Their life for ten years was a happy, uneventful one, most of it spent by
the colonel in writing an account of Prince Charlie's adventures. This
unfortunate young man, I need hardly remind the reader, had long ago, in
the dissipations of various European courts, forgotten that there still
existed such a person as Ivan McAllister.
True, the colonel did give certain spare hours to the education of his
son, but the Prince was ever first in his mind. One morning,--strangely
enough, the anniversary of the battle of Culloden--Ivan McAllister died
quietly after a few hours' illness. Even at the last he was true to his
idol, for his parting words were not addressed to wife or child, but it
seemed that memory, bridging over the gulf of years, brought him back to
the old days, and there was something very pathetic in his dying words:
"Oh, my Prince, my bonnie Prince, I shall see you soon!"
He was buried, according to a wish he had expressed some years before,
in the churchyard of Rimouski, and at the head of his grave was placed
a roughly hewn cross, bearing on it this inscription: "Here lies Ivan
McAllister, Colonel, of the 200th Regiment of Highlanders, second son
of The McAllister of Dunmorton Castle Fife, Scotland.
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