The Flight Of Prince Charles
by
It was early morning on the Hebrides, that crowded group of rocky islands on the west coast of Scotland where fish and anglers much do congregate. From one of these, South Uist by name, a fishing-boat had put out at an early hour, and was now, with a fresh breeze in its sail, making its way swiftly over the ruffled waters of the Irish Channel. Its occupants, in addition to the two watermen who managed it, were three persons,–two women and a man. To all outward appearance only one of these was of any importance. This was a young lady of bright and attractive face, dressed in a plain and serviceable travelling-costume, but evidently of good birth and training. Her companions were a man and a maid-servant, the latter of unusual height for a woman, and with an embrowned and roughened face that indicated exposure to severe hardships of life and climate. The man was a thorough Highlander, red-bearded, shock-haired, and of weather-beaten aspect.
The boat had already made a considerable distance from the shore when its occupants found themselves in near vicinity to another small craft, which was moving lazily in a line parallel to the island coast. At a distance to right and left other boats were visible. The island waters seemed to be patrolled. As the fishing-boat came near, the craft just mentioned shifted its course and sailed towards it. It was sufficiently near to show that it contained armed men, one of them in uniform. A hail now came across the waters.
“What boat is that? Whom have you on board?”
“A lady; on her way to Skye,” answered the boatman.
“Up helm, and lay yourself alongside of us. We must see who you are.”
The fishermen obeyed. They had reason to know that, just then, there was no other course to pursue. In a few minutes the two boats were riding side by side, lifting and falling lazily on the long Atlantic swell. The lady looked up at the uniformed personage, who seemed an officer.
“My name is Flora McDonald,” she said. “These persons are my servants. My father is in command of the McDonalds on South Uist. I have been visiting at Clanranald, and am now on my way home.”
“Forgive me, Miss McDonald,” said the officer, courteously; “but our orders are precise; no one can leave the island without a pass.”
“I know it,” she replied, with dignity, “and have provided myself. Here is my passport, signed by my father.”
The officer took and ran his eye over it quickly: “Flora McDonald; with two servants, Betty Bruce and Malcolm Rae,” he read. His gaze moved rapidly over the occupants of the boat, resting for a moment on the bright and intelligent face of the young lady.
“This seems all right, Miss McDonald,” he said, respectfully, returning her the paper. “You can pass. Good-by, and a pleasant journey.”
“Many thanks,” she answered. “You should be successful in catching the bird that is seeking to fly from that island. Your net is spread wide enough.”
“I hardly think our bird will get through the meshes,” he answered, laughingly.
In a few minutes more they were wide asunder. A peculiar smile rested on the face of the lady, which seemed reflected from the countenances of her attendants, but not a word was said on the subject of the recent incident.
Their reticence continued until the rocky shores of the Isle of Skye were reached, and the boat was put into one of the many inlets that break its irregular contour. Silence, indeed, was maintained until they had landed on a rocky shelf, and the boat had pushed off on its return journey. Then Flora McDonald spoke.
“So far we are safe,” she said. “But I confess I was frightfully scared when that patrol-boat stopped us.”
“You did not look so,” said Betty Bruce, in a voice of masculine depth.
“I did not dare to,” she answered. “If I had looked what I felt, we would never have passed. But let us continue our journey. We have no time to spare.”