They were assuredly not wanting in courage; and they hated Dundee with deadly hatred.

In their part of the country the memory of his cruelty was still fresh.

Every village had its own tale of blood.

The greyheaded father was missed in one dwelling, the hopeful stripling in another.

It was remembered but too well how the dragoons had stalked into the peasant's cottage, cursing and damning him, themselves, and each other at every second word, pushing from the ingle nook his grandmother of eighty, and thrusting their hands into the bosom of his daughter of sixteen; how the abjuration had been tendered to him; how he had folded his arms and said "God's will be done"; how the Colonel had called for a file with loaded muskets; and how in three minutes the goodman of the house had been wallowing in a pool of blood at his own door.