There was little artillery, no great number
of horse. Even the bravest of the brave, Highland or Lowland, might
draw back from the thought of trying to cross that marsh, of meeting
the moat-like ditch under Cope's musket-fire. Sunset came amid
perturbation, a sense of check, impending disaster.
Ian Rullock, acting for the moment as aide-de-camp, had spent the day
on horseback. Released in the late afternoon, lodged in a hut at the
edge of the small camp, he used the moment's leisure to climb a small
hill and at its height to throw himself down beside a broken cairn. He
shut his eyes, but after a few moments opened them and gazed upon the
camp of Cope, covering also but a little space, so small were the
armies. His lips parted.
"Well, Old Steadfast, and what if you are there, waiting?..."
The sun sank. A faint red light diffused itself, then faded into brown
dusk. He rose and went down into the camp. In the brows of many there
might be read depression, uncertainty. But in open places fires had
been built, and about several of these Highlanders were dancing to the
screaming of their pipes. Rullock bent his steps to headquarters. An
officer whom he knew, coming forth, drew him aside in excitement.
"We've got it--we've got it, Rullock!"
"What? The plan?"
"The way through! Here has come to the Prince the man who owns the
marsh! He knows the firm ground.
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