It was February 1645, a month when the wool is worn thick on man and beast, and the snow was deeper and more hostile than in any year of recent memory. To Hew Gilroy, the heavy flakes that fell on his nose and brow might have chilled at another time, but now he was utterly numb, within and without. He stood with his musket, using it as a kind of tripod, and he stared off into vacancy. The lapping waves off the shore of Loch Dochart sent a mist into the air that bit with the teeth of winter; its whirr and moan felt everlasting, and the soldiers of Montrose’s Scoto-Irish brigade were certain if the enemy did not kill them, the climate would. But around Hew’s head the smoke took almost human form, then drifted away in search, he hoped, for another like himself, but embodied in the figure of a woman. Long dreams, formed by a habit of solitude, leaden in weight and heavy as the rocks of Ben Alder, kept him firm to the spot, and he shivered. It was not from the cold, but from the thought of what was on the horizon, doubtless another battle and an end to his personal history, which troubled him. His comrades, he could tell, were hungry and tired, but at the encouragement of their general, he knew they would enliven. For such was the effect of a man who, though younger than many of them, had brought them several victories. That was some comfort, deep in a rarely visited part of his mind. Yet, each one had his fears that his luck would run out, and such was Hew’s thought now, when in one of his more realistic trances. “Hew,” said a friendly voice from behind him, “it is such a night as your father would have loved: the sky is clear, the prospect of victory looks good, and comradery – well, that could be better, for all sad-eyed fellows such as yourself who are about, but it is acceptable. We are alive now, and if this is how one spends their last night there is still much – ah! Very much to be thankful for.” “On that last point I agree,” replied the young man, as though he half believed it, “but my father was not as dead-set as you on enjoying himself, Duncan. As you know, the man was as silent as I am before an engagement, and I think it is what carried him so far. White Mountain, Lutzen, Rocroi – all have some fleck of his blood left there on its soil, but to die in his first fight for his own kind, and in an ambush no less – like a dog – faugh! It does not sit well, nor does it bode well for me, I’ll be sworn.” “Ah lad, you speak the truth – if only somewhat. I understand you well, whether or not I can allow myself to share your disposition. I never knew my father, so my only thought is, that you have been lucky – ay, are lucky – and by that principal which aids all such gentleman in your position – some inexplicable favor from God – I would stake my life and my enjoyment of it at higher value. That is all the advice I have for you at present.” This man’s judgment, which had more shrewdness in it than Duncan himself had realized, cut Hew to the heart, and unsure whether he should apologize, for his melancholy now seemed a kind of selfishness, he held his peace. Duncan was a highlander through and through, born on the hills of Comrartie, and had been acquainted with more than a dozen fields. As Hew’s friend through the whole campaign, he had acted the stout and manly voice of reason to his younger comrade and ...