The green May rolled around and below the Highland shelter where Ian lay, fugitive, like thousands of others, after Culloden.

The Prince had stayed to give an order to his broken army.

_Sauve qui peut!_ Then he, too, became a fugitive, passing from one fastness to another of these glens and the mountains that overtowered them.

The Stewart hope was sunk in the sea of dead hopes.

Cumberland, with for the time and place a great force and with an ugly fury, hunted all who had been in arms against King George.
Ian Rullock couched high upon a mountain-side, in a shelter of stone and felled tree built in an angle of crag, screened by a growth of birch and oak, made long ago against emergencies.