For three long years after Culloden, the whole glen swore that Ailsa Robertson's Jacobite husband lay dead on that dreadful moor, and only she refused to bury him in her heart. Then, on the evening of the third year, a gaunt and scarred stranger knocked at her croft door and whispered the two words
38:24
118:37
19:08
94:38
27:46
20:45
49:13
91:45
36:15
111:23
41:25
127:45
53:48
537:31
14:03
109:26
95:42
108:15
21:24
92:16