APTAIN ALLAN WEDDERBURN, of His Highness the Duke of Cumberland's Regiment, sat in his private room in the dismantled Highland castle that had become the temporary headquarters of himself and his men.
He looked from the narrow lancet window at the wild Highland scenery, and his handsome face wore an expression of discontent. He was a loyal Government man, a keen soldier, and he longed to be distinguishing himself in some active service, instead of lounging here in charge of an unimportant position and an even more unimportant prisoner, a son of one of the chiefs concerned in the late Rising, who had been captured straggling from the Culloden rout, and now awaited execution in Edinburgh or London.
Captain Wedderburn was disgusted with such small prey; he, in common with all the Government officers, longed to make the notable capture of that illustrious rebel, the Young Pretender, as the English called him, the Chevalier St. George, the son of him whom the Jacks styled James III.
It vexed Allan Wedderburn to the heart that he was tied to this irksome and trifling duty when he might have been engaged in the pursuit for the great prize which would bring honour and renown and substantial reward. His grey eyes gazed at the distant strip of sea, veiled by the afternoon mist of a dull day, and he speculated bitterly as to the likelihood of Charles Stuart slipping down to the coast, under cover of some such mist, and escaping in the French barque that was sure to be lying in wait in the offing.
"Not if I had a free hand," he thought; "not if I was able to scour the country!"
And he reflected bitterly on the authorities who kept him thus idle when he felt within him the capacity for greater service.
True, he had been told to keep a sharp look-out and to guard the coast, but that, he told himself, was foolishness the fugitive would never choose as his point of escape this spot, so well guarded by the redcoats, when miles of the sea were unwatched.
Captain Wedderburn yawned with boredom and vexation, and turned over for the hundredth time the letter sent him by one of his lieutenants, describing the disguise in which the unfortunate aspirant to the throne of England was known to be travelling: "He goes as a man-servant to Mrs. Grace Hume, a lady of a most precise, puritanical demeanour, who is travelling with her brother. They were lost sight of a week ago, but there is little chance of the Prince having changed his guise. Keep, therefore, a steady look-out for any such."
Allan Wedderburn folded up the letter with a gesture of annoyance.
He felt a great vexation against Mrs. Grace Hume, the lady of the precise, puritanical demeanour, who was so successfully outwitting His Majesty's officers. Neither she nor her party had been traced; Captain Wedderburn felt sourly certain that they never would be. He yawned again and rose; it was the hour when he had to pay his formal and useless visit to his prisoner and see the guards changed about his prison.
As he sauntered across the fine but rather bare and dreary room, which was hung with antique tapestry and furnished with handsome but worn pieces, his soldier-servant entered.
"A lady wishes to see you, sir, with most urgent and important news."
Allan Wedderburn disguised his curiosity.
"Let her send her message up."
"She has already, sir, declined to do that."
"It is impossible for me to see anyone now," said the officer curtly. Then he wavered. "Of what deportment is she?"
"Of the quality, sir, and handsome."
Allan Wedderburn raised his eyebrows.
"Is it possible, in this wilderness? I will see her, Saunders, for a few minutes, and no more."
When he was alone, the Captain glanced carelessly at himself in the tortoiseshell-framed mirror that hung over the low fireplace. In London he had been considered a personable man, and no ill favourite with the ladies. For a moment he forgot his dulness and his vexation, and pulled out his neat cravat with an air of some complacency.
When the lady entered he was standing at attention, very courteous, smart, and elegant, from his powdered military side-curls to his polished boots.
She came in swiftly, closed the door, hesitated a moment, then advanced, removing, as she did so, the riding-mask she wore, and looking round it with a rather breathless eagerness.
She was indeed handsome and of the quality. In one glance the Captain saw that. She wore a square riding-jacket of a dark emerald green colour, a full skirt of a deep violet-coloured silk, and a long scarf of a rich tartan in which was much orange and violet-purple.