a standard, but it was only
a vain show. It did not matter where he went or what he did; he was
not a general, but a fugitive, a man to be neglected, and his
following a handful of bandits. The rising was a thing to laugh at,
and the report was current in the capital that he had absconded with
one or two servants. This pretty description of his campaign had not
reached his ears, but the humiliation of his situation burned into
his proud heart. Much as he would have liked to meet MacKay, there
remained for him no alternative but flight. Flight was the only word
which could describe his journey, and as he planned his course on the
morrow, how he would ride to Invergarry, and then return on his
course, and then make his way to Cluny, he started to his feet and
paced the room in a fury of anger. What better was he than a hare with
the hounds after him, running for his life, and doubling in his track,
fleeing here and dodging there, a cowering, timid, panting animal of
the chase? "Damnation!" and Dundee flung himself out of the room, and
paced up and down the side of the river.

There was a dim light upon the running water, and his thoughts turned
to the West Country, to the streams he had often crossed and along
whose bed he had sometimes ridden, as he hunted for his Covenanting
prey. The Fates were just, for now the Whigs were the hunters and he
was the hunted. He began to understand what it was to be ever on the
alert for the approach of the enemy, to escape at the first sign of
danger, to cross hills in full flight, and to be listening for the
sound of the pursuer. As yet he had not to hide, but before many days
were over he also may be skulking in moss-hags, and concealing
himself in caves, and disguising himself in peasant's garments, he,
John Graham of Claverhouse, and my Viscount of Dundee. The tables had
turned with a vengeance, and the day of the godly had come. The
hillmen would laugh when they heard of it, and the Conventicles would
rejoice together. MacKay would be sitting in his quarters at Elgin
that night making his plans also, but not for flight, and hardly for
fighting. When officers arrest an outlaw, it is not called a battle
any more than when hounds run a fox to his lair. MacKay would be
arranging how to trap him, anticipating his ways of escape, and
stopping all the earths, so that say, to-morrow, he might be quietly
taken. It would not be a surrender; it would be a capture, and he
would be sent to Ed