Dinner was a success from the Prince's point of view. The Duke was completely won over to the idea of our going on, and even the Lord Ogilvie at one time wavered before the Prince's onslaught. The Irishmen were strongly in favour of it, and Mr. Secretary, when thawed by wine, grew expansive over its advantages. I incline to think that the rascal had ratted already, and was anxious to get all he could out of the Government by leading the Prince into a trap. Trap it would have been, as Culloden plainly showed. Against English regular soldiers, resolutely led, the Highlanders would work no more miracles.

So for a space the chatter and laughter went on. Charles was already in St. James's, and the ladies were already queening it in the new Court over the renegade beauties of the old one. Even Margaret caught some of the enthusiasm, so that I whispered to her, "You beat our Kate at counting your unhatched chickens."

Whereat she sobered all of a sudden, and whispered, "Maybe you are right, Oliver!"

"I hope for your sake they are true prophets," I said. "I should dearly like to see you a marchioness before I go back to my farming."

"That's one of the chickens I've not counted," she said.

She looked at me very steadily, and then turned and plunged into the stream of conversation flowing around her.

Her father had steered clear of all awkward topics, taking for granted that we were going on. Charles got less cautious as he got surer, and moreover, as I could not but observe, he was mellowing somewhat under the brandy he was drinking. Princes commonly have no judgment of men, having never the need of noting their humours in order to mould them to their will. So now Charles bluntly attacked the Colonel again on the military aspect of the situation, which was merely butting against a stone wall.

"You must remember, Colonel," he said, "that my Highlanders have driven the English soldiery before them like sheep. They wiped out an army of them at Gladsmuir in less than fifteen minutes, and only lost thirty men killed in doing it."

"Sir," said the Colonel, "give me one thousand English soldiers for a week and I'll pit them against any thousand Highlanders you like to bring against 'em."

"Then it's a good job you're on my side," said Charles.

"It is indeed, sir," said the Colonel, very quietly, "and under favour, sir, you will be well advised to have your troops exercised in the best ways of charging men who don't mean to run from them. There's no military science wanted to beat men who run away from you as soon as you attack. As I understand it, your Highlander fires his piece from a good distance, throws it away, and then rushes to the attack. If the enemy stands, he catches the bayonet of the man in front of him in his leather shield, where it sticks, and so has him at mercy, and through you go like a knife through a cheese."

"That's just how it's done, Colonel," said Charles merrily.

"Well, sir, that's just how it wouldn't be done if I was in command against you."

There was neither eating nor drinking going on now, except that the Prince poured out his third glass of brandy. Everybody was intent on the dialogue. Ogilvie, his hand clasping his wife's under the skirt of the napery, looked so intently at the Colonel that his face was like a figure in a Euclid book.

"How would you stop it, sir?"

It was Mr. Secretary who spoke, for Charles was sipping at his brandy.

"We're all friends here?" said the Colonel brusquely.

"All loyal to the last drop of our blood," replied Mr. Secretary fervently.

"I dare say," was the Colonel's dry comment, "but it's much more important at times to be loyal to the last wag of your tongue."

"Then I only answer, as in the presence of God, for myself," said he piously.

"Leaving God to look after Mr. Secretary," said Charles, banging his empty glass on the table. "I'll answer for the rest. So get on with your plan, Colonel."

"His Royal Highness has selected the easier task," whispered Margaret in my ear.

"Well, sir," began the Colonel, "I should say to my men: 'When the Highlanders charge, take no notice of the man who is coming straight at you. Keep your eye on his left-hand man, who is coming at your right-hand man. Don't fire at him till you can see the whites of his eyes, and if you don't bring him down with the bullet, have at him and thrust your bayonet into his right ribs. There's no buckler there, and his right arm will be up to strike. The man coming at you will be attended to in the same way by your left-hand man.' After a week's practice in that little trick, sir, I should face any charge your Highlanders liked to make, and would bet a thousand guineas to this pinch of rappee--poor stuff as it is--on stopping 'em dead in their tracks."

"By gad! and so you would, sir!" said my Lord Ogilvie explosively.

"It sounds feasible," said old Sir Thomas, "but fortunately Colonel Waynflete is with us, and can teach us new tricks."

"Of course he can," said Charles. "What do you say, Master Wheatman? You know him."

"That old poachers make the best gamekeepers, sir," I answered.

"Nom de chien," cried the Colonel, twirling fiercely round on me. Margaret, who sat between us, laughingly pretended to protect me from him, and he thrust his snuff-box across at me.

The Prince rose, and, followed by Murray, left the room. We all stood gossiping together. Ogilvie and O'Sullivan talked very earnestly about the Colonel's trick. His Grace of Perth ogled Margaret off towards the window on pretence of showing her some sight of interest in the square.

"Did they leave him in the lurch?" twittered a voice mockingly in my ear. It was my lady Ogilvie.

"It must be nice to be with a duke," said I, very glum and miserable again all of a sudden.

"It's a great deal nicer to be with a man," she answered. "Come and help me throw crumbs to the pretty wee birdies in the garden."

In his attempt to 'smash 'em in detail' the Prince was acute enough to use the Colonel, and condescending enough to use me, as supporters. The unrivalled military skill which the Colonel would devote to the winning of London was dwelt upon until even the Colonel, in no wise inclined to under-estimate it, got restive, and snuffed and pshawed with great vigour. I, of course, was the early, strong-winged swallow that announced the flights of laggards behind.

There were some dozen chiefs of considerable position in the Prince's army, and he tackled them one by one, and tried to argue them into his way of thinking. Some he sent for to his lodging; others he visited in theirs--a special but wasted mark of distinction. On the whole they would not budge. They were courteous and respectful, for they were gentlemen, and he was their Prince, but their minds were made up and they would not surrender their wills to his. Mostly, in their talk, they simply chewed over again the morning's cud.

Mr. Secretary went off as envoy to fetch the chiefs to Exeter House, where the Prince received them in his little private chamber overlooking the gardens. He would stand, silent and moody, glowering out of the window, with the Colonel and me standing silent and thoughtful behind him. I felt keenly for him, for he was indeed a gracious, likeable young fellow, born to purple poverty and a shadowy princedom, and now, as he thought, with the reality of wealth and power snatched out of his grasp.

"If we go back," said he, turning his eyes on me, so that I saw how life and light had quite gone out of them, "it's all over with my House."

"I hope not, sir," said I.

"I know it is," he cried bitterly, almost rudely. "All over with us--and all over with me. If we go on, I shall at the worst go to my grave strong and sweet. If we go back--"

He paused and looked moodily out of the window. I think now, as I picture him to myself standing there, that he knew himself well enough to know what was coming. For another picture of him comes to my mind, as I saw him in Rome many years later, and shuddered as I saw him.

He turned and smiled at me, as one smiles who sips sour wine.

"If we go back, friend Wheatman, I shall just rot into it."

He spoke truth. I saw him rotting. And then, because he had more stuff in him than any other royal Stuart that ever lived, he turned round, proud and princely, as the door opened and in came Mr. Secretary with Macdonald of Glencoe, a short-horned bull of a man.

"And when was it," said he, rapping the words out like hammer-strokes on an anvil, "that the Macdonalds got feart?"

The Chief pulled up short, hit clean and hard between the eyes.

"Ye'll never see a feart Macdonald," he said, "if ye live to be as auld as Ben Nevis."

"Ye're in the wrong, Glencoe," said Charles. "I saw one this morning, and he was frightened of the English."

"I'll gie ye the lie o' that," roared Glencoe, "if I hae to scrat my way into London wi' ma nails."

"I'll be glad of the lie from you on those terms," replied Charles calmly, "and you shall ride into London at my right hand while I take my words back."

The Prince went to a table and filled a silver-gilt tass with brandy. He sipped it and then, handing it to the Chief, said, "We'll share the same glass to-day, Glencoe, as a pledge that we'll share the same victory to-morrow."

I did not like his brandy-drinking, but he did it well this time. As I have said, he was at his best in dealing with a single man face to face. It is only the rarest and finest spirits that can dominate a crowd.

At a sign from the Prince the Colonel and I escorted the Chief to the door, bestowing on him, as was due and politic, every courtesy. He looked like a man who, after days of doubt, had newly found himself.

"We've got him!" cried Charles gleefully as the door closed behind him. "Now, gentlemen, I crave your attendance on a progress round the town. Mr. Wheatman, bear our compliments to my Lord Elcho, and bid him call out some score or so of our guards to escort us."

We made a gallant show as we walked the streets of Derby in the early grey of that December evening. Ahead of us went a dozen dismounted life-guards to clear the causeways. Then followed Mr. Secretary with a brace or two of town notables unwillingly yoked to the task of giving an appearance of local support; then followed the Prince, between O'Sullivan and the Colonel, with young Clanranald and me at their heels; and another dozen life-guards in the rear. As we passed along the causeways, a score or so of mounted guards, with Lord Elcho at their head, kept level with us in the roadways. Volleys of slogans greeted us wherever we went, for the town was full to bursting of the clansmen. The townsmen crowded to doors and windows to watch us pass.

The Prince doffed to them every other yard, but he and all of us were mere curiosities to most of them.

The progress was stayed at the "White Horse" in Sadler-gate, and the Prince, with us, his immediate attendants, turned into the inn-yard, with its long uneven lines of stables and coach-houses, all packed with Camerons. At the news of the Prince's coming they trooped out, yelling lustily. Some sort of order was formed, and the Prince walked up and down among the swaying, uncouth masses, with a cheery smile on his face, and with now and again a phrase of their own Gaelic on his lips.

"The men are keen enough," he said to the Colonel apart. "Let us go within and see what mood young Lochiel is in now."

Lochiel, 'young' only by way of distinction from a Lochiel still older, wanted no digging out, for, the news having been carried to him, he ran out bareheaded and breathless. He was, in fact, a middle-aged gentleman, broody and melancholy at times, as these men of the mountains are apt to be when they've got brains. At the Council he had been silently set on going back.

"Your men are in fine fettle, Lochiel," said Charles, "and as keen as their claymores to be at it."

"They dinnae see the hoodie-craws gathering for the feast," said Lochiel sombrely.

"They see the battle won and the spoils of victory, after the usual way with the Camerons," replied the Prince.

"They havenae the gift of far-seeing," said the Chief, gloomily proud of his own prophetic powers.

Charles started impatiently, and there would have been a wrangle but for the Colonel.

"Sir," said he, addressing the Prince, "you will forgive an old campaigner for being a stickler for the rules and procedures of military operations. An inn-yard, with soldiery around and townsfolk gaping through doors and windows, is no place for a council of war. The gentleman is pleased to dream, of birds, as I gather. Let him back to the fireside and dream of them in peace."

Without another word the Prince turned on his heel and strode out of the yard. I attended him at first, but missed the Colonel, and turned back to him, for Lochiel was all a Highlander, seer one minute and savage the next. Indeed, I found him, all his moodiness gone, as mad as a hatter.

"I'll hae the heart's blood o' ye for this, prince or no prince," he bawled at the Colonel, who, precisely as I expected, was seizing the welcome opportunity of having a pinch of snuff.

"Good lad!" said he, holding out the box, as indifferent to the crowding Camerons as if they were sheep. "Make it pigeons next time, Mr. Lochiel. Damme, Oliver, this rappee gets unendurable."

His coolness took Lochiel off the boil, and he and I passed out without another word into Sadler-gate and hurried after the Prince. We found the progress somewhat ragged, and, as we were only a few yards from the corner of Rotten Row, which forms the side of the square opposite Exeter House, it was, I suppose, hardly worth while to trim it into shape again. In those few yards, however, an incident much more to my liking occurred, for just as we turned round the leading file of the rear of guards, we found that the Prince had again halted, in the light of a shop-window, and this time it was to talk to Margaret, who was standing there with Master Freake.

It was a large shop with two well-stocked bow-windows. The doorway between them, and half the inwards of the shop, were filled with the shop master, his apprentices, and customers, crowding and craning to get a sight of the Prince. Over the door was a shield-shaped sign, bearing the Derby ram for cognizance, and the legend, "Martin Moyle, Grocer and Italian Warehouseman." I noted it then, because the word 'Italian' carried me back to Margaret's tirra-lirring, and I note it down now because, having looked at it, my eyes ranged over the heads of the gapers in the doorway to where Maclachlan, on the fringe of the group, was dodging about to find a place where he could see Margaret without being seen by the Prince.

Master Freake was talking with the Prince as composedly as if they had been friends of old standing. We had missed the beginning of their talk, but it was plain that Charles had expected a recruit and was disappointed.

"And why do you stand aside from us both?" he asked.

"Sir," said the sedate merchant, "I am not interested in making kings."

"What then?"

"Kingdoms, sir."

"Kingdoms!" cried the Prince.

"Kingdoms!" reiterated Master Freake, with pride and emphasis. "But for me, and men like me, this country would be a waste not worth fighting for."

The Prince looked with astonishment at the calm, solid man who made this strange announcement. After a minute's reflection, he said, "Mr. Freake, I would talk with you in private, if you will."

"With pleasure, sir," replied Master Freake.

"And, naturally, Mistress Waynflete will not be cruel," continued the Prince, offering his arm.

Margaret took it, and the procession moved on again. Master Freake linked his arm in mine, and we walked on together.

"You've had adventures, I hear, since we parted, Oliver."

"I fell into the claws of poetic justice," I answered, "and, having failed as a real highwayman, nearly hanged as an imaginary one."

He laughed. "Well, keep out of the sergeant's claws. He's only five miles off with a brace of his dragoons, but little Dot is watching him. The time to deal with him is not yet. Wait till his lordship of Brocton joins him. What do you think of the Prince?"

"I would not have believed a prince could be so likeable, sir."

"I am, and shall remain, a mere observer," he said, "a mere tracker-down of ten per cent on good security, but I don't mind admitting that, prince for prince, I prefer this young gentleman to the fat, snuffy, waddling, little drill-sergeant he's trying to displace."

"You know the King, sir!"

"Well, and I know his weak spot, too, which is more important for our purposes. If His Gracious Majesty went to bed to-night with as many guineas in his pocket as that"--he jingled his loose coin vigorously--"he'd sleep in his breeches."

On the way to Exeter House the Prince recovered his high spirits, and even kept us waiting in the hall while he continued some lightsome argument Margaret had led him into. At last he broke it off, laughing.

"Mr. Freake will think me an idle princeling for this, madam," he said. "For your offence in thus hindering our matters of state we commit you to ward, and straightly charge our loyal subject, Master Wheatman, to hold you safe in keeping till after supper, when we will undertake to show you that our Highland reel can be as graceful as your Italian fandango."

So, in great good humour, he went off with the Colonel and Master Freake.

"Your aide-de-camp's commission runs so far, I trust," said Margaret demurely, "as to permit me to choose my own cell."

"I think that might be allowed, madam," I replied, with answerable gravity, "but of course I must sit outside the door and keep strict watch over you."

"You would, I suppose, feel surer of me if you sat inside the door?"

"Naturally, madam."

"Then come along! I must know all that's knowable about that ghost. 'I never said any such thing,' quoth he! You're the cleverest man with your tongue I ever met, Oliver. And with what a pretty heat he said it! Just as, beyond a doubt, he did it with that pretty way he has."

If words were tones, and smiles, and eye-flashes, and lip-curlings, I could tell you not only what Margaret said but how she said it, and how, in saying it, she made mad sweet music ring within me.

We were out in the square again now, threading our way among people I hardly saw for being so wrapt up in her.

"Was she a pretty ghost?"

"Very," said I decidedly.

"How old was she?"

"Eighteen, or thereabouts."

"Eighteen! Oh, dear! I never dreamed it was as bad as that. I think kiss-giving and kissable ghosts over thirteen ought not to be allowed. Eighteen! It's a clear incitement to suicide!"

I was laughing at her whimsical sally when one particular item in the crowd demanded attention, for it obtrusively barred our way. It was Maclachlan, once again hot and red with haste, waving a small package he had in his hand.

"Ye left me, Mistress Margaret," he said. "I've been searching high and low for ye."

"And I'm glad you've found me, for I see you've got me the olives. You are indeed kind, Mr. Maclachlan."

"Ye left me!" he repeated passionately.

"That's true," she said lightly. "I forgot all about you till I saw a hand with an obvious bottle of olives dangling from it."

Now this was not Margaret, or at least it was another strange side of her. With me she had been almost absurdly grateful for such little services as I had rendered. I had got her eggs, as he had got her olives, but I and my eggs had not been received like this. I looked from one to the other curiously. She was cool and smiling, as befitted some small social occasion. He was just as clearly throbbing with passion. He, the Maclachlan, had been neglected, and neglected for me! I wondered why Margaret did not tell him that the Prince had commanded her company. That should have satisfied even him; but no, she left him in his error, and merely took the olives out of his hand, saying, "I hope they'll be fresh, though it's hardly to be expected in a little town in the middle of England."

Maclachlan had paid not the slightest attention to me and, while ready enough to deal with him, I paid none to him, and began to think him somewhat of an ass to be standing in the market-place of Derby airing his passions. Fortunately, perhaps, Lord George Murray, striding by towards Exeter House, caught sight of us and stopped abruptly.

"Ha' ye made a' right at the bridge yonder, Maclachlan?"

The young Chief's face supplied the answer.

"Ye havenae!" stormed Murray. "By gad, sir," lugging out his watch, "if you don't, in two hours from now, report all arrangements made, I'll hae ye shot by a squad of the Manchester ragabushes. Aff wi' ye, ye jawthering young fule!"

Maclachlan went off without so much as a bow to Margaret.

"Have you taken out your commission, sir?" said Murray to me, snapping the words out as though he would have them shear my head off.

"I have, my lord," I answered, forestalling the words with a correct military salute.

"Then what the blazes are you doing here?"

"My lord," I answered firmly, "by the direct commission of His Royal Highness, given to me personally, I am escorting this lady to jail."

"Then I'll forgive ye!" he retorted, and his strong face lost all its anger and found the wraith of a smile. "Dinnae be too hard on the lassie! She's ane of the right sort."

He returned my salute, bowed courteously to Margaret, and strode on

"Good lad!" said Margaret, happily mimicking her father. "You shall have some of the olives in a minute or two."

"Olives seem to me precisely the right thing for us," said I.

"And why, sir?"

It was very curious to me to see how, in her speech to me, she whipped about from the familiar "Oliver" to the stately "Sir." There was always a reason for it, and I would have given much to know it.

"Your olives come from Italy, and I have been thinking of your Italian count."

"So have I," she said very soberly, and never said another word till we were safe and quiet in her day-room at the "Bald-Faced Stag."

For over two hours I had Margaret to myself, and we were as happy and companionable as we had been in Dick Doley's cottage. And at this I marvelled. Our Kate was the only woman I had to judge by, and when our Kate got into her very best Sunday gown she got into her tantrums along with it, and poor Jack, what with awe of her finery and anxiety lest he should anger the minx, commonly had a thorny time of it. With Margaret it was just the opposite. When we got in, she excused herself and went off to her own room, coming back, after a weary time, in such a glory of silks and satins that I blinked my eyes before her dazzlements. What made it worse was that there was a comb--as she called it, though I should in my ignorance have thought it some rich and rare work in filigree belonging to an empress--which, owing to the smallness of her mirror and the poor light, she could not get to sit perfectly in its golden cushion, and I was bidden to put it where and as it ought to be. I was a long time over the task, in part because I was really clumsy, but mainly because I was in no hurry. I got it right at last, and even ventured, very craftily and lightly, to kiss it as it lay there.

"It's quite right now," said I.

"At last! I'm afraid it's been a trouble to you. Now, Oliver, open the bottle of olives, and, while we eat them, tell me all about the ghost."

Many a time in the hard days that came to me later, I refreshed my soul by thinking those happy hours over again. They are part of me, but no part of my story, and I make no record of them here. We had long talks, with long silences between them, as can only happen with very real friends who are company for one another without a clatter of words.

At last this golden time came to an end, for in walked the Colonel and Master Freake to supper.

"I am thankful," said the Colonel to Margaret. "Murray told me you'd been taken to jail."

"You heard the news with great content, I suppose," said Margaret.

"I did, because--" He stopped to frown into the snuff-box.

"Because of what? Pray observe, gentlemen, what an affectionate father I have!"

"Because he also told me the name of your jailer!"

"You don't deserve to have a daughter," declared Margaret, with such a pretence of vehemence that her cheeks, between and beneath her coils of yellow hair, blazed like two poppies in a wheat-shook.

"I've made up for it by deserving something even better, and that's a good supper. Pull the bell, Oliver!"

Arrived in the great chamber at Exeter House, we found Charles making his last stand. Feeling ran riot; there was little regard for the regentship of the Prince; true to itself to the end, the Stuart cause was dying in a babel of broken counsels.

The ladies of the party were collected, uncertain and disquieted, on the hearth, where Margaret joined them, while the Colonel and I made our way and stood behind the Prince.

"His Grace of Perth desires to go on," said Charles. "So does Glencoe. So do my faithful Irish friends. Your men, as you well know, expect to go on. To get them to go back, you must start in the dead of night and lie to them, telling them they are going on. Only you, their chiefs and fathers, want to go back."

"To hell with the Irish!" cried one from the background. "They're no' worth the dad of a bonnet."

"It's no matter to them," said another man by him. "They've neither haid nor maid to lose."

This fetched O'Sullivan to his feet in a tearing rage. "We've got lives to lose," he cried, "and, by G--, we're not afraid to lose 'em!"

At this the yelling must have been heard in the square, and the gesticulating and grimacing would have been amusing on a less serious occasion. At last, in a lull in the gale, the Colonel, addressing the Prince, curtly demanded, "Who is the chief military commander of your army, sir?"

"My Lord George Murray," answered Charles bitterly.

"Then it's time your commander commanded. This spells disaster whether we go on or go back."

"It's the plain truth you're telling, Colonel Waynflete," said Lord Ogilvie loudly. In an undertone I heard him say, "Oot wi' it, Geordie!"

When Murray arose, everybody knew the finishing touch was to be put to the business, and a strained silence fell on the assembly.

"I have advised ye to go back, sir," he said, "because, in the complete absence of the support we were led to expect, it is foolish to go on. Your Royal Highness wants to go on, and there's not a man here who does not honour you for your courage. Now, sir, I will go on, and so shall every man here I can command or influence, if those who hae tell't ye behind my back that they think we ought to go on will put their opinion down in writing and subscribe their names to it, here and now. One condition more, sir. That writing, so subscribed, shall be sent by a sure hand direct from this town to His Majesty in Rome, so that he may judge each man justly."

"I agree," said Charles eagerly. "Pen and paper, Mr. Secretary!"

It at once became clear, however, that Murray had taken the measure of the men he had to deal with.

"Why make flesh of one and fish of another?" asked O'Sullivan, and old Sir Thomas nodded approval of the question.

"The decision should be the decision of the Council," said the Duke of Perth.

"Will ye write your names to it, or will ye not?" demanded Murray.

No one spoke.

"That settles it, sir," said Murray. "But I desire you, Mr. Secretary, to make a note of my offer and its reception."

"Have your way!" said Charles, in sullen anger. "But it settles another thing for ye. I call no more councils."

He turned and strode out of the room. The Stuart cause was in its coffin, and it only remained for us to give it a fair burial.

When the door closed behind the Prince, the Colonel whispered in my ear, "Slip off and tell Freake!"

I did the journey at a run, and found Master Freake sitting, quietly meditative, but booted and spurred for his journey.

"Well, Oliver?"

"We go back to-night."

In five minutes I was standing in the Ironmarket at his grey mare's head.

"I'm not deserting you, lad," said he, gripping my hand heartily.

"Of course not, sir. Good-bye, and good luck!"

"My love to Margaret. Look out for the sergeant. Good-bye!"