“Aweel, kinsman,” replied the Highlander, “ye ken our fashion—foster the guest that comes—further him that maun gang.—But ye cannot return by Drymen—I must set ye on Loch Lomond, and boat ye down to the Ferry o’ Balloch, and send your nags round to meet ye there—It’s a maxim of a wise man never to return by the same road he came, providing another’s free to him.”

“Ay, ay, Rob,” said the Bailie, “that’s ane o’ the maxims ye learned when ye were a drover—ye caredna to face the tenants where your beasts had been taking a rug of their moorland grass in the by-ganging—and I doubt your road’s waur marked now than it was then.”

“The mair need not to travel it ower often, kinsman,” replied Rob; “but I’se send round your nags to the ferry wi’ Dougal Gregor, wha is converted for that purpose into the Bailie’s man, coming—not, as ye may believe, from Aberfoil or Rob Roy’s country, but on a quiet jaunt from Stirling.—See, here he is.”

“I wadna hae kend the creature,” said Mr. Jarvie; nor indeed was it easy to recognise the wild Highlander, when he appeared before the door of the cottage, attired in a hat, periwig, and riding-coat, which had once called Andrew Fairservice master, and mounted on the Bailie’s horse, and leading mine. He received his last orders from his master to avoid certain places where he might be exposed to suspicion—to collect what intelligence he could in the course of his journey, and to await our coming at an appointed place, near the Ferry of Balloch.

At the same time, MacGregor invited us to accompany him upon our own road, assuring us that we must necessarily march a few miles before breakfast, and recommending a dram of brandy as a proper introduction to the journey, in which he was pledged by the Bailie, who pronounced it “an unlawful and perilous habit to begin the day wi’ spirituous liquors, except to defend the stomach (whilk was a tender part) against the morning mist; in whilk case his father the deacon had recommended a dram, by precept and example.”

“Very true, kinsman,” replied Rob, “for which reason we, who are Children of the Mist, have a right to drink brandy from morning till night.”

The Bailie, thus refreshed, was mounted on a small Highland pony; another was offered for my use, which, however, I declined, and we resumed, under very different guidance and auspices, our journey of the preceding day.

Our escort consisted of MacGregor, and five or six of the handsomest, best armed, and most athletic mountaineers of his band, and whom he had generally in immediate attendance upon his own person.

When we approached the pass, the scene of the skirmish of the preceding day, and of the still more direful deed which followed it, MacGregor hastened to speak, as if it were rather to what he knew must be necessarily passing in my mind, than to anything I had said—he spoke, in short, to my thoughts, and not to my words.

“You must think hardly of us, Mr. Osbaldistone, and it is not natural that it should be otherwise. But remember, at least, we have not been unprovoked—we are a rude and an ignorant, and it may be a violent and passionate, but we are not a cruel people—the land might be at peace and in law for us, did they allow us to enjoy the blessings of peaceful law. But we have been a persecuted generation.”

“And persecution,” said the Bailie, “maketh wise men mad.”

“What must it do then to men like us, living as our fathers did a thousand years since, and possessing scarce more lights than they did?—Can we view their bluidy edicts against us—their hanging, heading, hounding, and hunting down an ancient and honourable name, as deserving better treatment than that which enemies give to enemies?—Here I stand, have been in twenty frays, and never hurt man but when I was in het bluid; and yet they wad betray me and hang me like a masterless dog, at the gate of ony great man that has an ill-will at me.”