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Craving your pardon, Colonel Mac-Ivor, not quite so speedily as ye seem to opine. I grant most of your folks left the Highlands, expedited as it were, and free from the incumbrance 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 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,» said 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.


A Soldier's Dinner.

JAMES of the Needle was a man of his word, when whiskey 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 expence of mine Host of the Candlestick’s person, took this opportunity of discharging the obligation, by mounting guard over the hereditary tailor of Slioch nan Ivor; and, as he expressed himself, « targed him tightly» till the finishing of the job. To rid himself of this restraint, Shemus's needle flew through the tartan like lightning; and as the artist kept chaunting 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.

When our hero fairly assumed the « garb of oid Gaul,» which was well calculated 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,—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 verra weel,» said the Widow Flockhart, « but no naething sae weel-far'd as your colonel, ensign.»

« I was na comparing them,» quoth Evan, « nor was I speaking about his being well-far

voured; 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 mysel at Glennaquoich, and sae has Vich Ian Vobr, often of a Sunday afternoon.»

« Lord forgie ye, Ensign Maccombich, I'm sure the colonel wad never do the like o'that!»

« Hout! hout! Mrs Flockhart, we're young blude, ye ken; and young saints, auld deils.»

« But will ye fight wi' Sir John Cope, the morn, Ensign Maccombich?»

« Troth I’se ensure him, an he'll bide us, Mrs Flockhart.»

« And will ye face thae tearing chields, the dragoons, Ensign Maccombich?»

« 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 !»

« 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

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