"which," as he added, "is weel rendered into English metre by my friend Bangour; 'Ae half the prayer wi' Phoebus grace did find, CHAPTER XXI. The March. THE Conflicting passions and exhausted feelings of Waverley had resigned him to late but sound repose. He was dreaming of Glennaquoich, and had transferred to the halls of Ian nan Chaistel the festal train which so lately graced those of HolyRood. The pibroch too was distinctly heard; and this at least was no delusion, for the "proud step of the chief piper" of the "chlain Mac-Ivor" was perambulating the court before the door of his Chieftain's quarters, and as Mrs Flockhart, apparently no friend to his minstrelsy, was pleased to observe, "garring the very stane and lime wa's dinnle wi' his screeching." Of course it soon became too powerful for Waverley's dream, with which it had at first rather harmonized. The sound of Callum's brogues in his apartment, (for Mac-Ivor had again assigned Waverley to his care) was the next note of parting. "Winna yere honour bang up? Vich Ian Vohr and ta Prince are awa' to the lang green glen ahint the clachan at they ca' King's Park, and mony ane's on his ain shanks the day that will be carried on ither folks'e re night." Waverley sprung up, and, with Callum's assistance and instructions, adjusted his tartans in proper costume. Callum told him also, "tat his leather dorloch wi' the lock on her was come frae Doune, and she was awa' again in the wain wi' Vich Ian Vohr's walise." By this periphrasis Waverley readily apprehended his portmantean was intended. He thought upon the mysterious packet of the maid of the cavern, which seemed always to escape him when within his very grasp. But this was no time for indulgence of curiosity; and having declined Mrs Flockhart's compliment of a morning, i. e. a matutinal dram, being probably the only man in the Chevalier's army by whom such a courtesy would have been rejected, he made his adieus, and departed with Callum. "Callum," said he, as they proceeded down a dirty close to gain the southern skirts of the Canongate, "what shall I do for a horse?" "Ta deil ane ye maun think of," said Callum. "Vich Ian Vohr's marching on foot at the head o' his kin, (no to say the Prince, wha does the like,) wi his target on his shoulder, and ye maun e'en be neighbour like." "And so I will, Callum,-give me my target; so, there we are fixed. How does it look?" Like the bra' Highlander at's painted on the board afore the mickle changehouse they ca' Luckie Middlemass's," answered Callum; meaning, I must observe, a high compliment, for, in his opinion, Luckie Middlemass's sign was an exquisite specimen of art. Waverley, however, not feeling the fullforce of this polite simile, asked him no farther questions. Upon extricating themselves from the mean and dirty suburbs of the metropolis, and emerging into the open air, Waverley felt a renewal both of health and spirits, and turned his recollection with firmness upon the events of the preceding evening, and with hope and resolution towards those of the approaching day. When he had surmounted a small crag gy eminence, called St Leonard's Hill, the King's Park, or the hollow between the mountain of Arthur's Seat, and the rising grounds on which the southern part of Edinburgh is now built, lay beneath. him, and displayed a singular and animating prospect. It was occupied by the army of the Highlanders, now in the act of preparing for their march. Waverley had already seen something of the kind at |