e any help. Mackinnon returned indignant and
mortified, but the Prince received the news philosophically, 'Well, Mr.
Mackinnon, we must do the best we can for ourselves.'

It was the first rebuff he had met with; but a day or two later he found
the same lukewarm spirit in Mr. Macdonald of Morar, a former friend. The
poor man had had his house burnt over his head and was living with his
family in a wretched hut, and probably thought that he had suffered
enough for the cause. This desertion cut the Prince to the quick. 'I
hope, Mackinnon,' he cried, addressing John, 'that you will not desert
me too.' The old chief thought that the words were addressed to him. 'I
will never leave your Royal Highness in the hour of danger,' he
declared, with tears, and John's reply was no less fervent.

There was one house in the neighbourhood where the Prince could always
count on a welcome whether he came at midnight, at cockcrow, or at noon,
whether as a Prince on his way to win a crown or as a beggar with
neither home nor hope. The hospitable house of Borodale was a mass of
blackened ruins, but the laird--'my kind old landlord,' as the Prince
fondly called him--and his two sons had still strong hands, shrewd
heads, and warm hearts ready for the Prince's service.

From Morar the Prince and the two Mackinnons walked through the summer
night over the wildest mountain track and arrived at Borodale in the
early morning. Old Angus was still in bed when they knocked at the door
of the bothy where the family was living. He came to the door, wrapt in
his blanket. When Mackinnon explained who it was that desired his
hospitality, the old man's welcome came prompt and unhesitating. '_I_
have brought him here,' said Mackinnon, 'and will commit him to _your_
charge. I have done my duty, do you do yours.'

'I am glad of it,' said Angus, 'and shall not fail to take care of him.
I shall lodge him so securely that all the forces in Great Britain shall
not find him.'

[Illustration]

So John Mackinnon, having done all he could, parted from the Prince with
the same affectionate sorrow that had marked the farewells of all his
faithful Highlanders. He was caught on his return to Skye, by the cruel
Captain Scott, and five days later was brought back to Lochnanuagh, a
prisoner on board an English man-of-war. Opposite the place where the
ship cast anchor was a fissure in the rock, and halfway up was what
looked like a mere grassy bank. In reality it was a