nturers, Highland chiefs and Lowland
gentlemen, all emulating each other in loyalty to the ladies who had
gathered from all over Scotland to dance beneath the banner of the white
rose. The Hall was a great blaze of moving colour, but above the tartans
and the plaids, the mixed reds, greens, blues, and yellows, everywhere
fluttered rampant the white streamers and cockades of the Stuarts.

No doubt there were here sober hearts, full of anxious portent for the
future, but on the surface at least was naught but merriment. The gayest
abandon prevailed. Strathspey and reel and Highland fling alternated with
the graceful dances of France and the rollicking jigs of Ireland. Plainly
this was no state ceremonial, rather an international frolic to tune all
hearts to a common glee. We were on the top of fortune's wave. Had we not
won for the Young Chevalier by the sword the ancient capital of his
family, and did not the road to London invite us southward? The pipers of
each clan in turn dirled out triumphant marches, and my heart began to
beat in faster time. Water must have filled the veins of a man who could
stand unmoved such contagious enthusiasm. For me, I confess it, a climax
came a moment later that made my eyes swim.

Balmerino was talking with Malcolm Macleod and James Hepburn of Keith, a
model of manly simplicity and honour who had been "out" in the '15; and as
usual their talk fell on our enterprise and its gallant young leader.
Keith narrated a story of how the Young Chevalier, after a long day's
march on foot, had led the army three miles out of its way in order to
avoid disturbing the wife of a cottar who had fallen asleep at the
critical stage of a severe illness. Balmerino capped it with another
anecdote of his dismounting from his horse after the battle of Gladsmuir
to give water and attendance to a wounded English soldier of Cope's army.

Macleod smiled, eyes sparkling. "He iss every inch the true prince. He can
tramp the hills with a Highlander all day and never weary, he can sleep on
pease-straw as well as on a bed of down, can sup on brose in five minutes,
and win a battle in four. Oh, yes, he will be the King for Malcolm
Macleod."

While he was still speaking there fell over the assembly a sudden
stillness. The word was passed from lips to lips, "The Prince comes."
Every eye swept to the doorway. Men bowed deep and women curtsied low. A
young man was entering slowly on the arm of Lord George Murray.

"The