“Such a character,” said Anderson, “cannot
but have the deepest effect on the minds of a Highland
host. We must secure Allan, my lord, at all events.
What between his bravery and his second sight—”
“Hush!” said Lord Menteith, “that
owl is awaking.”
“Do you talk of the second sight, or DEUTERO-SCOPIA?”
said the soldier; “I remember memorable Major
Munro telling me how Murdoch Mackenzie, born in Assint,
a private gentleman in a company, and a pretty soldier,
foretold the death of Donald Tough, a Lochaber man,
and certain other persons, as well as the hurt of
the major himself at a sudden onfall at the siege
of Trailsund.”
“I have often heard of this faculty,”
observed Anderson, “but I have always thought
those pretending to it were either enthusiasts or
impostors.”
“I should be loath,” said Lord Menteith,
“to apply either character to my kinsman, Allan
M’Aulay. He has shown on many occasions
too much acuteness and sense, of which you this night
had an instance, for the character of an enthusiast;
and his high sense of honour, and manliness of disposition,
free him from the charge of imposture.”
“Your lordship, then,” said Anderson,
“is a believer in his supernatural attributes?”
“By no means,” said the young nobleman;
“I think that he persuades himself that the
predictions which are, in reality, the result of judgment
and reflection, are supernatural impressions on his
mind, just as fanatics conceive the workings of their
own imagination to be divine inspiration—at
least, if this will not serve you, Anderson, I have
no better explanation to give; and it is time we were
all asleep after the toilsome journey of the day.”
Coming events cast their
shadows before.—Campbell.
At an early hour in the morning the guests of the
castle sprung from their repose; and, after a moment’s
private conversation with his attendants, Lord Menteith
addressed the soldier, who was seated in a corner
burnishing his corslet with rot-stone and chamois-leather,
while he hummed the old song in honour of the victorious
Gustavus Adolphus:—
When cannons are roaring,
and bullets are flying,
The lad that would have
honour, boys, must never fear dying.
“Captain Dalgetty,” said Lord Menteith,
“the time is come that we must part, or become
comrades in service.”
“Not before breakfast, I hope?” said Captain
Dalgetty.
“I should have thought,” replied his lordship,
“that your garrison was victualled for three
days at least.”
“I have still some stowage left for beef and
bannocks,” said the Captain; “and I never
miss a favourable opportunity of renewing my supplies.”
“But,” said Lord Menteith, “no judicious
commander allows either flags of truce or neutrals
to remain in his camp longer than is prudent; and
therefore we must know your mind exactly, according
to which you shall either have a safe-conduct to depart
in peace, or be welcome to remain with us.”
