with their swords. In vain their chiefs exhorted them to go forward:
even at that terrible moment the pride of clanship prevailed. "My God!"
cried Macdonald of Keppoch, "has it come to this, that the children of
my tribe have forsaken me!" and he rushed forward alone, sword in hand,
with the devotion of an ancient hero, and fell pierced with bullets.

The Lowland and foreign troops which formed the second line were
powerless to retrieve the disaster. All was over. The rout became
general, and the Prince was forced from the field, which he would not
quit, until dragged from it by his immediate bodyguard.

Such was the last battle, the result of civil war, which has been fought
on British soil. Those who were defeated have acquired as much glory
from it as the conquerors--and even more, for never was a conquest
sullied by such deeds of deliberate cruelty as were perpetrated upon the
survivors of the battle of Culloden. It is not, however, the object of
the present paper to recount these, or even the romantic history or
hairbreadth escapes of the Prince, whilst wandering on the mainland and
through the Hebrides. Although a reward of thirty thousand pounds--an
immense sum for the period--was set upon his head--although his secret
was known to hundreds of persons in every walk of life, and even to the
beggar and the outlaw--not one attempted to betray him. Not one of all
his followers, in the midst of the misery which overtook them, regretted
having drawn the sword in his cause, or would not again have gladly
imperilled their lives for the sake of their beloved Chevalier. "He
went," says Lord Mahon, "but not with him departed his remembrance from
the Highlanders. For years and years did his name continue enshrined in
their hearts and familiar to their tongues, their plaintive ditties
resounding with his exploits and inviting his return. Again, in these
strains, do they declare themselves ready to risk life and fortune for