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“Weel, sir, and was yer frien’ able tae thank ye?” enquired Major Guthrie when the Englishman overtook him at the end of the little column as it wound along the mountain-side. Keith said No, that he had not yet recovered his senses.

“ ’Tis tae be hoped he’ll hae gotten them again when I send for him,” commented the Lowlander. “He’ll no’ be o’ muckle use else. But are ye sure, Major, that he kens whaur Lochiel is the noo?”

“How do I know what he knows? And use—of what use do you expect him to be?” asked Keith shortly.

“What use?” Guthrie reined up. “Losh, man, dinna ye ken there’s a thousand punds on Lochiel’s heid, that he’s likely skulking somewhere round Achnacarry or Loch Arkaig, and that tae ken his hiding-place wad be half-way tae the apprehension o’ the man himsel’! Gin ye come frae Inverness ye canna be ignorant o’ that!—And why for else did ye lay sic a stress upon yon rebel bein’ sib tae Lochiel, if ye didna mean that he wad be o’ use tae us in that capacity?”

Keith sat his horse like a statue, and stared at the speaker with feelings which slowly whitened his own cheek. “Is it possible you imagine that I thought Ewen Cameron, a Highlander and a gentleman, would turn informer against his own Chief?”

“Then for what ither reason,” retorted Guthrie, “when ye came wi’ yer damned interference, did ye insist on his kinship wi’ Lochiel, and imply that he kenned o’ his whereaboots?”

“I never implied such a thing!” burst out Keith indignantly. “Not for a moment! You must most strangely have mistaken me, Major Guthrie. And if Cameron of Ardroy did know, he would never dream of betraying his knowledge!”

“Ah,” commented Guthrie, surveying him slowly. “Then it’s no’ worth the fash o’ sendin’ for him the morn.” And smiling crookedly he touched his horse with his heel, and moved on again after his men.

But Keith Windham remained behind on the mountain path, almost stunned with disgust. That he should be thought capable of suggesting such a reason for sparing Ewen Cameron’s life! This then was the cause of Major Guthrie’s change of intention at the mention of Lochiel’s name, the meaning of his reference to the ‘good turn’ which Major Windham had done him! Keith’s impulse was to leave the very path which Guthrie’s horse had trodden. But he could not gratify this desire; he was dependent on Guthrie’s guidance. Besides, Ardroy lay helpless and utterly alone in the hut; he had not saved him yet. Great heavens, what line was he to take to that end now?

He moved on slowly after the Lowlander, who took no notice of him. On the narrow path they were obliged to ride in single file, but soon the track, descending to a lower level, joined a wider one, and here the Major waited for him to come abreast.

“Since your object in hinderin’ the execution a while syne wasna zeal for His Majesty’s sairvice, as I thocht,” he observed, “ye maun gie me leave to say, Major . . . I didna richtly get yer name—that I find yer conduct unco strange.”

“I am fully prepared to answer to my superiors for my conduct, sir,” replied Keith very stiffly. “As I told you just now, I am under an obligation to that young Cameron such as any soldier may owe to an enemy without dishonour. He spared my life when it was his for the taking, and as his prisoner last year I received very different treatment from that which we are now giving to ours!”

“Ah, sae ye were his prisoner?” repeated Guthrie, fixing his little ferret eyes upon him. “When micht that hae been?”

“It was after the affair at High Bridge last summer,” answered Keith shortly.

“High Bridge!” A light seemed to dawn on Guthrie’s face—not a pleasant light. “What, it’s you that lost the twa companies of Sinclair’s there, along wi’ Scott last August—ye’ll be Major Windrum then?”

“Windham,” corrected Keith, still more shortly.

“Ou aye, Windham. Tae think I didna ken the man I was gangin’ wi’, me that’s aye been ettlin’ tae meet ye, for I mind hearin’ ye were pit on Hawley’s staff after yon tuilzie—ha, ha! Aye, I mind hearin’ that verra weel.—Nae offence meant, Major Windham”—for Keith’s expression was distinctly stormy—“we all hae oor meelitary misfortunes, . . . but we dinna a’ get promoted for them!—And ye were sayin’ yon rebel made ye prisoner. What did he dae wi’ ye?”

“He accepted my parole,” said the Englishman between his teeth.

“And let ye gang?”

“No. I was at his house for some days, and afterwards accompanied him to Glenfinnan.”

“Ye seem tae hae been chief wi’ him! And whaur was this hoose of his, if ye please?”

“Can that be of any moment to you, sir?” retorted Keith, goaded by this interrogatory.

“Dod! I should think sae! It’s o’ moment tae me tae ken hoo far it lay frae Lochiel’s ain hoose of Achnacarry.”

“Well, that I am afraid I cannot tell you,” replied Keith sourly. “I was never at Achnacarry, and I have no knowledge of the neighbourhood. I am not a Scotsman.”

“Fine I ken that! But e’en a Southron has lugs tae his heid, and ye maun hae heard tell the name o’ the district whaur yon rebel’s hoose was situate? If ye canna tell me that I’ll be forced tae think——” He broke off with a grin.

“And what, pray, will you be forced to think?” demanded Keith, surveying him from under his lids.

“Aweel, I suld think ye could jalouse that,” was Guthrie’s reply. “Come noo, Major, ye can surely mind some landmark or ither?”

It was no use fencing any more. “Mr. Cameron’s house was near a little lake called the Eagle’s Lake, in the mountains some way to the north of Loch Arkaig.”

“Ah, thank ye, Major Windham, for the effort,” said Guthrie with another grin. “I hae a map in the camp. . . . And syne ye couldna be pairted frae yer rebel frien’, but gaed wi’ him to Glenfinnan tae see the ploy there?”

“Do you suppose I went willingly? I have told you that I was his prisoner.”

“But ye were at Glenfinnan wi’ him, and that’s o’ moment too, for nae doot ye’d see him an’ Lochiel the-gither. Did ye no’?”

“Once or twice.”

“And hoo did they seem—on intimate terrms wi’ ane anither?”

“I was not concerned to spy upon them,” retorted Keith, who had an instant picture of the Chief as he had once seen him, with an affectionate hand on Ewen’s shoulder, a picture he was not going to pass on. “I have told you that they were cousins.”

“Aye, ye tellt me that. But ilka Highlander is cousin tae twenty mair.” They rode on for perhaps a moment in silence, and then Guthrie began again. “See here, Major Windham, what the de’il’s the gude o’ tellin’ me the Cameron’s this and that, and syne, when ye’ve hindered me frae shootin’ him as he desairves, tae begin makin’ oot he’s naething o’ the sort? I suppose ye’ll say noo he wasna aide-de-camp tae the Pretender’s son neither?”

“I am not in the habit of telling lies,” replied Keith. “He was aide-de-camp to the Pretender’s son, at least when the Highland army occupied Edinburgh, and that, as I said, and say still, is an excellent reason for not shooting him out of hand.”

“Ye met him in Enbra, then?”

“I did.”

“As an enemy or a frien’?”

“As an enemy, of course.” Keith was having to keep a tight hold of himself. “Yet there again he put me under an obligation.” And at Guthrie’s expression he was unable to resist adding, “But I dare warrant the recognition of an obligation is no part of your creed, sir.”

Guthrie met this thrust instantly. “And me that gleg the noo tae allow mine tae ye! Fie, Major! But as a plain soldier I’m thinkin’ there’s ower muckle obleegation atween you and yer Cameron; ye’re gey frien’ly wi’ him for an enemy, rinnin’ in like that when ye micht hae gotten a ball in yer ain wame. But since ye assure me he’ll no’ tell what he kens aboot Lochiel, he maun e’en bide in yon shieling and rot there, for it’s no’ worth a brass bodle tae bring him in.”

Keith’s heart sank at these words. Yet he could not bring himself to assert that Ardroy would impart his knowledge (if he had any), for he was certain that he would rather die than do such a thing. Yet somehow he must be got out of that desolate place.

He summoned up all his own powers of dissimulation.

“You are quite mistaken, Major Guthrie,” he said carelessly. “I am not a friend of Mr. Cameron’s in the sense that you imply, and I should be as glad as anyone to hear of Lochiel’s capture—if it would advance His Majesty’s affairs in this kingdom.” He added this qualifying clause to salve his own conscience, since Lochiel’s capture was about the last he would rejoice at. But he had to say something worse than this, and he did it with loathing, and a hesitation which perhaps served him better than he knew, fidgeting meanwhile with his horse’s reins. “You know, sir, that although I am sure Mr. Cameron would never answer a direct question, he might perhaps drop . . . inadvertently drop . . . some hint or other—and I presume you have a certain measure of knowledge and might find a hint valuable—I mean that it might, by good luck, complete your information. At least I should think that it would be worth your while to bring him into camp on the chance of it.”

It sounded to him so desperately feeble a bait that it was surely to no purpose that he had soiled his lips with its utterance. Yet Guthrie appeared to respond to the suggestion with surprising alacrity.

“Drap a hint,” he said meditatively, rubbing his chin. “Aye, maybe. Thank ye for the notion, Major; I’ll e’en think it ower. I could aiblins drap a hint mysel’.” And they rode on in silence for a few minutes after that, Keith not knowing whether he more detested himself or the man beside him.

But by the time that they came in sight of the little river Tarff, which they must ford before they could get up to the Corryarrick road, Major Guthrie was busy weaving what he evidently considered a highly diverting explanation of his companion’s interest in ‘yon rebel’, which he now refused to attribute to the alleged ‘obligation’ under which Major Windham professed to labour. “I see it a’,” he chuckled; “he had a bonny sister, and she was kind tae ye, Major—kind as yon ither lass of a Cameron was kind to the Pretender’s son. Or a wife maybe? Oot wi’ it, ye sly dog——” And for a moment or two he gave rein to a fancy so coarse that Keith, no Puritan himself, yet innately fastidious, longed to shut his mouth.

“And that’s how ye repaid his hospitality, Major,” finished the humorist as they splashed through the Tarff. “ ’Tis a guilty conscience, not gratitude, garred ye save him!”

After that he reverted to the subject of his companion’s staff appointment, which seemed to possess a sort of fascination for him, and tapped a very galling and indeed insulting vein of pleasantry in regard to it. And Keith, who would not have endured a quarter of this insolence from anyone else in the world, no, not from the Duke of Cumberland himself, swallowed it because he knew that Ewen Cameron’s life hung on this man’s pleasure. First of all his companion supposed that General Hawley did not know what a viper he was cherishing in his bosom, in the shape of an officer who possessed a weakness for rebels which could certainly not be attributed to that commander himself; of this Keith took no notice, so Major Guthrie passed on to affect to find something mightily amusing in the distinction of staff rank having been bestowed on a man who had run away at the first shot of the campaign. He actually used the expression, but at once safeguarded himself by adding, with a laugh, “Nae offence, my dear Major! I ken weel the twa companies o’ Sinclair’s just spat and gied ower, and you and Scott could dae nae less but gang wi’ them—’twas yer duty.” But after a moment he added with a chuckle, “Forbye ye rinned farther than the rest, I’ve heard!”

Ardroy or no Ardroy, this was too much. Keith reined up. Yet, since it seemed deliberate provocation, he kept surprisingly cool. “Major Guthrie, I’d have you know I do not take such insinuations from any man alive! If you know so much about me, you must know also that Captain Scott sent me back to fetch reinforcements from Fort Augustus.”

Guthrie, pulling up too, smote himself upon the thigh. “Aye, I micht ha’ kent it! Forgie me, Major Windham—yon was a pleasantry. I aye likit ma joke!”

“Allow me to say, then, that I do not share your taste,” riposted Keith, with a brow like thunder. “If we were not both on active service at the moment——”

“Ye’d gar me draw, eh? Dinna be that hot, man! ’Twas an ill joke, I confess, and I ask yer pardon for it,” said Guthrie with complete good-humour. “See, yonder’s the camp, and ye’re gaun tae sup wi’ me.”

Keith wished with all his heart that he were not. But he felt, rightly or wrongly, that he must preserve a certain measure of amenity in his relations with the arbiter of Ardroy’s fate, and, though it seemed to him that he had never done anything more repugnant (except make his recent speech about the possibility of Ewen’s dropping a hint) he affected a demeanour modelled in some remote degree upon his companion’s, and insincerely declared that he was foolish not to see that Major Guthrie was joking, and that he bore him no ill-will for his jest.

What baffled him was the reason for the ill-will which he could hardly doubt that Guthrie bore him. Was it because he had hindered the shooting of a rebel? But, according to his own showing, Major Guthrie hoped to find the rebel more useful alive than dead.

It was certainly no deprivation to the Englishman when he discovered, on arriving at Guthrie’s camp athwart the road, some miles from the top of the pass, that he was not to share the commanding officer’s tent. Finding, as he now did, that the distance from the mountain-side where he had come upon the soldiers was not so great as he had feared, he would much have preferred to push on over the pass to Meallgarva, but his horse and his orderly’s were too obviously in need of rest for this to be prudent, and when he was offered a vacant bed in another tent (for it appeared that the captain of the company had gone to Fort Augustus for the night) his worst apprehensions were relieved. The lieutenant, indeed, who made a third at the meal which he was nevertheless obliged to share with Guthrie, was of a different stamp entirely, an open-faced lad from the Tweed named Paton, whom Keith at once suspected of disliking his major very heartily.

On the plea that he must make an early start, the guest afterwards excused himself from playing cards with Guthrie and his subaltern, and withdrew to Lieutenant Paton’s tent. Once there, however, he made no attempt to undress, but flung himself on the camp bed and lay staring at the lantern on the tent-pole. A few miles away on the other side of the Tarff the man whom he had tried so hard to save lay dying, perhaps, for want of food and care. What Guthrie’s real intentions were about fetching him in to-morrow he, probably of set purpose, had not allowed his visitor to know. And the question rather was, would Ewen Cameron be alive at all in the morning—he seemed at so low an ebb, and the nights were still so cold. Do what Keith would he could not get him out of his head. It was useless to tell himself that he had, alas, witnessed worse episodes; that it was the fortune of war; that he was womanish to be so much distracted by the thought of an enemy’s situation. He had been that enemy’s guest; he had seen his domestic circumstances, met his future wife, knew what his very furniture looked like. Was not all that even more of a tie than that double debt which he felt he owed him? His instincts were stronger than his judgment, and when, an hour or so later, Lieutenant Paton slipped quietly through the flap of the tent, he rose up and abruptly addressed him.

“Mr. Paton, you look as if you had the natural sentiments of humanity still left in you. Can you tell me where I could procure some food, and if possible some dressings, for that unfortunate rebel left alone upon the mountain-side, about whom you heard at supper?”

The young man looked considerably taken aback, as well he might. “But how would you propose, sir, to get them to him? And the Major, I thought, spoke of fetching him into camp to-morrow.”

“I am not at all sure that he will, however,” replied Keith. “And even if he does I fear he may fetch in a corpse. If I can get some food and wine I propose to take them to him myself; I think I can find the way back without difficulty, and my orderly is a Highlander.” And as Lieutenant Paton looked still more astonished he added, “You must not think me a mere philanthropist, Mr. Paton. I owe the man in that hut a good deal, and I cannot endure the thought of having turned my back upon him in such a plight. In any case I should be making an early start for Dalwhinnie. Is there any cottage in this neighbourhood where I could buy bread?”

“No, but I could procure you some in the camp, sir,” said the boy quite eagerly. “And, as for dressings, you are welcome to tear up a shirt of mine. I . . . I confess I don’t like these extreme measures, even with rebels, and I should be very glad to help you.”

“You’ll not get into trouble, eh?”

“Not to-night, at any rate, sir; the Major is in bed by now. And to-morrow, if it is discovered, I can say that you ordered me to do it, and that I dared not dispute the orders of a staff-officer.”