Street, whilk is, beyond a shadow of dubitation, finer than any street, whether in London or Paris. But Rose, poor thing, is sorely discomposed with the firing of the castle, though I have proved to her from Blondel and Coehorn that it is impossible a bullet can reach these buildings; and, besides, I have it in charge from his Royal Highness to go to the camp, or leaguer of our army, to see that the men do conclamare vasa that is, truss up their bag and baggage for to-morrow's march."

"That will be easily done by most of us," said Mac-Ivor, laughing.

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Craving your pardon, Colonel Mac-Ivor, not quite so easily as ye seem to opine. I grant most of your folk left the Highlands expedited, as it were, and free from the encumbrance of baggage; but it is unspeakable the quantity of useless sprechery which they have collected on their march. I saw one fellow of yours (craving your pardon once more) with a pier-glass upon his back."

"Ay," said Fergus, still in good-humour, "he would have told you, if you had questioned him, 'A ganging foot is aye getting.' But come, my dear Baron, you know as well as I that a hundred Uhlans, or a single troop of Schmirschitz's Pandours, would make more havoc in a country than the. knight of the mirror and all the rest of our clans put together."

"And that is very true likewise," replied the Baron; "they are, as the heathen author says, 'ferociores in aspectu, mitiores in actu,'' of a horrid and grim visage, but more benign in demeanour than their physiognomy or aspect might infer.' But I stand here talking to you two youngsters when I should be in the King's Park."

"But you will dine with Waverley and me on your return? I assure you, Baron, though I can live like a Highlander when needs must, I remember my Paris education, and understand perfectly faire la meilleure chère."

"And wha the deil doubts it," quoth the Baron, laughing, "when ye bring only the cookery, and the gude toun must furnish the materials? Weel, I have some business in the toun too; but I'll join you at three, if the vivers can tarry so long."

So saying, he took leave of his friends, and went to look after the charge which had been assigned him.

CHAPTER XIII.

A SOLDIER'S DINNER.

JAMES OF THE NEEDLE was a man of his word when whisky was no party to the contract; and upon this occasion Callum Beg, who still thought himself in Waverley's debt, since he had declined accepting compensation at the expense of mine host of the Candlestick's person, took the opportunity of discharging the obligation by mounting guard over the hereditary tailor of Sliochd nan Ivor, and, as he expressed himself, "targed him tightly" till the finishing of the job. To rid himself of this re

straint, Shemus's needle flew through the tartan like lightning; and as the artist kept chanting some dreadful skirmish of Fin Macoul, he accomplished at least three stitches to the death of every hero. The dress was therefore soon ready, for the short coat fitted the wearer, and the rest of the apparel required little adjustment.

Our hero having now fairly assumed the "garb of old Gaul," well calculated as it was to give an appearance of strength to a figure which, though tall and well made, was rather elegant than robust, I hope my fair readers will excuse him if he looked at himself in the mirror more than once, and could not help acknowledging that the reflection seemed that of a very handsome young fellow. In fact, there was no disguising it. His light-brown hair —

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for he wore no periwig, notwithstanding the universal fashion of the time became the bonnet which surmounted it. His person promised firmness and agility, to which the ample folds of the tartan added an air of dignity. His blue eye seemed of that kind,

"Which melted in love, and which kindled in war; ""

and an air of bashfulness, which was in reality the effect of want of habitual intercourse with the world, gave interest to his features, without injuring their grace or intelligence.

"He's a pratty man, a very pratty man," said Evan Dhu (now Ensign Maccombich) to Fergus's buxom landlady.

"He's vera weel," said the Widow Flockhart, "but no naething sae weel-far'd as your colonel, Ensign."

"I wasna comparing them," quoth Evan, "nor was I speaking about his being weel-favoured; but only that Mr. Waverley looks clean-made and deliver, and like a proper lad o' his quarters, that will not cry barley in a brulzie. And, indeed, he's gleg aneuch at the broadsword and target. I hae played wi' him mysell at Glennaquoich, and sae has Vich Ian Vohr often of a Sunday afternoon."

Lord forgie ye, Ensign Maccombich," said the alarmed Presbyterian; "I'm sure the colonel wad never do the like o' that!”

"Hout! hout! Mrs. Flockhart," replied the ensign, "we're young blude, ye ken; and young saints, auld deils."

"But will ye fight wi' Sir John Cope the morn, Ensign Maccombich?" demanded Mrs. Flockhart of her guest.

Troth, I'sè insure him, an he'll bide us, Mrs. Flockhart," replied the Gael.

"And will ye face thae tearing chields the dragoons, Ensign Maccombich?" again inquired the landlady.

"Claw for claw, as Conan said to Satan, Mrs. Flockhart, and the deevil tak the shortest nails." "And will the colonel venture on the bagganets himsell?"

"Ye may swear it, Mrs. Flockhart; the very first man will he be, by Saint Phedar!"

"Merciful goodness! and if he's killed amang the red-coats!" exclaimed the soft-hearted widow.

"Troth, if it should sae befall, Mrs. Flockhart, I ken ane that will no be living to weep for him. But we maun a' live the day and have our dinner; and there's Vich Ian Vohr has packed his dorlach, and Mr. Waverley's wearied wi' majoring yonder afore the muckle pier-glass; and that gray auld stoor carle, the Baron o' Bradwardine, that shot young Ronald of Ballenkeiroch, he's coming down the close wi' that droghling coghling bailie body they ca' Macwhupple, just like the Laird o' Kittlegab's French cook, wi' his turnspit doggie trindling ahint him; and I am as hungry as a gled, my bonny dow; sae bid Kate set on the broo', and do ye put on your pinners, for ye ken Vich Ian Vohr winna sit down till ye be at the head o' the table, and dinna forget the pint bottle o' brandy, my woman.'

This hint produced dinner. Mrs. Flockhart, smiling in her weeds like the sun through a mist, took the head of the table, thinking within herself, perhaps, that she cared not how long the rebellion lasted, that brought her into company so much above her usual associates. She was supported by