ail clad Highland chief, with claymore in hand, as he had seen him
the preceding night, but Conachar of Curfew Street, in his humble
apprentice's garb, holding in his hand a switch of oak. An apparition
would not more have surprised our Perth burgher. As he gazed with
wonder, the youth turned upon him a piece of lighted bog wood which he
carried in a lantern, and to his waking exclamation replied:

"Even so, father Simon: it is Conachar, come to renew our old
acquaintance, when our intercourse will attract least notice."

So saying, he sat down on a tressel which answered the purpose of
a chair, and placing the lantern beside him, proceeded in the most
friendly tone:

"I have tasted of thy good cheer many a day, father Simon; I trust thou
hast found no lack in my family?"

"None whatever, Eachin MacIan," answered the glover, for the simplicity
of the Celtic language and manners rejects all honorary titles; "it was
even too good for this fasting season, and much too good for me, since I
must be ashamed to think how hard you fared in Curfew Street."

"Even too well, to use your own word," said Conachar, "for the deserts
of an idle apprentice and for the wants of a young Highlander. But
yesterday, if there was, as I trust, enough of food, found you not, good
glover, some lack of courteous welcome? Excuse it not--I know you did
so. But I am young in authority with my people, and I must not too early
draw their attention to the period of my residence in the Lowlands,
which, however, I can never forget."

"I understand the cause entirely," said Simon; "and therefore it is
unwillingly, and as it were by force, that I have made so early a visit
hither."

"Hush, father--hush! It is well you are come to see some of my Highland
splendour while it yet sparkles. Return after Palm Sunday, and who knows
whom or what you may find in the territories we now possess! The
wildcat may have made his lodge where the banqueting bower of MacIan now
stands."

The young chief was silent, and pressed the top of the rod to his lips,
as if to guard against uttering more.

"There is no fear of that, Eachin," said Simon, in that vague way in
which lukewarm comforters endeavour to turn the reflections of their
friends from the consideration of inevitable danger.

"There is fear, and there is peril of utter ruin," answered Eachin, "and
there is positive certainty of great loss. I marvel my father consented
to this wily proposal of Albany. I