One happy day Waverley spent in London; and, travelling in the manner projected, he met with Frank Stanley at Huntingdon.  The two young men were acquainted in a minute.

‘I can read my uncle’s riddle,’ said Stanley.  ’The cautious old soldier did not care to hint to me that I might hand over to you this passport, which I have no occasion for; but if it should afterwards come out as the rattlepated trick of a young Cantab, cela ne tire A rien.  You are therefore to be Francis Stanley, with this passport.’  This proposal appeared in effect to alleviate a great part of the difficulties which Edward must otherwise have encountered at every turn; and accordingly he scrupled not to avail himself of it, the more especially as he had discarded all political purposes from his present journey, and could not be accused of furthering machinations against the Government while travelling under protection of the Secretary’s passport.

The day passed merrily away.  The young student was inquisitive about Waverley’s campaigns, and the manners of the Highlands; and Edward was obliged to satisfy his curiosity by whistling a pibroch, dancing a strathspey, and singing a Highland song.  The next morning Stanley rode a stage northward with his new friend, and parted from him with great reluctance, upon the remonstrances of Spontoon, who, accustomed to submit to discipline, was rigid in enforcing it.

CHAPTER LXIII

DESOLATION

Waverly riding post, as was the usual fashion of the period, without any adventure save one or two queries, which the talisman of his passport sufficiently answered, reached the borders of Scotland.  Here he heard the tidings of the decisive battle of Culloden.  It was no more than he had long expected, though the success at Falkirk had thrown a faint and setting gleam over the arms of the Chevalier.  Yet it came upon him like a shock, by which he was for a time altogether unmanned.  The generous, the courteous, the noble-minded Adventurer, was then a fugitive, with a price upon his head; his adherents, so brave, so enthusiastic, so faithful, were dead, imprisoned, or exiled.  Where, now, was the exalted and high-souled Fergus, if, indeed, he had survived the night at Clifton?—­where the pure-hearted and primitive Baron of Bradwardine, whose foibles seemed foils to set off the disinterestedness of his disposition, the genuine goodness of his heart, and his unshaken courage?  Those who clung for support to these fallen columns, Rose and Flora,—­where were they to be sought, and in what distress must not the loss of their natural protectors have involved them?  Of Flora he thought with the regard of a brother for a sister—­of Rose, with a sensation yet more deep and tender.  It might be still his fate to supply the want of those guardians they had lost.  Agitated by these thoughts, he precipitated his journey.