gained in his cause, and the long career of service he had sealed with his own gallant blood. Though every muscle of his face was contracted at times with the agony he endured, when stretching from bed to write at the low table beside it, supported by his brother David Grahame, who was sheathed in steel, _à la Cuirassier_, he finished this memorable and disputed letter with singular coolness, appended his name, and instantly falling back, closed his eyes and lay motionless, as if in death. "He is gone," whispered the agitated Earl of Dunbarton to the stern Locheil. "There lies the strongest pillar of the good old cause." "_Hereditary right will face the rocks!_" replied the chieftain in Gaelic, as he grasped his dirk; "cursed be the green scarf that wrought this evil work to Scotland and to us!" Their voices seemed to call back the fleeting spirit; and, controlling the painful trembling of his limbs, Dundee opened his bloodshot eyes, and looked slowly round him. "Do not persist," said he to the surgeon, who approached. "I know that all is over--let me die in peace. Approach, Mr. Fenton--unfurl that standard;" and his wild dark eyes flashed with their old energy at the sight of the Stadtholder's banner. "You will, at all risks, bear this despatch and that trophy to the hands of King James, and say they are the last--the best--the dying bequest of Dundee." Walter's heart was full; he could only lay his hand upon his breast, and bow a grateful assent. "To Colonel Cannon I bequeath my baton and authority; let him use them well in the King's service, if he would wish to die in peace when he comes to lie _here_." "Colonel Cannon!" muttered the Highland chiefs, as they drew themselves up, exchanged glances of hauteur, and twisted their mustachios.