Wounds and death remain'd behind.--PENROSE.

Montrose's splendid success over his powerful rival was not attained
without some loss, though not amounting to the tenth of what he
inflicted. The obstinate valour of the Campbells cost the lives of many
brave men of the opposite party; and more were wounded, the Chief of
whom was the brave young Earl of Menteith, who had commanded the centre.
He was but slightly touched, however, and made rather a graceful than
a terrible appearance when he presented to his general the standard of
Argyle, which he had taken from the standard-bearer with his own hand,
and slain him in single combat. Montrose dearly loved his noble kinsman,
in whom there was conspicuous a flash of the generous, romantic,
disinterested chivalry of the old heroic times, entirely different from
the sordid, calculating, and selfish character, which the practice of
entertaining mercenary troops had introduced into most parts of Europe,
and of which degeneracy Scotland, which furnished soldiers of fortune
for the service of almost every nation, had been contaminated with a
more than usual share. Montrose, whose native spirit was congenial,
although experience had taught him how to avail himself of the motives
of others, used to Menteith neither the language of praise nor of
promise, but clasped him to his bosom as he exclaimed, "My gallant
kinsman!" And by this burst of heartfelt applause was Menteith thrilled
with a warmer glow of delight, than if his praises had been recorded in
a report of the action sent directly to the throne of his sovereign.

"Nothing," he said, "my lord, now seems to remain in which I can render
any assistance; permit me to look after a duty of humanity--the Knight
of Ardenvohr, as I am told, is our prisoner, and severely wounded."

"And well he deserves to be so," said Sir Dugald Dalgetty, who came
up to them at that moment with a prodigious addition of acquired
importance, "since he shot my good horse at the time that I was offering
him honourable quarter, which, I must needs say, was done more like an
ignorant Highland cateran, who has not sense enough to erect a sconce
for the protection of his old hurley-house of a castle, than like a
soldier of worth and quality."

"Are we to condole with you then," said Lord Menteith, "upon the loss of
the famed Gustavus?"

"Even so, my lord," answered the soldier, with a deep sigh, "DIEM
CLAUSIT SUPREMUM, as we said at the Mareschal-Colleg