unt, that the
young captain of Clan Quhele swam safe to shore, far below the Linns of
Campsie; and that, wandering disconsolately in the deserts of Rannoch,
he met with Father Clement, who had taken up his abode in the wilderness
as a hermit, on the principle of the old Culdees. He converted, it is
said, the heart broken and penitent Conachar, who lived with him in his
cell, sharing his devotion and privations, till death removed them in
succession.

Another wilder legend supposes that he was snatched from death by the
daione shie, or fairy folk, and that he continues to wander through wood
and wild, armed like an ancient Highlander, but carrying his sword in
his left hand. The phantom appears always in deep grief. Sometimes he
seems about to attack the traveller, but, when resisted with courage,
always flies. These legends are founded on two peculiar points in his
story--his evincing timidity and his committing suicide--both of them
circumstances almost unexampled in the history of a mountain chief.

When Simon Glover, having seen his friend Henry duly taken care of in
his own house in Curfew Street, arrived that evening at the Place of
Campsie, he found his daughter extremely ill of a fever, in consequence
of the scenes to which she had lately been a witness, and particularly
the catastrophe of her late playmate. The affection of the glee maiden
rendered her so attentive and careful a nurse, that the glover said it
should not be his fault if she ever touched lute again, save for her own
amusement.

It was some time ere Simon ventured to tell his daughter of Henry's late
exploits, and his severe wounds; and he took care to make the most of
the encouraging circumstance, that her faithful lover had refused both
honour and wealth rather than become a professed soldier and follow the
Douglas. Catharine sighed deeply and shook her head at the history of
bloody Palm Sunday on the North Inch. But apparently she had reflected
that men rarely advance in civilisation or refinement beyond the ideas
of their own age, and that a headlong and exuberant courage, like that
of Henry Smith, was, in the iron days in which they lived, preferable to
the deficiency which had led to Conachar's catastrophe. If she had
any doubts on the subject, they were removed in due time by Henry's
protestations, so soon as restored health enabled him to plead his own
cause.

"I should blush to say, Catharine, that I am even sick of the thoughts
of do