When, however, I recollected the circumstances in which we formerly met, I could not doubt that the billet was most probably designed for him. He had made a marked figure among those mysterious personages over whom Diana seemed to exercise an influence, and from whom she experienced an influence in her turn. It was painful to think that the fate of a being so amiable was involved in that of desperadoes of this man’s description; yet it seemed impossible to doubt it. Of what use, however, could this person be to my father’s affairs?—I could think only of one. Rashleigh Osbaldistone had, at the instigation of Miss Vernon, certainly found means to produce Mr. Campbell when his presence was necessary to exculpate me from Morris’s accusation—Was it not possible that her influence, in like manner, might prevail on Campbell to produce Rashleigh? Speaking on this supposition, I requested to know where my dangerous kinsman was, and when Mr. Campbell had seen him. The answer was indirect.

“It’s a kittle cast she has gien me to play; but yet it’s fair play, and I winna baulk her. Mr. Osbaldistone, I dwell not very far from hence—my kinsman can show you the way—Leave Mr. Owen to do the best he can in Glasgow—do you come and see me in the glens, and it’s like I may pleasure you, and stead your father in his extremity. I am but a poor man; but wit’s better than wealth—and, cousin” (turning from me to address Mr. Jarvie), “if ye daur venture sae muckle as to eat a dish of Scotch collops, and a leg o’ red-deer venison wi’ me, come ye wi’ this Sassenach gentleman as far as Drymen or Bucklivie, or the Clachan of Aberfoil will be better than ony o’ them, and I’ll hae somebody waiting to weise ye the gate to the place where I may be for the time—What say ye, man?—There’s my thumb, I’ll ne’er beguile thee.”

“Na, na, Robin,” said the cautious burgher, “I seldom like to leave the Gorbals; I have nae freedom to gang amang your wild hills, Robin, and your kilted red-shanks—it disna become my place, man.”

“The devil damn your place and you baith!” reiterated Campbell. “The only drap o’ gentle bluid that’s in your body was our great grand-uncle’s that was justified at Dumbarton, and you set yourself up to say ye wad derogate frae your place to visit me!—Hark thee, man, I owe thee a day in harst—I’ll pay up your thousan pund Scots, plack and bawbee, gin ye’ll be an honest fallow for anes, and just daiker up the gate wi’ this Sassenach.”

“Hout awa’ wi’ your gentility,” replied the Bailie; “carry your gentle bluid to the Cross, and see what ye’ll buy wi’t.—But, if I were to come, wad ye really and soothfastly pay me the siller?”

“I swear to ye,” said the Highlander, “upon the halidome of him that sleeps beneath the grey stane at Inch-Cailleach.”²

“Say nae mair, Robin,—say nae mair—We’ll see what may be dune.—But ye maunna expect me to gang ower the Highland line—I’ll gae beyond the line at no rate. Ye maun meet me about Bucklivie or the Clachan of Aberfoil, and dinna forget the needful.”

“Nae fear—nae fear,” said Campbell, “I’ll be as true as the steel blade that never failed its master.—But I must be budging, cousin, for the air o’ Glasgow tolbooth is no that ower salutary to a Highlander’s constitution.”

“Troth,” replied the merchant, “and if my duty were to be dune, ye couldna change your atmosphere, as the minister ca’s it, this ae wee while.—Ochon, that I sud ever be concerned in aiding and abetting an escape frae justice! it will be a shame and disgrace to me and mine, and my very father’s memory, for ever.”

“Hout tout, man, let that flee stick in the wa’,” answered his kinsman; “when the dirt’s dry it will rub out—Your father, honest man, could look ower a friend’s fault as weel as anither.”

“Ye may be right, Robin,” replied the Bailie, after a moment’s reflection; “he was a considerate man the deacon; he kend we had a’ our frailties, and he lo’ed his friends—Ye’ll no hae forgotten him, Robin?” This question he put in a softened tone, conveying as much at least of the ludicrous as the pathetic.