ctorious general. A person named Johnstone was
near him and caught him as he sank down from the saddle. "How goes the
day?" said Dundee. "Well for King James;" answered Johnstone: "but I am
sorry for Your Lordship." "If it is well for him," answered the dying
man, "it matters the less for me." He never spoke again; but when, half
an hour later, Lord Dunfermline and some other friends came to the spot,
they thought that they could still discern some faint remains of life.
The body, wrapped in two plaids, was carried to the Castle of Blair,
[367]

Mackay, who was ignorant of Dundee's fate, and well acquainted with
Dundee's skill and activity, expected to be instantly and hotly pursued,
and had very little expectation of being able to save even the scanty
remains of the vanquished army. He could not retreat by the pass: for
the Highlanders were already there. He therefore resolved to push across
the mountains towards the valley of the Tay. He soon overtook two or
three hundred of his runaways who had taken the same road. Most of them
belonged to Ramsay's regiment, and must have seen service. But they were
unarmed: they were utterly bewildered by the recent disaster; and the
general could find among them no remains either of martial discipline or
of martial spirit. His situation was one which must have severely tried
the firmest nerves. Night had set in: he was in a desert: he had no
guide: a victorious enemy was, in all human probability, on his track;
and he had to provide for the safety of a crowd of men who had lost both
head and heart. He had just suffered a defeat of all defeats the
most painful and humiliating. His domestic feelings had been not less
severely wounded than his professional feelings. One dear kinsman had
just been struck dead before his eyes. Another, bleeding from many
wounds, moved feebly at his side. But the unfortunate general's courage
was sustained by a firm faith in God, and a high sense of duty to the
state. In the midst of misery and disgrace, he still held his head nobly
erect, and found fortitude, not only for himself; but for all around
him. His first care was to be sure of his road. A solitary light which
twinkled through the darkness guided him to a small hovel. The inmates
spoke no tongue but the Gaelic, and were at first scared by the
appearance of uniforms and arms. But Mackay's gentle manner removed
their apprehension: their language had been familiar to him in
childhood; and he retai