The night was rough.  Hamilton and his troops made slow progress, and were long after their time.  While they were contending with the wind and snow, Glenlyon was supping and playing at cards with those whom he meant to butcher before daybreak.  He and Lieutenant Lindsay had engaged themselves to dine with the old Chief on the morrow.

Late in the evening a vague suspicion that some evil was intended crossed the mind of the Chief’s eldest son.  The soldiers were evidently in a restless state; and some of them uttered strange cries.  Two men, it is said, were overheard whispering.  “I do not like this job;” one of them muttered, “I should be glad to fight the Macdonalds.  But to kill men in their beds—­” “We must do as we are bid,” answered another voice.  “If there is any thing wrong, our officers must answer for it.”  John Macdonald was so uneasy that, soon after midnight, he went to Glenlyon’s quarters.  Glenlyon and his men were all up, and seemed to be getting their arms ready for action.  John, much alarmed, asked what these preparations meant.  Glenlyon was profuse of friendly assurances.  “Some of Glengarry’s people have been harrying the country.  We are getting ready to march against them.  You are quite safe.  Do you think that, if you were in any danger, I should not have given a hint to your brother Sandy and his wife?” John’s suspicions were quieted.  He returned to his house, and lay down to rest.

It was five in the morning.  Hamilton and his men were still some miles off; and the avenues which they were to have secured were open.  But the orders which Glenlyon had received were precise; and he began to execute them at the little village where he was himself quartered.  His host Inverriggen and nine other Macdonalds were dragged out of their beds, bound hand and foot, and murdered.  A boy twelve years old clung round the Captain’s legs, and begged hard for life.  He would do any thing; he would go any where; he would follow Glenlyon round the world.  Even Glenlyon, it is said, showed signs of relenting; but a ruffian named Drummond shot the child dead.

At Auchnaion the tacksman Auchintriater was up early that morning, and was sitting with eight of his family round the fire, when a volley of musketry laid him and seven of his companions dead or dying on the floor.  His brother, who alone had escaped unhurt, called to Serjeant Barbour, who commanded the slayers, and asked as a favour to be allowed to die in the open air.  “Well,” said the Serjeant, “I will do you that favour for the sake of your meat which I have eaten.”  The mountaineer, bold, athletic, and favoured by the darkness, came forth, rushed on the soldiers who were about to level their pieces at him, flung his plaid over their faces, and was gone in a moment.

Meanwhile Lindsay had knocked at the door of the old Chief and had asked for admission in friendly language.  The door was opened.  Mac Ian, while putting on his clothes and calling to his servants to bring some refreshment for his visitors, was shot through the head.  Two of his attendants were slain with him.  His wife was already up and dressed in such finery as the princesses of the rude Highland glens were accustomed to wear.  The assassins pulled off her clothes and trinkets.  The rings were not easily taken from her fingers but a soldier tore them away with his teeth.  She died on the following day.