The Master of Stair 54

The Master of Stair 54

“Macdonald! surrender, in the name of the King—” he swept his glance

over the confused array; he noted the preparations for flight.

 

“So ye have been warned of my coming!” he said and laughed.

 

Across the Glen spread the soldiers, cavalry and foot; the last light

gleamed in their steel collars and muskets; Makian, at the head of his

people, looked sternly at the leader who swept off his hat with another

laugh; his red hair was blown back from his face and his light eyes

gleamed as he spoke for the third time: “Ye know me, Macdonald?”

 

“Ay,” answered Makian in an impassive voice. “I know you, Robert

Campbell of Glenlyon. I know not your errand.”

 

Captain Campbell lifted a gauntleted hand against the darkening sky,

beckoning his men nearer.

 

“I come to root out your cursed den of thieves,” he said. “By the

command of Scotland and the King.”

 

“Ye lying Campbell!” cried Makian. “We are under the protection of the

King! I took the oath.”

 

“Too late,” smiled Glenlyon. “Ye are approved traitors and rebels,

therefore surrender.”

 

At this Delia Featherstonehaugh came from the side of Ronald and

crossed the wet heather between the Campbells and Macdonald till she

came to Glenlyon’s saddle bow.

 

“Captain Campbell,” she said.

 

He looked down at her in a quick surprise.

 

“Take care,” said Delia. “I know—I know that the submission of these

people has been suppressed.” Glenlyon frowned, and his eyes were

curiously intent on her.

 

“Who are you, mistress?” he asked.

 

“Does it matter?” Her words came quickly, she put her hand on his rein;

both soldiers and Highlanders watched her in silence. “What authority

have you? Take care how ye satisfy a private feud under cover of the

law.”

 

“I obey my commands,” answered Glenlyon, still gazing at her, “I have

the letter here,” he touched his breast. “Higher than I, mistress, must

answer for this day’s work; Hill, Hamilton, Breadalbane and the Master

of Stair.”

 

He smiled at her slow look of horror.

 

“What are the Macdonalds to you?” he asked.

 

“I came from London to warn them,” said Delia in a vague manner. “But

surely it is in vain—what are you going to do?”

 

“My orders are to slay every Macdonald under seventy—and pay particular

attention to the old fox and his cubs.”

 

“My God! oh, my God!” she slipped to her knees and clung to his stirrup

in a distracted manner, with her wild eyes staring fixedly; she made no

appeal beyond that cry and the agony of her glance; she knelt there

ready for his horse to trample her to death.

 

Glenlyon stooped from the saddle and loosened her hands gently; then he

beckoned to one of his soldiers.

 

“Take her away,” he said with a flushed face. “Take care of her,” and

as the man lifted Delia from the ground, his gray eyes dwelt on her

face in a troubled manner.

 

She made no resistance as the man led her away, and Glenlyon turned

fiercely to the Macdonalds. “Lay down yours arms and surrender,” he

commanded. “I’ll not wait much longer.”

 

They had watched his parley with the girl in silence, knowing well that

there was no escape for them; that on their first movement the soldiers

would fire; so they stood, gathered together with somber faces,

fronting the Campbells. The snow was falling faster; the great clouds

had almost obscured the mountains.

 

Glenlyon drew out his watch.

 

“Hamilton said five,” he muttered.

 

It was now five minutes past; he glanced over his men; the Argyllshire

regiment, all Campbells, then repeated his commands to the Macdonalds

to surrender.

 

Makian refused and a full murmur of scorn went up from the Macdonalds.

 

“Then I shall fall on ye without mercy—men, women and children,” said

Glenlyon.

 

There was no sound from the Macdonalds save the faint wail of a

frightened child; the chief stood in front of them, his sons beside

him. Ronald was not there.

 

“Fire!” cried Glenlyon.

 

The volley of musketry echoed down the Glen; a savage cry of triumph

broke from the Campbells, as, flinging their guns aside and drawing

their swords, they dashed on the Macdonalds.

 

Delia Featherstonehaugh saw the world about her struck with strange

confusion; she slipped from the soldier who held her and ran blindly

down the Glen through the smoke.

 

The report of the guns echoed from the mountains, rang in her ears; she

saw smoke curling from the huts and one burst suddenly into a bright

flame that rose heavenwards.

 

She heard the guns discharge again and a distant answer to them float

from the hills; horsemen flew past her; one fell and his companion

leaped over man and animal and was gone into the smoke; screams rose

and thick cries of triumph and hate; figures formed out of the smoke

and were lost again; a second time came the roll of musketry from the

hills, nearer now. Delia found herself leaning against the rocky side

of the valley, watching, listening, dumb—not blind. A shrieking boy

rushed past her, two soldiers after him; one had a bleeding face.

 

From the burning hut a woman came running, alight from head to foot;

there was no outcry; she flung up her hands above her blazing hair and

fell forward on her face.

 

The musketry cracked again; a horseman galloped by with a Highlander

clinging to the saddle; they were striking at each other with knives;

the Macdonald dragged the Campbell from the saddle and the maddened

horse plunged over both.

 

It was almost dark; Delia stumbled forward from her place and ran along

the rocks, crying to herself.

 

She came into a circle of light cast by the burning dwelling and

stopped, moaning.

 

A rider swept up, cried out at sight of her and flung himself from the

saddle. She felt him seize her and drag her away.

 

“Ye will be slain,” he kept saying and he hurried her from the

shrieking confusion into the dark of the cold rocks and wet heather;

once her companion put his arms about her and lifted her over a fallen

man. He held her close against his breast a moment; the musketry still

cracked in their ears and the snow was falling over them.

 

Delia struggled away to stare into her rescuer’s face.

 

It was Glenlyon.

 

He had her firmly by the arm.

 

“Ye must come into safety,” he said hoarsely, and he drew her along,

supporting her over the rough way; her cloak had fallen and he put it

about her.

 

At that she spoke.

 

“Why are ye so careful of me, Robert Campbell? There are women dying

down there.” She pointed to the dip of the valley they were leaving

where the red light and the smoke rose through the darkness.

 

“It is over now,” he answered in a troubled manner. “We killed no women

if we could help it—Hamilton is coming—I must get ye into his camp.”

 

“There are others will die of cold this night—let me join them, Robert

Campbell!”

 

But he held her firmly. “Who have ye among the Macdonalds?” he asked

quickly.

 

“Robert Campbell—let me go!”

 

Through the dark his voice came strained and labored.

 

“I cannot—ye will be hurt—let me be with ye—ye can command me.”

 

She gave her arm such a sudden wrench that his grasp was slackened for

a second and in that second she had freed herself and was running back

through the darkness toward the deadly circle of light.

 

As she reached the first hut the red glare that lit the way showed

things that made her blood run cold.

 

The soldiers had left their work to pursue those that had fled into the

mountains; Hamilton was late; it had been bungled; some of the avenues

from the Glen were left unguarded and so many of the Macdonalds had

escaped.

 

She hurried on through smoking ruins and sinking fires; to right and

left lay the dead, frozen in their blood; stained and torn plaids were

scattered over the heather; here and there a musket was flung down or a

dirk, or a household implement hastily snatched up and cast aside.