Scotland contains within it two races, and partly because their blood is different and partly because the one race has lived in the open and fertile Lowlands, and the other in the wild and shadowy Highlands, the Celt of the North and the Scot of the south are well-nigh as distant from each other as the east from the west. But among the Celts there were two kinds in that time, and even unto this day the distinction can be found by those who look for it. There was the eager and fiery Celt who was guided by his passions rather than by prudence, who struck first and reasoned afterwards, who was the victim of varying moods and the child of hopeless causes. He was usually a Catholic in faith, so far as he had any religion, and devoted to the Stuart dynasty, so far as he had any policy apart from his chief. There was also another sort of Celt, who was quiet and self-contained, determined and persevering. Men of this type were usually Protestant in their faith, and when the day of choice came they threw in their lot with Hanover against Stuart.
Hugh MacKay was the younger son of an ancient Highland house of large possessions and much influence in the distant North of Scotland; his people were suspicious of the Stuarts because the kings of that ill-fated line were intoxicated with the idea of divine right, and were ever clutching at absolute power; nor had the MacKays any overwhelming and reverential love for bishops, because they considered them to be the instruments of royal tyranny and the oppressors of the kirk. MacKay has found a place between Collier and Venner, and as he sits leaning back against a saddle and to all appearance half asleep, the firelight falls on his broad, powerful, but rather awkward figure, and on a strong, determined face, which in its severity is well set off by his close-cut sandy hair. Although one would judge him to be dozing, or at least absorbed in his own thoughts, if anything is said which arrests him, he will cast a quick look on the speaker, and then one marks that his eyes are steely gray, cold and penetrating, but also brave and honest. By and by he rouses himself, and taking a book out of an inner pocket, and leaning sideways towards the fire, he begins to read, and secludes himself from the camp talk. Venner notices that it is a Bible, and opens his mouth to ask him whether he can give him the latest news about the fifth monarchy which made a windmill in his poor father's head, but, catching sight of MacKay's grim profile, thinks better and only shrugs his shoulders. For MacKay was not a man whose face or manner invited jesting.