but a disgrace to us of his family and clan.  There are the bairns forby, the children and the hope of Appin, that must be learned their letters and how to hold a sword, in that far country.  Now, the tenants of Appin have to pay a rent to King George; but their hearts are staunch, they are true to their chief; and what with love and a bit of pressure, and maybe a threat or two, the poor folk scrape up a second rent for Ardshiel.  Well, David, I’m the hand that carries it.”  And he struck the belt about his body, so that the guineas rang.

“Do they pay both?” cried I.

“Ay, David, both,” says he.

“What! two rents?” I repeated.

“Ay, David,” said he.  “I told a different tale to yon captain man; but this is the truth of it.  And it’s wonderful to me how little pressure is needed.  But that’s the handiwork of my good kinsman and my father’s friend, James of the Glens:  James Stewart, that is:  Ardshiel’s half-brother.  He it is that gets the money in, and does the management.”

This was the first time I heard the name of that James Stewart, who was afterwards so famous at the time of his hanging.  But I took little heed at the moment, for all my mind was occupied with the generosity of these poor Highlanders.

“I call it noble,” I cried.  “I’m a Whig, or little better; but I call it noble.”

“Ay” said he, “ye’re a Whig, but ye’re a gentleman; and that’s what does it.  Now, if ye were one of the cursed race of Campbell, ye would gnash your teeth to hear tell of it.  If ye were the Red Fox...”  And at that name, his teeth shut together, and he ceased speaking.  I have seen many a grim face, but never a grimmer than Alan’s when he had named the Red Fox.

“And who is the Red Fox?” I asked, daunted, but still curious.

“Who is he?” cried Alan.  “Well, and I’ll tell you that.  When the men of the clans were broken at Culloden, and the good cause went down, and the horses rode over the fetlocks in the best blood of the north, Ardshiel had to flee like a poor deer upon the mountains—­he and his lady and his bairns.  A sair job we had of it before we got him shipped; and while he still lay in the heather, the English rogues, that couldnae come at his life, were striking at his rights.  They stripped him of his powers; they stripped him of his lands; they plucked the weapons from the hands of his clansmen, that had borne arms for thirty centuries; ay, and the very clothes off their backs—­so that it’s now a sin to wear a tartan plaid, and a man may be cast into a gaol if he has but a kilt about his legs.  One thing they couldnae kill.  That was the love the clansmen bore their chief.  These guineas are the proof of it.  And now, in there steps a man, a Campbell, red-headed Colin of Glenure——­”

“Is that him you call the Red Fox?” said I.