A pale dawn had scarce begun to tinge the tops of these immense mountains, when the leaders of both armies prepared for the business of the day.  It was the second of February, 1645-6.  The clansmen of Argyle were arranged in two lines, not far from the angle between the river and the lake, and made an appearance equally resolute and formidable.  Auchenbreck would willingly have commenced the battle by an attack on the outposts of the enemy, but Argyle, with more cautious policy, preferred receiving to making the onset.  Signals were soon heard, that they would not long wait for it in vain.  The Campbells could distinguish, in the gorge of the mountains, the war-tunes of various clans as they advanced to the onset.  That of the Camerons, which bears the ominous words, addressed to the wolves and ravens, “Come to me, and I will give you flesh,” was loudly re-echoed from their native glens.  In the language of the Highland bards, the war voice of Glengarry was not silent; and the gathering tunes of other tribes could be plainly distinguished, as they successively came up to the extremity of the passes from which they were to descend into the plain.

“You see,” said Argyle to his kinsmen, “it is as I said, we have only to deal with our neighbours; James Grahame has not ventured to show us his banner.”

At this moment there resounded from the gorge of the pass a lively flourish of trumpets, in that note with which it was the ancient Scottish fashion to salute the royal standard.

“You may hear, my lord, from yonder signal,” said Sir Duncan Campbell, “that he who pretends to be the King’s Lieutenant, must be in person among these men.”

“And has probably horse with him,” said Auchenbreck, “which I could not have anticipated.  But shall we look pale for that, my lord, when we have foes to fight, and wrongs to revenge?”

Argyle was silent, and looked upon his arm, which hung in a sash, owing to a fall which he had sustained in a preceding march.

“It is true,” interrupted Ardenvohr, eagerly, “my Lord of Argyle, you are disabled from using either sword or pistol; you must retire on board the galleys—­your life is precious to us as a head—­your hand cannot be useful to us as a soldier.”

“No,” said Argyle, pride contending with irresolution, “it shall never be said that I fled before Montrose; if I cannot fight, I will at least die in the midst of my children.”

Several other principal Chiefs of the Campbells, with one voice, conjured and obtested their Chieftain to leave them for that day to the leading of Ardenvohr and Auchenbreck, and to behold the conflict from a distance and in safety.—­We dare not stigmatize Argyle with poltroonery; for, though his life was marked by no action of bravery, yet he behaved with so much composure and dignity in the final and closing scene, that his conduct upon the present and similar occasions, should be rather imputed to indecision than to want of courage.  But when the small still voice within a man’s own breast, which tells him that his life is of consequence to himself, is seconded by that of numbers around him, who assure him that it is of equal advantage to the public, history affords many examples of men more habitually daring than Argyle, who have consulted self-preservation when the temptations to it were so powerfully increased.